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Finally, he peeled her top off, and she stood on the cold marble floor, the sun from the skylight warming her back... waiting.
She didn’t wait long. He led her quietly to one of the Greek columns on the south end of the gallery and extracted a key from his pocket to unlock the chains. He turned her to face the column and locked each wrist in place so that her arms were stretched high over her head in aV. Then he did the same with her ankles. She felt as if she’d been left for a lion to rip apart in some huge amphitheater while the bored elite looked on.
Quill dragged the mystery box over to the column. She wouldn’t let herself look inside, too afraid if she saw what all he’d brought out here to torture her with, she’d start screaming and begging for mercy. She closed her eyes as large, strong hands skimmed over her back. Despite her fear, her body arched into his caress. He pressed a soft kiss against her shoulder, then he rooted around in the box until he found what he was looking for.
Saskia wished there was a clock on the wall, something to mark this length of silence. Some tiny clicking tick tick tick so she could feel and know that time was still a thing that moved even as she stood frozen in this space.
She waited for him to say something. Anything. But now that it had begun, he seemed devoted to this eerie peace.
She jumped as something thudded against the skylight. There was a flapping of wings, and she looked up in time to see a disoriented raven fly off. A beat later, the whip came down across her back, and she winced against its bite.
She hadn’t had time to register the sound as it sliced through the air, the noise competing with the bird outside. But she heard it the second time, so sharp and loud it seemed it could rip time and space apart. The leather licked across her flesh like a serpent made of flame, and all she could do in response was tremble in his chains.
Screaming, crying, begging, all of these things would have been appropriate, but Saskia couldn’t do it. She couldn’t break this vow of silence she’d committed to, and it seemed neither could he. Neither of them spoke, too locked into this trance to interrupt its flow now.
The only sounds that spilled forth into the gallery were the snap and crack of the whip and the tiny gasps as it stole her breath. The tears finally came, sliding down her cheeks in that same respectful silence. And she knew, even without words between them, that he was pleased.
She counted each lash in her mind. She felt his strength, not in how hard he waled on her, but in how he restrained himself and held each strike in check.
Finally, he returned the whip to the box. She tensed, waiting for something else—not sure she could take more when no comfort was offered. While he hadn’t put her in physical peril, the lashes were much harder and more intense than the light play she’d experienced at the few kinky parties she’d been to on a lark.
And here there was no magic word she could say to make it all stop. All she could do if it became too much was beg and hope he’d have mercy on her.
Saskia startled when his hand wrapped around her throat, pulling her back, turning her tear-streaked face toward him. He left a long, lingering kiss on her mouth that took her breath away.
When he pulled back, he said, “I’m going to paint you now. Just like this.”
Several hours later,a door slammed. Saskia jerked in the chains, straining to see who’d come in. She groaned from moving too fast when everything hurt so much. Her back felt raw, the sting still vibrating along her nerve endings.
True to his word, Quill had painted her, but whenever she’d started to lose the desperately relieved expression he wanted on her face, he’d taken breaks to whip her more to bring her back to the mental zone he wanted her in. Then he’d return to the canvas and his work as if nothing had happened.
“Marcus,” Quill said when the man entered with Saskia’s things. She’d begun to think of Marcus as Quill’s henchman.
Marcus made several trips, not sparing her a glance, and left everything in an open space at the far end of the gallery. It was the pieces of her life—so much promise and possibility contained in those bags and crates. All of that gone now except for trinkets—mere shadows.
Saskia closed her eyes, waiting for him to leave, mortified that this man she’d once snapped at could now watch her degradation at his leisure.
More silence followed. There was no sound of a door shutting to grant her the hope of privacy. Instead, a large hand—less smooth than Quill’s—trailed down her side and over her hip. Lips pressed against her throat. Not Quill’s lips. She trembled against him.
“Marcus will guard you at night in case you need something. With me so far away in the main house, leaving you in the cage alone would be unsafe.”
He really was just going to abandon her at night, wasn’t he? More tears began to fall. Marcus wiped them away. “Shhhh.” The attempt at comfort startled her. The last thing she’d expected from this cold, indifferent man, was kindness. She’d been certain he was annoyed by her very existence.
Quill continued. “Since he’ll be moving to the night shift, I’m giving him a bonus. He will be allowed to do whatever he wants with you short of fucking you or drawing blood. I have cameras around the gallery to ensure those rules are followed.” She hadn’t noticed the small black monitoring devices near the ceiling. She’d been too taken in by the breathtaking art on the walls that so few eyes had seen. “No objection to this, right, Saskia?”
“N-no, Master.” As if she’d object to anything he ordered. Not only had the clear consequences of his displeasure now been demonstrated to her, but she still couldn’t kill off her adoration of the artist in spite of it. She was in so much trouble here.
“Good girl.” Quill left the painting he’d created of her to dry, packed up his other art supplies, and took them back to the studio. She knew he worked in the wet-on-wet technique from various things she’d read about him. She also knew he did a nude portrait in a single session. But actually being here while he created something from nothing like that in such a short period of time, she could hardly believe it.
In art school she’d learned the traditional method for oils of painting in layers and letting each layer dry in between. A painting could take weeks or months to complete that way. The wet-on-wet technique could create a finished painting in a matter of hours, but even though she’d been taught that technique in art school as well, she’d been far too intimidated by it and felt she’d never acquire the necessary skill to create something brilliant on the first try. Not like Quill could. So she'd reverted back to waiting for each layer to dry before adding a new one.
When Quill returned, he said, “I’m going to let you and Marcus get better acquainted. Bring her to lunch in an hour.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s get you cleaned up.” Marcus said when Quill left the gallery. His tone remained gentle.
Had she misread him the times they’d met before? Had he known what Quill had planned for her from the beginning? Maybe he didn’t like it. But if he didn’t like it, why would he accept partial sexual access to her in exchange for guarding her at night?
