Page 45 of Sinful Bride

"What does that mean?" I demand, trying to inject some authority back into my voice. "Are you going to—what, put me over your knee like some child?"

I mean it as mockery, a way to show him how ridiculous this is. But Declan doesn't flinch. Doesn't look away. His green eyes hold mine, and I flush hot with shame as I realize I’ve guessed what he’s thinking.

"You can choose," he says, his voice still that same deadly calm. "Over my knee, or bent over the bed. Either way, you're getting spanked. You need to understand the consequences of disrespecting me and my men. Especially in front of witnesses."

The room tilts, and my ears ring. He can't be serious. He can't actually be suggesting⁠—

"No." The word bursts out of me. "Absolutely not. I won't—you can't⁠—"

“I can do whatever I want. I’ve allowed you to think otherwise, because this wasn’t the sort of husband I wanted to be. But clearly, you need to learn a lesson. So choose, Elena. Over my knee, or bent over the bed."

"Neither!" My voice rises, sharp with panic and fury. "I'm not a child, and I'm not going to submit to this—this barbaric⁠—"

"Then I'll choose for you." He walks closer, and his presence fills the space between us, overwhelming everything else. "Bend over the bed."

"No."

"Elena." My name is a warning. "Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

"I said no!" I back up another step, but the bed is right behind me. I'm trapped between him and the mattress, and the realization makes my pulse spike. "You can't just—you don't get to⁠—"

"I do. Because you crossed a line tonight. And there are consequences."

His hand comes up, and I flinch. But he doesn't strike me. Instead, his fingers close gently around my upper arm. Firm but not painful, guiding me. "Don't touch me," I hiss, trying to pull away.

"Bend over the bed, Elena."

"No!"

But he's stronger than I am—so much stronger. He turns me, his other hand coming to my other arm, and I'm suddenly facing the bed. The mattress is right there, white sheets still rumpled from where I was sitting before. My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" I throw the words over my shoulder, desperate to wound him the way he's wounding me. "This is about taking what you want from me. About proving you're in control. About⁠—"

"This is not sexual." His voice cuts through my accusations coldly. "This is a punishment. If it becomes sexual for me, that's my problem to manage, not yours. Do you understand?"

I don't answer, because his hands are on my shoulders now, pressing down, and I'm bending forward despite every instinct screaming at me to fight. My palms hit the mattress, and my hair falls forward around my face. I'm bent over the bed like he ordered, my body obeying even as my mind rebels.

"I hate you," I whisper.

"I know." His hand slides down my back, and I feel him reach around to undo the clasp of my pants. "But you're still going to learn this lesson."

The air hits my legs as he lowers my pants slowly, exposing my thighs, my ass, everything. I'm wearing black lace panties that I put on this morning without thinking about who might see them. Now they feel like nothing, like the thinnest barrier between me and complete humiliation.

"Don't." My voice breaks. "Please don't."

"You should have thought about that before you insulted my men in my house."

I hear the sound of his belt buckle, then the leather sliding through the loops. My entire body goes rigid with anticipation and dread. This isn't happening. This can't be happening. I'm Elena Capetti. I'm a mafia princess. I don't get bent over beds and⁠—

The first strike lands across my ass with a crack that echoes through the room. Pain explodes across my skin, sharp and stinging and so much worse than I expected. I gasp, my fingers clutching at the sheets, my body trying to jerk away. But his other hand is on my lower back, holding me in place. Keeping me bent over exactly where he wants me.

"That's one," he says calmly.

The second strike comes before I can catch my breath, in the same spot. The same sharp, burning pain radiates out from the impact. I bite my lip to keep from crying out, but a small sound escapes anyway. My face burns with humiliation.

"Two."

The third strike lands lower, catching the curve where my ass meets my thighs. This time I do cry out. I can't help it. The pain is too much. Tears prick at my eyes, and I blink them back furiously. I won't cry. I won't give him the satisfaction.