"Fascinating," he murmured, and the word ghosted over my skin like a caress. "All that careful control, and violence is what finally breaks it. Tell me, Lilah—how does it feel to know you interest me now?"
"I don't care if I interest you."
"Liar." His thumb found my pulse where it hammered against my wrist. "Your heart rate says otherwise. Your breathing says otherwise. The way you're pressing against me says otherwise."
I hadn't realized I was. But my body had betrayed me again, arching into his warmth even as my mind screamed retreat.
"This changes things," he continued, still studying me like I was a particularly complex equation. "I had you marked as submissive with bratty tendencies. But this—this suggests something far more intricate."
"Let. Me. Go."
"In a moment." He reached behind him with his free hand, pulling something from his back pocket. "But first, you need to understand something important."
The belt.
Black leather, expensive, well-worn. He held it where I could see it, letting the implications sink in.
"Good girls who take their punishments properly get Daddy's hand." His voice dropped to something that made my stomach clench. "Bad girls who hit, who fight, who draw blood? They get Daddy's belt."
"Don't you dare—"
"Oh, I won't. Not today." He stepped back, releasing my wrists so suddenly I nearly fell. "Today, you've given me something far more valuable than compliance. You've given me genuine surprise."
I slumped against the wall, rubbing my wrists, watching him touch his split lip with something almost like appreciation.
"But tomorrow?" He folded the belt, tucking it away with the same precision he did everything. "Tomorrow we'll explore what happens when bad girls test boundaries. And Lilah?"
I glared at him, trying to summon defiance through the haze of too many emotions.
"Tomorrow, you'll count to fifty."
He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. I slid down the wall until I sat on the soft pink carpet, staring at my knuckles. They throbbed with the echo of impact, already starting to bruise.
I'd hit him. Actually hit him. And instead of anger, instead of immediate retaliation, he'd looked at me like I'd solved world hunger. Like I'd become something worth studying instead of just another subject to break.
"Free time until lunch,"the speaker informed me cheerfully."Please use this time to rest and reflect on your morning session."
Rest. Right. Like I could rest with my ass on fire and the promise of tomorrow's belt hanging over my head. Like I could do anything but replay the moment my fist met his face, the shock in his eyes before it transformed into fascination.
I crawled to the bed, every movement reminding me of his hand, his lap, the methodical way he'd administered punishment like medicine. Lying on my stomach helped, though the dress rubbing against sensitized skin made me whimper.
Thirty strikes for cursing and trying to hide pills. Fifty tomorrow for violence.
The math was simple. The reality was impossible.
But I'd seen him bleed. Felt his surprise. For just a moment, I'd been more than a subject, more than a signature on a contract.
I'd been fascinating.
The bruises forming on my knuckles were proof. Tomorrow he'd mark me in return, balance the scales with leather instead of flesh. But right now, in this pink room that smelled like vanilla and consequences, I had this:
Dr. Gabriel Mire could bleed.
And somehow, that tiny victory made everything else bearable.
"Lunch in ninety minutes,"the speaker reminded me."Remember to ask nicely, little one."
I buried my face in the pillow and wondered if fascination was better or worse than indifference. If making myself interesting to my captor was progress or just another kind of trap.
