I pull the belt free. The leather slithers through the loops with a serpent's hiss. I fold it in my hand.
"But you need to understand the boundaries of your new world."
I walk past her to the bathroom.
"Get changed," I order over my shoulder. "There’s a nightgown laid out on the chaise. Put it on. We’re going down to dinner."
"And if I don't?" she challenges, her voice shaking.
I stop. I turn slowly. I tap the folded belt against my palm.Thwack. Thwack.
"Then we skip dinner," I say softly. "And we go straight to discipline."
Her eyes widen, fixing on the belt. She swallows hard. The fight drains out of her, replaced by the instinct to survive.
"I’ll change," she whispers.
"Good girl."
I walk into the bathroom and close the door, leaning my forehead against the cool wood.
My heart is racing. Not from anger anymore, but from the thrill.
She is trapped. Completely, utterly trapped. The ocean on one side, the forest on the other, and me in the middle.
There are no more interruptions. No more flowers from Russians. No more phone calls.
Just the storm outside.
And the storm inside.
I look at myself in the mirror. The monster stares back, grinning.
Let the honeymoon begin.
CHAPTER 11
A FEAST OF ASHES
POV: IVY
The nightgown is a whisper of silk.
It lies on the velvet chaise lounge where Silas left it, a puddle of pale, ghostly silver. I stare at it, my heart thudding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. It’s beautiful, objectively. Delicate lace trims the bodice, and the straps are barely threads.
But it’s not a garment. It’s a uniform.
It’s the livery of a prisoner.
I look at the door to the bathroom. I can hear the faint sound of water running in the sink, then silence. Silas is waiting. He’s listening. He’s picturing me standing here, weighing my dignity against my survival.
Thwack. Thwack.
The sound of the leather belt hitting his palm echoes in my memory, sharp and visceral.
I am not brave. I realized that today when I saw the red roses and wanted to hide in his arms. I am not a warrior. I am just a girl who wants to wake up tomorrow without bruises.
With shaking fingers, I strip off the cashmere leggings and the oversized sweater—the only armor I had left. The cold air of theestate bites at my skin, raising gooseflesh. I pick up the silver slip.
