I listen, but my eyes stay on the King beside me and the way the curves of his mask are highlighted with every passing car. His hands, the fingers that were just inside of me, rest on his thighs, posture perfect. Whatever he feels about the fight, or about what happened between us on his lap, I can’t read. But beneath the aloofness, something churns. I feel it like static in the air.
We pull into the drive at the House of Night. The guys climb out first. The King follows, strides long and purposeful toward the door.
“Follow me,” he says without looking back. “Everyone.”
Hunter and Damon exchange a quick glance, wary and questioning, but they obey. Dread pools cold in my stomach as I trail behind. Something’s wrong.Idid something wrong.
We end up in the master bedroom, his bedroom. The door shuts with a soft click that sounds like the lock on a prison cell.
The King shrugs off his long black coat, letting it fall over a chair. He unbuttons his cuffs, pushing the sleeves up to reveal corded forearms, strong, veined, controlled. The movement is quiet, but it fills the room with tension. Damon leans against the wall near the foot of the bed. Hunter stands closer to me, arms loose at his sides, both clearly as confused as I am… maybe more.
The King crosses to the dresser, opens the top drawer, and lifts out the box. Black lacquered wood, simple but heavy with meaning. Everyone in the room knows what’s inside. What it’s for.
He opens it.
The rod gleams in the low light, thin, polished ebony, light in weight, but vicious in purpose. Carved spirals twist down its length to a handle wrapped in deep red velvet. A tool of correction. A wedding gift from my uncle, presented with a smile and a warning.
My knees start to shake.
I’ve felt it before. Once. Never again, I swore.
The King does the unexpected and holds it out to Hunter.
Hunter takes it with a firm, reverent grip, eyes tracing the carvings like he’s holding something sacred and terrible. Our gazes lock for a second, his steady, mine wide and pleading, and a shiver races down my spine.
When the King speaks, his voice is calm, almost conversational.
“The Baroness does not yet understand her boundaries,” he says, “or the weight of my words. Flaunting insolence in public is no way to get what you want.”
He steps closer, mask hiding the face behind it, voice dropping.
“You knew I wouldn’t turn you away in front of all of Forsyth. So yes, little girl,little wife, you got your way. But in turn, you’ll reap the consequences.”
He takes a seat in the high-backed chair by the glass doors that lead to his patio, legs spread, posture regal.
“Hunter will dole out your punishment,” he says. “Because this behavior isn’t just about me. It’s about your role with each of us. You offend me, you offend them.”
I open my mouth to speak, to beg, but nothing comes out.
Hunter is less silent.
“No.”
“Pardon,” the King asks, in a way that makes sure we all know he heard Hunter’s defiance.
“I’m not using the rod.” He runs his hand down it, almost wistfully, then sets it on the bedside table. “That thing is a fucking relic. A part of the Hexleys that should have burned to the ground with Strong Manor. She belongs to us and I’ll punish the Baroness, our way.” His eyes meet mine. “My way.”
He holds up his hand–big and powerful, callused from years of working with his father or on his truck. I wait for the King to tell him no, to step up and do it himself. Instead he shifts his gaze to Damon and says, “You’ll restrain her.”
Damon nods.
“How many?” Hunter asks, licking his bottom lip.
“Five,” the King replies. “To that pretty little ass she so desperately wants me to fuck.”
Damon pushes off the wall. His eyes meet mine with no malice, just duty. He moves behind me, strong arms wrapping around my waist and chest, pulling me back against him. He sits on the edge of the bed, maneuvering me face down across his lap, my torsosupported by the mattress, hips over his solid thighs. One arm pins my upper back, the other bands across my legs like an iron bar.
Hunter steps in close. Cool air hits my skin as he flips up the short skirt and bunches it at my waist. A fast rip–my panties are torn clean off and discarded.
