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Reluctantly, I hand Queen Boudica off to Horace, who’s guarding the house while we’re out. As Boudica wraps herself around his thick neck, Horace’s features soften into something like awe. He strokes her with his giant hands, and Boudica closes her eyes in blissful repose.
“You give ‘em hell for both of us, Claws,” Horace growls.
I nod. We exit the garage and climb into Antony’s car. The windows are tinted and made of bulletproof glass, and I can barely see outside as we leave the tunnel and roll toward our destination.
We park down a side street, underneath overgrown oleander bushes that will help hide the car from the view of the mansion beyond. We walk toward the house, through the open gates, and down the drive like we own the place. I expect Antony to slide open a window, but he walks right up to the front door and kicks it open. His boys have cleared our way.
This inside of the house is a brilliant, glaring white. Every surface is either white or glass or gold, except for two bright pink heart-shaped chairs facing out a set of French doors to a heart-shaped pool beyond. Greek revival columns stretch through the central atrium, holding up a large circular skylight. As we move up the staircase, lights inside the columns flash through a series of garish colors, illuminating our path.
“What a delicate and understated interior design,” I smirk. Antony cracks a smile. He holds his fingers to his lips as we emerge on the upstairs landing.
From deeper in the house, there’s a sound like wet flesh slapping flesh, and a strangled cry. I follow Antony beneath more garish columns. Tiberius steps out of a room. Antony’s top fighter is an ugly mofo with half his face caved-in. “He’s all yours.” Tiberius grins at me, the smile all the more sinister because it never touches the ruined half of his face.
I follow Antony into the suite. The windows are thrust open, leading out to a Juliet-style balcony overlooking the house’s internal courtyard and that ridiculous pool. The breeze flutters the flames on a fire glowering in the hearth – the orange flames a spark of color in the strange room. Beneath a white canopy bed with the same blinking purple lights as the columns, Alec is tied spread eagle. He looks bad already – his face and naked chest a mess of purple bruises from Tiberius’ attention. Blood runs from a cut above his eye.
When Alec sees me, his eyes widen. He thrashes wildly, but the chains around his wrists and ankles hold him firmly in place.
“I heated this up for you.” Tiberius passes me an object. The handle is already warm against my fingers.
I moved toward the bed. I’m going to enjoy this. “Hello, Alec.”
“What the fuck are you doing here, slut?” He tries to sound indignant. He fails.
I hold my hand behind my back, and I don’t think he can see my gift for him. I don’t answer him. Instead, I slide off my shoes. With my free hand I slowly, slowly hitch up the hem of my skirt. It’s split down the leg and the split slides further up my thigh, exposing more flesh. Alec’s eyes watch my movements, and there’s a sickening hunger in him that makes me so happy because he thinks he knows what’s coming and I still have my beautiful gift to unveil.
I rest my knees on the bed, pressing my fingers into the sheets. “That’s what you say I am, isn’t it? A slut who wants to sleep with anyone and everyone, even people who were cruel to her. Especially them.”
Alec’s eyes lap up my flesh as I swing my leg over, straddling him. I expect touching him like this to make me feel sick, but instead, a rush of power heats my veins. Mmmmm, yes. I’ve forgotten how fun it is to be the master – or mistress – of your own destiny. To take what you want and to dish out the very best kind of justice.
“Hate sex is the best, isn’t it?” I grind down on his crotch. He groans, and I can feel him going hard.
“If you wanted to ride my cock, you didn’t need this charade—” Alec’s words cut off as I whip my hand from behind my back and he sees the instrument I’m holding.
An iron.
A brand.
Hot from the fire.
Alec’s eyes bug out of his head in a pleasing way. I climb up his body, crawling over his skin, holding the iron close to him so he can feel the heat begging to meet his flesh.
“I don’t want to do this, but you leave me no choice.” I press my hand on his cheek, shoving his head back against the pillows. “You think you’re fucking untouchable because of your wealth and your fame. You and every other fucker at Stonehurst Prep. It’s time you learned who you’re dealing with. No one hurts my friend and gets away with it.”
“What the fuck are you doing, you crazy bitch? Get that thing away from me! Help, help—”
I tut. “Pathetic boy. No one’s going to hear you. Now hold still, unless you want me to accidentally get this in your eye.”
Alec bellows as the brand touches his forehead, but that only makes me press it harder. He thrashes against his bonds, but I clamp my thighs tight and hold on. I imagine it’s like riding a mechanical bull. His bellow turns into a scream and his scream into high-pitched cries, a cascade of gibberish sounds seared with agony as the brand leaves its mark. There’s a smell like roast pork, like a home-cooked holiday meal with all the trimmings.
When it’s done, I crawl off the bed to snap a couple of photographs of my handiwork and upload them to the school’s Facebook group.
Burned into Alec’s flesh is two letters – MM.
My initials.
My mark of triumph.
Alec’s body is streaked with sweat, and he’s murmuring under his breath. His eyes barely register me.
