A heartbeat’s hesitation, then she unzips the dress, letting it pool at her feet like surrendered virtue. Ivory lace clings to her curves. Bra cupping her full breasts, thong framing the apex ofher thighs. She unhooks the bra, slides off the thong, standing naked, skin glowing in the dim light, nipples pebbling under my gaze. No defiance, no submission—just waiting, vulnerable.
I circle her, predator to prey, noting the faded marks from last night. Not enough. I need her shattered, the real Lea exposed, not the temptress who toyed with Richter. “On the bed. Face down. Ass up.”
She obeys, crawling onto the mattress, positioning on all fours, then lowering to her stomach, face turned, eyes tracking me. I whip off my belt, the leather hissing through loops like a serpent uncoiling, folding it double, testing the snap against my palm.
“Did you get wet playing whore for Chicago’s elite?” I demand. “Smiling at Carl like you’d spread for him? Touching him like you touch me?”
She flinches at “whore,” but holds steady. “I wasn’t?—”
“Weren’t you?” I cut in, bringing the belt down across her thighs, leaving a crimson stripe. She gasps. “Count, Lea. Earn your truth.”
“One,” she breathes.
I strike higher, harder, the crack echoing. “Louder.”
“Two.”
I unleash again and again; the belt lashing her thighs, ass, each welt blooming a beautiful vivid red. She counts, her voice straining, body trembling, but no breaks, no pleas. By ten, her skin’s a map of fire, but her control holds, infuriating me. I need her broken, not this resilient shell.
“Turn over,” I say, my voice rough with frustration.
She rolls gingerly, wincing as welts meet sheets, lying exposed—pussy glistening despite the pain, betraying her twisted arousal. My cock strains.
“Tell me you love being my slut,” I loom, hand fisting her hair, yanking her gaze to mine.
“I love... being yours,” she recites, but it’s hollow, scripted.
“Liar.” I release her, storming to the drawer, yanking out the paddle—thick leather, unyielding. “Explain the game with Richter. You ignored me, amped it up—why?”
“Fine! My life’s a dump, my mom’s a spy, my job was a setup, and you’re the one who locked me up. But you… you light a fucking fire in me, Nico. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
Her confession should please me, but it cracks something. Still, jealousy drives. “On your knees.”
She struggles into position, trembling. I raise the paddle. “You are mine. Your confusion? Mine. Your fire? Mine.”
The first smack lands brutally, her cry piercing. Welts deepen to purple. “Who owns you?”
“You,” she sobs.
I strike again, harder. “My name.”
“Nico!”
I lose count, each blow fueled by rage—at her, at Richter, at myself. “What are you?”
“Whatever... you... want,” she whimpers, collapsing forward, bonds straining.
One more—savage, the crack like thunder. She doesn’t answer. Instead, a guttural sob rips from her depths, raw and primal, body curling fetal despite restraints, waves of agony crashing.
The sound halts me, paddle mid-air. Not pain’s edge, not pleasure’s peak—this is shattering, soul-deep breakage. Her body shakes, bruises blooming like storm clouds.
Triumph? No. Horror floods me. It’s sharp, visceral, a knife to the heart. The paddle clatters to the floor. What the fuck have I done?
Guilt seizes my chest, squeezing like a vice. I’ve broken men, ended lives, felt nothing. But her? This woman who’s invaded my thoughts? I’ve gone too far, pushed beyond control into cruelty.
With shaking hands—me, shaking?—I gather her trembling form against my chest. She curls into me, sobs muffled in my shirt, and something fractures inside: my ironclad need for dominance crumbles. Her wellbeing surges paramount, eclipsing the beast. I cradle her, murmuring apologies, foreign words on my tongue, vowing silently: no more. Her pain matters more than my empire, my control. In breaking her, I’ve remade myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
