“This is too far,” she whispers. “Too extreme.”
I lean down, mouth brushing her ear.
“Oh, my dumb girl. This isn’t punishment.” My fingers trail down her neck, possessive and hungry, causing her to shiver. I whisper low, “This was just the foreplay.”
Then, I swagger to the camera and flip the switch.
The red light glows.
Chapter 45
Charlotte
Grayson stands by the camera, shirtless, the red light blinking like a warning. It glares into my soul, and I want to ask why it’s on... but I don’t. I won’t.
My neck still stings, skin zapped raw beneath the collar. My mouth learned its lesson: obey or suffer.
Now just us — and the camera — everyone else left. He moves slowly, like he has all the time in the world to break me.
Then he slides on the mask.
Not a fun one. A ghostface, but metallic. He tilts his head slowly, an apparition of evil staring at me.
It’s a haunting, heartless mask consuming the man I loved.
He steps in front of the camera’s lens, blocking the light with his broad, sculpted body. I mouth,Grayson, but I already know it’s no use. The man walking toward me isn’t the guy I fell for. He’s darker. Colder. Hungrier.
Like a nightmare in human form, heading straight for me.
I stumble back a step, hands raised, pressed in silent prayer, but not to God. To him.Please. Please don’t hurt me.
Just barely, he shakes his head with a predator’s stance. Then, without a word, he grabs my wrist. I gasp as he yanks me forward, spins me around, and shoves me in front of the lens.
My bare thighs tremble under the bedside light.
“Like her new ink?” His voice is deep, brimming with amusement and cruelty.
My mouth goes dry.Oh my God. He’s talking to the camera! To other people.
“The tattoo artist was right,” he goes on, as if we’re hosting a show. “Very Betty Page. Except this brat’s no pin-up. Not classy. No manners. Rough. Betty Rotten? Nah. Already taken. This one’s mine.”
He squeezes my ass —hard.
“Say hi to our new brat, Betty Pig,” he clouts. “She’s about to squeal.”
I flinch. The nickname burns worse than the collar ever could.
“You ready to cry for us?” he says, dragging his fingers over my inked skin, across the backs of my thighs like he owns every inch.
I shake my head. Tears blur my vision.
Please don’t.
But there’s no mercy in him now.
He grabs a fistful of my hair, forces me to bend. The bed hits my stomach. I’m face down, his hand on my lower back.
And all I can do is breathe, and wait to be ruined and left however he desires.
