Oliver’s words were raw. “Twenty, sir?”
Kiernan tapped his hand with the leather. “Twenty? Ophelia, does that seem fair? You received the same for touching yourself.”
I shook my head as tears spilled over onto my cheeks. “I don’t know,” I cried.
“Thirty,” Kiernan said without inflection, sparing me from further comment. “He touched you without permission. He made you an accomplice to his disobedience. Then he came when I explicitly told him not to.”
Oliver’s forehead dropped to the desk, and his shoulders shook.
“Count them,” Kiernan told me. “Out loud. If you lose count, we start over.”
The first crack of leather on skin made me flinch. Oliver jerked, but he didn’t cry out.
“One,” I whispered.
The second strike landed harder. Oliver gripped the far edge of the desk, knuckles bone-white.
“Two.”
Kiernan found a rhythm—steady, measured, each blow landing with devastating accuracy. By ten, Oliver was breathing in harsh gasps. By fifteen, tears streamed down his face. By twenty, he was sobbing openly and trembling.
“Twenty,” I counted.
Kiernan paused. His hand stroked down Oliver’s spine with tenderness. “Ten more. You’re doing well.”
“Please—” Oliver’s voice cracked. “Sir, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know.” Kiernan’s tone gentled, but the belt cracked again.
“Twenty-one.”
Each remaining strike landed harder than the last. Each one echoed through me as if he was striking me too. By the time I counted thirty, my throat was raw.
Kiernan set the belt aside, then helped Oliver stand. He turned him gently and drew him to his chest. Oliver collapsed into him, sobbing. Kiernan held him, one hand cradling his head, and the other rubbing slow circles on his shoulder, avoiding the punished skin below.
“It’s over,” Kiernan murmured. “You took it beautifully. I’m proud of you.”
Oliver clutched Kiernan’s shirt. He shook with the force of his emotion—not only from the pain, but from the release. The guilt he’d been carrying since he came without permission was purging itself through his tears.
“Ophelia.” Kiernan looked at me over Oliver’s shoulder. “Come here.”
I stood and crossed to them on unsteady legs. Kiernan drew me into their embrace. I wrapped my arm around Oliver’s waist and rested my cheek on his shoulder. The three of us stood tangled together while Oliver’s sobs gradually quieted.
“Neither of you will come again until I give you permission,” Kiernan said eventually.
My body throbbed at the words. I was still achingly aroused—hours of edging had left me raw—but I understood now.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
Oliver nodded.
“Good.” Kiernan released us. His expression changed again—still commanding, but warmer now. “Get dressed.”
We gathered our scattered clothes in silence. Every motion reminded me how unsatisfied I was. My nipples brushed my bra, and I whimpered. Oliver winced as the fabric of his trousers scraped his welted skin.
When we were dressed, Kiernan stepped forward.
“We’re going to Thorned Thistle tonight,” he said. “But not yet. First, you’re going to help Millie prepare dinner.”
