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“Fuck you!”
“Fuck me,” he echoes, his voice mocking. “You wish you could.”
Before I can even attempt to formulate a response to that, the crop lashes against my left ass cheek unexpectedly, making me jolt. It stings and has the immediate effect of stealing my breath, but there isn’t time to recover before he does it again.
“How many do you think you deserve for this morning’s display?” he asks.
I clench my jaw and refuse to utter a word or make so much as a sound. I know that’s what he wants. He wants my compliance. He wants to feel like he’s winning, but I’ll never admit defeat even when I’m down on my knees being humiliated by him.
When I don’t respond, he slaps the leather against my skin harder, and it fucking burns. But again, I don’t make a sound. Judge should know I’ve been through much worse. The scars are evidence of that. He thinks he can break me, but I’ve already been broken. I just refuse to let the world know it.
Slap. The leather hisses against my ass, and he grunts, picking up the rhythm, working both sides as he twists left to right, swinging the crop behind him. From my periphery, I can see his muscles straining as he loses himself to the moment, and if I were watching him in any other circumstance, I would think it’s almost inhumanly beautiful the way he moves. As the thought occurs to me, I realize how deranged it is. But I’ve taken many beatings in my life. None of them were measured or well controlled. None of them were beautiful in any way. They were ugly and terrifying. Inexplicably, this time is different, and I don’t know why. I just know I trust that Judge won’t ever take it too far. He’ll push me. He’ll make me uncomfortable. But I don’t believe he’d ever lay a hand on me just to cause me pain. There’s a lesson in everything he does, and right now, the lesson in compliance will be had whether I like it or not.
“Say it,” he grunts. “Tell me why you’re here.”
“Screw you!” I smirk over my shoulder. “That’s why.”
Whack. His crop hits me dead center between my thighs, and it shocks me so violently that I release an ear-piercing scream. The crop clatters to the floor in the aftermath, and Judge stumbles back, staring down at me as if he’s just been doused in ice-cold water.
I release a silent sob as two realizations occur to me at the same time. The first is that he can see all of me right now, and I’m too weak to drag myself up and find even an ounce of dignity. The second is that perhaps I was wrong about him. Perhaps Judge isn’t someone I can trust not to hurt me. Because even though I was more shocked than pained, I’m humiliated, and that’s just as bad, isn’t it?
I bury my face in the floor, trying to hide the moisture clinging to my eyes. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it seems as if a dam has opened, and now I can’t stop it.
A long, heavy silence follows before I feel a gentle hand on my waist. I flinch at the contact, but then he scoops me up into his arms. The heat of his bare chest penetrates my skin, and it has the strangest effect on me. I want to hate myself for being so emotionally bankrupt that I could possibly derive any comfort from this man, but that’s exactly what it feels like. His warmth surrounds me, and I can’t help noticing the masculine scent of his sweat combined with the leather from his boots and perhaps even a hint of his cologne. It’s spicy and warm, and I find it odd that I don’t hate it. I should hate it.
I have to believe this is just a side effect of my fragile state of mind. Anyone else in my situation would do the same. Comfort is scarce in my world, and for once, I find that I need it. Even if it comes from the brute who made me show my vulnerability in the first place.
He carries me to the bed, laying me on my stomach before he pauses to stroke the hair gathered on my face. It feels almost like a silent apology, and I tell myself I should recoil from his touch, but again, I don’t.
“Don’t move,” he orders, voice rough. “I’ll get something to help with the pain.”
“I don’t need anything for the pain,” I whisper. “It doesn’t bother me.”
He ignores my protest and disappears into the bathroom, and for a second, I consider trying to bolt for the door. Maybe I could make it if I wasn’t so exhausted. I tell myself I could, but the truth is, I know he’ll catch me. He’ll always catch me. Judge is a hunter, and somehow, I’ve become his prey.
When he returns with a tube of cream, I try to turn over, but his palm comes to rest on the center of my back.
“No more fighting.” His voice betrays a hint of softness I don’t think I’ve ever heard from him before. “Not right now.”
“I can do it myself,” I croak.
“But you won’t,” he answers. “It’s my job to take care of you.”
I bury my face in the pillow as he warms the cream between his palms and then starts to smooth it over the curves of my ass. It feels so intimate. Too intimate to be sharing with Judge. I can’t make sense of him. This man is a Sovereign Son. He’s practically royalty in The Society. He could have any woman he wants, yet he’s never married. At thirty-one, I’m sure countless women have tried and failed to secure him as a husband. But Santiago has mentioned many times that Judge will never marry, and I have to wonder why. Why is it okay for him to refuse the expectations of The Society when I must abide by them? And what possible benefit could he derive by wasting his time on me when a plethora of beautiful women at the Cat House are willing to submit to his every command?
These thoughts occupy my mind while he rubs the cream into my skin, but as hard as I try, I can’t distract myself enough from the feeling of his hands on me. He’s meticulous. Careful. Treating me like I’m delicate when five minutes ago, he was treating me as if I were the bane of his existence. I don’t understand him, and I can’t stop myself from blurting the question that’s been on my mind since last night.
“Why are you doing this? What’s in it for you?”
His hand falters for a moment before he resumes his work, taking extra care to massage the sensitive skin I’m sure is red and swollen.
“There has to be something in it for you,” I persist when he doesn’t answer.
“There is,” he says quietly.
Immediately, my thoughts go to the worst-case scenario. I already know from Santiago that if anything were to happen to my brother as head of the household, not only would Judge take over my care, but he would be paid well to do so. I can’t imagine he needs the money, but do rich men ever turn down financial gains? Is that why he agreed to this? It’s the only thing that makes any sense. And suddenly, this whole situation is even more mortifying than I imagined it could be.
“He’s paying you, isn’t he?” I demand. “Santiago is paying you for your trouble. That’s why I’m here.”
