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Ansel closes his pincers on my left arm and leans close to hiss, “Let’s see how brave you are in our private room.” He licks my face from the corner of my mouth to the edge of my black kitten mask, all the while crushing my biceps, grinding muscle against bone. He lowers his voice even further. “What you did to Klaus is nothing compared to what we’ll do to you.”
Jonas picks me up like I weigh no more than a Barbie doll, throwing me over his shoulder so my head dangles halfway down his back. His sausage fingers dig into my bottom as he carries me out of the Heart. I struggle, once, but he makes that sound again, that clicking of his tongue.
I freeze.
I’m supposed to be safe in this club. I’m supposed to be protected by the number of people, by security guards, by safewords.
But the memory of Crash whispers in my skull. Master trained me to take this sort of abuse, this embarrassment and pain. I know how to close off rooms in my brain. I know how to survive this.
And I know one more thing: I deserve this.
I played a game, and I lost. I killed Master, cut open his throat, carved off his cock, and stabbed the bloody remains until they were nothing more than mangled meat. Trap and I can hire all the lawyers in the world, but the truth is, I’m a killer.
Trap.
Trap was supposed to be out there. Trap was supposed to keep me safe.
But I know the monsters that wrestle in his brain. What is his Beast doing to him even now? He must have seen Jonas and Ansel paw me. He saw me submit. Jonas is right. I amfilthy.
Trap isn’t out there. Trap won’t keep me safe.
Jonas carries me to a room at the end of the tunnel I was exploring when the auction began. The sharp smell of alcohol mixes with the lingering funk of sex. Every surface gleams—the hard-edged black couch, the iron chain suspended from the ceiling, the array of tools spread on the laminate table in the corner. A crystal bowl rests on a stand beside the door, brimming with foil-wrapped condoms.
Kynk’s staff has done its job. Those efficient people have cleaned the room. They’ve made everything ready for a new game. For me.
Jonas dumps me on the floor like I’m a sack of dirty laundry. He plants his foot on the back of my neck as if I might try to crawl away.
He’s wrong, though. I won’t escape. Can’t escape. I’m doomed.
My body remembers what these men did to me in the past. My ribs ache with bruises planted years ago. My face burns from the smack of ancient fists. The void between my legs screams in remembered agony, stretched and torn and bleeding from abuse no woman should have to survive.
Ansel straddles my hips. He clutches my right wrist, yanking hard, like he expects me to resist as he wraps a length of rope tight around my wrist.
But he’s wrong. I have no resistance left.
Trap isn’t out there. Trap won’t keep me safe.
I don’t deserve protection. I’m a murderer and a slut and I’ve already let these men use every part of me for their cruel pleasure. They’ve come in my mouth and my pussy and my ass before. They’ve cuffed me. Beaten me. Broken me in more ways than I can count.
So Ansel grabs my left wrist too. He ties my hands together, yanking hard enough to force a moan as my shoulders burn in their sockets. My protest, small as it is, lights some fuse inside him. He shifts off my back and smacks my ass, three times, hard enough to ignite the barely healed stripes Trap put there just six nights ago.
Thisis the punishment I deserve. This is the degradation, the shame, the price of submitting to the Herzogs.
I’m frozen inside. I’m hard and shriveled, like a three-year-old crust of bread. I’m garbage.
Jonas shifts his weight off my neck. He hauls me to my knees and snaps an order to Ansel, telling him to fetch something from the table in the corner. It’s an O-ring gag, and as he fastens it tight around my head, he makes the steel cut into the tender flesh at the corners of my mouth.
“Remember this, bitch?” he sneers as he pulls it even tighter. “Remember how you screamed for it?”
Tears leak from beneath my mask. I remember. I remember everything.
Ansel slides an iron hook under the bonds around my wrists. I hear a chain slide through a pulley near the ceiling, and my arms are forced up behind me. My ribs rise, and my chest pushes out, desperate to ease the pressure on my shoulders.
Jonas asks, “Showing off your tits, you horny cunt?” He stalks to the table, and I’m not surprised to see him return with a cane.
I close my eyes, bracing for the fire I know he’ll deliver. In the darkness, I hear people moving behind me.
I’m not in Master’s study. I’m in a private room at Kynk.
