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“Look.” Mr. Foster again. “Maybe we’ve spoiled you. Maybe we’ve been too soft. Or maybe you’ve just forgotten what you are. I can’t imagine why else you’d think it acceptable to sulk and stumble your way through an entire week of work over this. But you need to get your shit together, Daniel. We need you present and focused in that newsroom, and we need you gracious and obedient in your master’s home. If he so much as thinks a single upsetting thought about you, you’re going to end up right back in here, you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel said, but the tremble in his voice gave him away. He and Carl hadn’t exactly seemed to hit it off.

“I mean it, Daniel. Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re special, or worse, irreplaceable. Don’t think that being on camera will protect you.”

“I don’t, sir.”

Except he sort of had, hadn’t he? He’d even said as much when Carl had asked him what they’d do to him—I need to be able to sit through the broadcast, he’d said. So blithely assumed. That concrete block churned in his gut as he realized how wrong he’d been.

Stupid slave cunt.

“Get up.”

Daniel flinched a little at the tone but did as he was told, trying to hold himself tall as he approached the pole. He fisted it tightly in both hands, but Mr. Foster said, “No,” and pulled Daniel’s hands away to buckle them into the restraints.

Daniel didn’t fight him, but his arms started shaking hard enough to make Mr. Foster’s task a challenge. He couldn’t help it; he looked back over his shoulder at Maxwell—his EP, his guardian and champion and protector for the last four years—and let his eyes plead for answers to questions he didn’t dare voice.

Maxwell grimaced and snapped, “For God’s sake, Eric, talk to him. Can’t you see he’s scared?”

Mr. Foster gave Daniel’s left wrist a hard tug to check the buckle and then started strapping in the right one. “I know you think you’ll hold still,” he said, “but we have a point to drive home today, and we’re going to make damn well sure you learn your lesson.”

That was supposed to be comforting? Daniel couldn’t stop himself this time; he stuttered, “H-How . . . how many?”

“Seventy.”

“What?” Daniel blurted, breathy and astonished, and holy shit had he just questioned his betters in that tone of voice? He’d be lucky if they didn’t kill him.

Mr. Foster dug his nails into Daniel’s bare shoulder and shook him. “Ten for each day this week you dropped the ball, ten for being late to call, ten for missing your cue, ten for fumbling the panel.”

He realized he’d begun to struggle against the restraints and forced himself still, but his eyes, no doubt revealing the depths of his panic, once again sought reassurance from Maxwell.

This time, though, Maxwell shook his head. “We’re all in agreement, Daniel. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t do this,” Daniel whispered.

“Daniel—”

“But I have to go on air toni—”

“Stop talking, Daniel,” Maxwell said, calm but unarguable, at the same time Mr. Foster said, “See, this is exactly what we’re talking about. You have forgotten your place.”

Then he stepped back, grabbed the strap, and struck him.

The first blow landed high across the shoulders, hard enough to knock him off-balance, but more heat and sound than pain. The heat became a burn at the second blow, and all-out fire at the third. The fourth was agony; he didn’t bother trying to stay quiet.

Mr. Foster laid orderly stripes, working down from Daniel’s shoulders. By the time the strap reached the small of his back, the whole of his existence had been swallowed by a single, blazing supernova of heat and pain, ebbing slightly through each short pause and swelling tenfold when the next strike hit.

When the strap carved a line into the upper curve of his ass, he couldn’t even hear Mr. Foster counting anymore over the rushing in his ears and the sound of his own cries.

A new ebb, long enough for him to settle, to stop screaming for a moment. Seventy was a lot; Mr. Foster’s arm was probably tired. Maybe he was taking a break.

Or maybe not. Daniel felt the whisper of air before the next blow landed like a strip of razor wire across his ass, heard Mr. Foster say, “Fifty-three,” and buried his face in his arm to hold back a sob.

Agony in his shoulders, his back, his ass, bleeding into his thighs and calves. He didn’t remember them chaining his ankles, but obviously they had because he couldn’t get away, couldn’t escape it, though he struggled and fought and begged and made promises he knew he couldn’t keep.

Then the noise fell away, and the flame slowly cooled from white to blue to red, and he heard someone say, “. . . now, Daniel. Easy, buddy. Easy.”

Slowly, slowly, reality began to creep back into his awareness—the cold pole, the white walls, his harsh, ragged breathing, a roiling nausea creeping up his throat, and pain, God . . . The pain was so bad he couldn’t think beyond it, didn’t even realize for several moments that the beating had stopped and he was slumped against the pole, dangling by his wrists, tears leaking from his eyes. “’m I . . .” He panted, wanting to ask if it was over but unable to convince his lips and tongue to function.