“Legs open,” he ordered, voice flat, emotionless.
She angled her right leg up and out.
She heard him step close, felt the rush of air an instant before it struck — the sap to her clit. Not hard, not the first time.
The second was harder, and she sobbed.
The third made her scream.
The fourth was sharper and at a different angle. The jolt was blinding.
Still, she didn’t let go.
He moved in front of her. Raised her right leg, shoved it against her chest and leaned in, crowding her space, holding her there while he struck the exposed inner left thigh from that close, tight angle. A dozen times. More.
Then switched sides and did it again, though he had to bend her left leg to get it out of the way. She was working towards the splits with her right leg in front, and her left wasn’t anywhere near as flexible, but he forced it up anyway, leg bent to get it there so he could savage the inside of her right thigh.
She couldn’t scream anymore. She just hung there. Swaying. Muscles locked, joints straining, her grip turned white-knuckled.
He stepped back and she braced for another round, but it didn’t come.
* * * *
Silas stood just out of reach, whip in one hand, sap dangling from the other.
Her body was painted in angry red and purple welts, some already bruising dark. Blood trickled in a few places. Not much, but enough.
And he realized the problem, the lack of connection hadn’tallbeen his wolf.
The human needed more from her.
He walked to the wall and chose a slightly thinner, slightly longer horsewhip. Put the sap away.
This was about him using full strength. Wrapping it on purpose. A full-on whipping.
He stepped in front of her with the new whip. Let her see it. “It’s me now. Silas. Not the wolf. Turns out, I need some of this too.” He looked at the whip. Back to her. “It’s going to be bad. Like Stephen with O, I feel I want to… not apologize, but express regret that it’s the only way.”
“And I’ll give the same answer O did.” Her voice was raw from the screaming. But she got it out. “I’m yours.”
Silas nodded and stepped behind her again. She’d understood.
* * * *
Willow grasped the bar with everything she had.
The new whip was lighter, but longer. Faster. It snapped the air with a high, cruel hiss before it struck — across her back, her ass, her thighs. Over the welts. Across raw skin already weeping.
She jerked. Screamed. Her knees buckled and caught. Her fingers stayed clenched around the bar.
The next stroke landed across her side. Then one lower, just above the curve of her ass. The pain sang up her body and flared, a hot, blooming pressure that came with every lash.
Each stroke was measured. Not wild. He placed them with surgical precision and full, devastating force.
This wasn’t frenzy, it was grief.
Another kiss of fire slashed down the back of her thigh, and her weight sagged.
Still, she held on.
