And that patience — her absolute certainty she could outwait him — was more devastating than any whip.
Another cramp seized him and would’ve folded him forward if the ropes hadn’t held. He gasped, belly muscles spasming visibly under her palm, the weights on his balls swinging with the jerk, pulling fresh pain through stretched skin and crushed nerves.
The suspension and cramps forced his body into awareness — arms stretched, shoulders burning, toes brushing the floor just enough to tease balance, and the cramps so intense he had to fight to breathe.
But her focus stayed on his face, and the silence lengthened.
The bucket gurgled, and she fiddled with the hose where he couldn’t see it.
“So full,” she said, her hand splaying possessively over his distended belly, rubbing and massaging. “That’s the whole four quarts, sweetheart, and your belly is adorable.”
Another cramp hit hard, and her fingers went to work again, soothing and comforting.
“You think love is proof,” she said quietly, “and maybe it is, but it’s not the proof I asked for.” Her fingers traced the taut curve of his abdomen. “It’s a safe truth. One that costs you nothing to say.”
He swallowed, the sound loud in the quiet dungeon.
He shook his head again, feeling helpless and small. “I don’t— There isn’t—”
“Spence.” His name landed softly, precisely. “Look at me.”
He forced his eyes open and met her gaze through the blur of tears.
She stepped close enough that her warmth registered, but she didn’t touch him anywhere except the steady hand on his belly. “I’m not asking for a confession that will make me angry, or sad, or disappointed.” A pause. “Though if it does, that’s okay too.”
Her thumb traced a gentle arc just above his navel. “I’m asking you for the thing you keep folded away because you’ve decided it doesn’t deserve air.”
His breath hitched. What could she see in his face? Zander could read his thoughts, but she had only his expressions, his tears, the way his body betrayed every emotion.
And somehow, that made her perception more terrifying.
“You serve beautifully,” she said, and there was something raw in her voice now. “You hold us steady. You give without keeping score. But that also makes you very good at deciding what parts of yourself are … expendable.”
Fresh tears slipped free. He didn’t sob. He just leaked, quietly, his thoughts slowly cracking under their own weight.
“I don’t have secrets,” he whispered. “I just have …noise. Things that don’t matter.”
“That’s not your call.” Her voice stayed calm, but he heard the steel underneath.
He looked at Zander again, and his Master rose and moved behind him. Out of his sight. He had to focus on Emmy alone, now.
The tactical brilliance of it hit him even through the pain. They were working together. Emmy might be leading this interrogation, but Zander was supporting her, trusting her, letting herownthis.
Emmy tilted her head, scrutinizing him the way one might study a puzzle — not forcing it, just learning where the tension lived, where the breaking points might be.
“Tell me what you’re afraid I’ll hear.”
His jaw clenched. For a long moment, he said nothing, and she let the silence stretch until it hurt worse than any strike ever could.
The cramps continued. The weights pulled. His shoulders burned. And still she waited, patient as stone.
Eventually — five minutes? Ten? — she asked conversationally, “Should we release your ankles from the floor so you can give us pull-ups? Zander’s looking through the horsewhips.”
The casual mention of escalation broke something loose.
“I don’t trust myself,” he breathed, the words barely audible.
There it was. The first real fracture.
