Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 113(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
His house is the culmination of every bad experience I’ve withstood in this tower, from the beatings and sexual degradations to forced capitulation. It all led me here, in preparation for something much worse.
I don’t know what’s coming, but my gut roils with dread.
Frieda escorts me back into the great room, and we both wait on our haunches, eyes downcast and palms face-up on our thighs. By the time Pax returns, my knees burn from kneeling so long. As he approaches, I spy a chain and collar hanging from his right fist.
“You’re incredibly lucky, my queen. I was able to work out my anger on the trainee in the dungeon.” He fastens the collar around my neck and tugs on the chain. “Up.”
I stand, and my skin crawls as he studies my naked body, assessing Frieda’s work. “Very nice.” He brushes his fingers across my lips, trails them down my throat, teases my nipples with light pinches. I lurch back a few steps, out of reach, my toleration for this monster approaching the breaking point.
Suddenly, he grips me by the chin. “As my future wife, you will obey me.”
“And if I don’t?”
He slaps Frieda. “Refuse to address me as Master again. I dare you.”
I bite my lip, shriveling under his glare. “I’m sorry, Master.”
“She might be above you now, my queen, but one day, she’ll be your proxy. Her happiness in this house depends on your behavior.”
Now Freida’s hostility makes sense, because it wasn’t just born from possessiveness or petty jealousy. No, it was hatched from the most basic of human instincts.
Survival.
The resentment wafting off her naked skin chills me to the bone. So does the way Pax’s mind works—with a thousand diabolical angles leading to various traps. Frieda is one of them, and no matter how poorly she treated me, I don’t want to be responsible for him hurting her.
“Come with me,” he says, releasing my chin and yanking on the leash. Frieda doesn’t break her pose as Pax ushers me away, past the kitchen, down a hall, through a heavy set of doors with an intricate capital M carved into the wood.
M for Monroe.
Or M for Master?
Maybe it’s a combination of both.
He unlocks the door to his private quarters, and we enter a space that falls somewhere between a rustic dungeon and a luxurious master suite. The room is painted in charcoal gray with an accent wall of warm bricks featuring a wooden X. Additional white throw rugs liven up the hardwood floor, tinted a sinful red from the unusual recessed lighting in the ceiling. A king bed sits atop a cage in the corner, its four posts made of iron.
Pax opens the door to the prison under the bed. “Get in.”
Viewing those bars as protection from him, I scamper inside and let him lock me in the cage. Through the round opening in the bars—large enough to accommodate my head—he reaches in and grabs the end of the leash before fastening it to a hook on the floor. There’s enough slack in the chain for me to lie on my side, but other than that, movement is impossible.
Seconds later, he exits the bedroom, leaving me in dreaded anticipation of what comes next. Jet lagged and hungry, I let exhaustion pull me into an uncomfortable sleep for a while, until the door clicks open again, followed by heavy footsteps.
I jerk awake, instinctively fighting the leash that keeps me from retreating deeper into the cage.
“You’ll just hurt your neck doing that.” His bare feet come into view. With his usual sinister grin, he sets a bowl on the floor in front of the circular opening. “Eat.”
I reach for it, but he brings a crop down on my fingers.
“No hands. Lap it up like a dog.”
There are certain men in this tower who deserve a session of slow torture, and Pax is definitely one of them. The aroma of beef and vegetable soup reaches my nostrils, making my stomach rumble, and I push my dignity aside in the name of sustenance. Scooting forward, working my head through the opening, I hover over the bowl and try to figure out how to eat without getting the soup everywhere.
“Some of us are anxious to get laid.” He wraps my thick hair around his fist and forces my face into the bowl. “Hurry up and finish.”
It’s hot enough to burn my tongue, but I lap it up anyway, my eyes stinging as the hot liquid slides down my throat. As I empty the bowl, I try not to think of what my life will be like if Pax wins the auction.
The scenario is unfathomable—on the same level of horror as the thought of marrying Heath Bordeaux. I summon my memories of Sebastian, holding onto the way he loved me in the cottage on the beach.