“Well, I could lie to her.”
“I’d have to punish you. You know what we said about this. I have a zero tolerance policy.”
A sharp bolt of excitement shot between her legs. She’d really missed him today. It might not be fun play, but all she wanted right now was his hands on her. She’d take anything.
“But if I helped you by talking to her… you’d go a little easy on me, right?”
Anton shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. Even if it helps me.”
Somehow this only excited her more. “W-would you do it tonight?” Please. Please.
“I’d have to. You know I don’t like to delay punishments.”
She could see the desire in his eyes and was sure it mirrored her own. “Okay,” she said, hardening her resolve before she could lose her nerve. She knew she was playing with fire.
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Which room is she in?”
“End of the hallway here on the main floor.”
Annette left him in the kitchen and went to tell another pretty lie. She had no way of knowing it in that moment, but this particular lie would become so compelling that eventually she’d half believe it herself. Over time, as it got added to and deepened into a life of its own, it would become the creation myth that defined everything she loved about her master and everything she’d wished for from the moment they’d met. And somehow, some day, it would blossom into a kind of truth.
Even so, the punishment that was to follow would leave its searing mark on her for a long time to come.
58
BOOK FIVE: Twisted Fates
A dark, twisted growl next to her ear: “You were a very bad girl.”
“No!” Shannon struggled in the ropes, but they were too tight. How could this be happening? Only minutes ago she'd been playing in the pool. Happy. Not a care in the world. To go from the bright afternoon sun to the darkness of the dungeon so quickly made her head spin.
Brian had made quick work of stripping off her bikini and tying her to the St. Andrew's cross. She cringed as he dragged the tip of the knife along the stone wall. Grating. Like fingernails on a chalkboard. Worse.
Annette screamed incessantly outside the cell. Banging on the door. Yelling at Brian to stop. But he wouldn't. He'd locked them in, and he had the only keys.
Nothing could stop him, except maybe God. And Shannon had given up that belief long before she'd come to the house. The only ridiculous belief she'd carried into adulthood, was the shockingly naïve idea that somehow she would get a happy ending.
This ending was anything but happy.
Brian made a full lap around the cell, dragging the knife blade against the stone like some demented horror movie villain. He finally stopped next to her and bent close to her ear again. “You shouldn't have embarrassed me up there,” he whispered. “Now I get to make you bleed. It's the rules.”
“Please. Please, I'm sorry.” She made one final attempt to struggle free, knowing it was pointless but equally knowing if she didn't at least try she'd only blame herself more for the things he was about to do to her.
“Too late.”
Shannon jolted from sleep, her heart pounding in her chest so fast she was sure it would break free. She'd somehow gotten herself bound up in the blankets in her sleep. She kicked and struggled to free herself, then shoved them off the bed when she finally managed to untangle the sweat-soaked fabric from her body.
A fine sheen of clammy sweat still clung to her skin, chilling her. She'd woken in time at least—before it got too bad. Before the cutting had started. But it wasn't enough because that night still lived in her mind, fresh and new as if it were yesterday. In reality, eight years had passed since that awful day, but the dreams kept her trapped in the past, in a place now definable only by her nightmares.
Sometimes she could go days, even weeks at a time, without having the dreams. But they would never fully leave her. They were a part of her now—as physically real and solid as the scars.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed until her feet touched the cold floor and dragged herself to her private bathroom. She had one of the nicer suites and a larger bathroom now. The men at the house upgraded her after that day. As if it could make up for anything. Like a room upgrade was an apology for the unforgivable.
Shannon flipped the secondary low light on and splashed water on her face.
Then she looked in the mirror. She always looked. Every time she had the dream she looked in the mirror as if by some magic the scars would be gone, and she could reassure herself it really had been only a bad dream after all.
The worst of it was her back. She never looked at those. She just... couldn't. But she felt them. Every day when she showered, her fingertips brushed against those awful scars. They'd been made alternately by bullwhip and... that knife. She couldn't look at them.
But she could never seem to stop herself from looking at the ones that had whipped around to touch the top of her chest. It looked to her as though the devil's claws were digging into her shoulders, the way the scars had whipped and curled around. It was as though she were always in the clutches of something evil.
That evil thing still slept on the lower level of the house, free and untroubled by guilt for anything he did to anyone else. Brian hadn't touched her again after that day, but he didn't need to. He'd done his damage.
There were a few on her neck, but they were mostly covered now by her long dark hair. A few grazed her upper arms, and there was one mark on her cheek. It was small and had faded some over the years. And with artful makeup she'd learned how to mostly cover it.
Tears trailed down her cheeks. She wiped her face with the back of her hand because this was the point where she always thought about Mina. Mina had come to the house a few years ago. She was damaged and scarred—like Shannon—and yet Brian was kind to her. He loved her. Somehow that monster that had seen Shannon as some kind of garbage had the complete opposite reaction to Mina.
Why? Why her and not me? What's wrong with me?
How was it that the scars on Mina had guaranteed her happy ending, while the scars on Shannon made hers now impossible?
On most days the house was a polite criminal enterprise. The guys that ran it sought out kinky women with deeper needs to bring back to the house and train to sell to wealthy men with similar and complimentary kinks. All the women were there more or less of their own free will and knew the rules and the outcome before climbing on board this demented train. They'd signed on to play this game. But even so, the house was illicit.
Nobody left this place a free woman. You walked through those doors, and the next time you walked out was in a rich man's chains. There was no true out. There was no changing one's mind. There was no safeword.
Because of the nature of the house, the choice was once, and it was forever.
Choose wisely.
When Shannon had become too damaged to sell, she'd been lucky they'd let her live. She'd become a kind of indentured servant, running the on-site spa. Brian had left her alone after that. The other guys had continued to play with her—for awhile.
Except Lindsay, the doctor. He avoided her even more than Brian.
Shannon hated Brian, but she loathed Lindsay. There was something broken inside Brian that made him dangerous like a wild animal. On some level you couldn't really blame the wolf for eating the lamb. But Lindsay was different. He wasn't broken or sick. All of this was his fault. He'd been the one who'd lured her to the house. He'd made all the promises that hadn't been kept.