by Elaina Jadin
Her eyes fly open at last, meeting mine, and what I see in her gaze elates me. She understands the promise that I offer. The ability to finally atone for her sins. To let her grief meet the pain she believes she’s due.
Whether she realizes the true depths I’m willing to go to, I’m not sure. For now, I’ll start slow. I don’t feel the need to inform her of my dark desires, of how I long to feel her pain, of how I will relish her agony and taste it as my own. She will learn soon enough.
“I will punish you, little fawn.” I hold her gaze as I pour another thin stripe across her stomach, her chest jerking with a sharp breath, her lips parting in a quiet moan. “Because you want to be, don’t you? You don’t believe all of your therapists who told you there was nothing you could have done. That you were only a child, that what you’re feeling is survivor’s guilt.”
She stares at me, her amber eyes bright with a clarity I wonder if she’s ever felt before. I see the answer etched on her face. The promise stretches between us and at last her body relaxes, wilting against the table, welcoming the pain. My cock is hard, straining for relief, but not yet.
It’s time to get to work.
I tip the candle above her chest, the wax dropping into semi-transparent white puddles on her breast, close enough to her nipple to let her anticipation build but always out of reach.
“You could have turned back,” I tell her as I move the candle to her other breast. My words are punctuated with the burn of the liquid splattering onto her skin.
“Yes,” she whispers, her body twitching from the sting of the wax.
“You could have tried to save your mother.” More hot liquid dripped on her stomach, her skin responding beautifully. I know already that she will be my greatest masterpiece, my grand experiment.
“But I didn’t.” A soft sob escapes, the sound haunting and full of despair, but the burn of the wax I lace across her hip keeps her grounded, compelling her to stay in the here and now, with me, with the emotional scars that have been strangling her for years.
“If you hadn’t run away,” I let scorn infuse my voice, “you might have saved her.” The wax scalds her thighs, and her body heaves with silent sobs, even as she parts her legs for me.
I can smell her arousal growing, even as grief and anger consume her. This is exactly what she needs. What she’s never found.
“You let her sacrifice herself for you.” My tone is harsh, the words daggers of cruelty, as brutal as the thoughts she punishes herself with. The wax drips down her inner thigh, and I scrape my fingers through it, heightening the pain, feeding off it.
Her shoulders shake as her sobs intensify, and she rolls her head to the side, shame on her cheeks.
“You let your parents die, while all you did was hide.” I slide my hand across the tender skin of her inner thigh, already raw from the hot liquid, and squeeze down, digging my fingers into her flesh. “You didn’t even try to help them, little fawn.”
Jemma is crying openly now, tears streaming down her face, her emotional scars ripped open, bleeding freely, as I’d hoped. The whimpering sounds escaping her lips and the torment twisting itself onto her delicate features make my shaft rock hard.
The beast inside me is hungry, her anguish feeding my perverse needs, deepening my enjoyment—and I suspect the pain I’ve inflicted has had a similar effect on her.
I slowly run a hand against the slip of silk covering her mound and she rocks her hips, pushing against my hand. Moving the candle over her, I dot the red fabric with white wax, letting the searing heat settle against her most sensitive area.
She moans, her chest rising and falling beautifully with sharp, needy breaths, and she rotates her pelvis, grinding her ass against the table, asking for more. I run my hand over her, barely grazing her, watching as she lifts her hips, straining for my touch.
I lift my hand away only to return it a second later with a fierce slap, my palm smacking against her swollen clit through the thin fabric, and she gasps, her fingers scratching at the table. I repeat the movement again, harder, and she arches her back, a guttural, cock-teasing cry escaping from her lips.
Then I slide my hand down, stroking a finger underneath the fabric, feeling how wet she is. She wiggles her ass, her thighs clenching and parting around my hand as she tries to capture my touch.
Time for the next step.
The candle set out of the way, I offer no warning as I grab her legs and yank her to the end of the table, making her roll over onto her stomach even as she cries out with surprise. Then I pull her hips toward me until she’s bent over the table, her back arching gorgeously with perfect tautness even as the edge of the table digs into her flesh and she scrambles to stand on her toes.
I knee her legs apart, stepping between them and letting her feel the outline of my stiff member against her ass as I grind into her. I wrap my fist in her hair and pull her head back, the pale skin of her neck exposed so enticingly that I want to sink my teeth into it.
“You deserve this, don’t you, little fawn?” I growl against her shoulder. She needs to say it.
“Yes,” she cries. “Please.”
I tighten my grip. “You deserve to be punished with my hard cock, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she repeats, crushing her ass against me with need, but I’ve already let her get away with her forgetfulness once. She shrieks as I yank back on her hair and immediately corrects herself. “Yes, Alpha.”
The scent of her excitement is so strong, the wet heat between her legs so inviting, that I can’t hold back. I unzip my pants and release my cock, pumping it slowly, letting her feel it against the wet silk thong. It’s hard as stone and throbbing to be buried inside her. I slide the silky material to the side, running my fingers against her soaked center, teasing her as she writhes against the table, before lining myself up.
“Then I’ll fuck you like you deserve—without mercy.” I slide into her in one sharp thrust, causing her to gasp and clutch at the table.
Her body clamps down around me, and I let out a groan as pleasure shoots straight to my balls. She’s slick and hot, gripping my shaft tightly. Goddamn. How the hell Draven resisted fucking her right there in his office, I’ll never know.
I brace myself over her, her hair clenched in my fist, keeping her head forced back as I snap my hips forward, thrusting into her hard, over and over. Her ass bounces from my impact, the tops of her thighs shoved roughly against the table’s edge.
My blood is racing and the beast inside me is demanding more. She’s already so close, and I know she’ll drag me over with her.
But I know what she needs first. And it’ll soothe the wolf inside me, too.
“Think of the wolves,” I order, my lips pressing against her neck as I drive my thick length deep in her. “Think of how they hunted you.”
She clenches around my hard shaft at the words and shudders beneath me, tears rolling down her cheeks, her breath coming in panting gasps. Fuck, she’s so delicious. A feral need is clawing at me, wanting to mark her as mine. My wolf gives no fucks that she’s human, and the dark urge ripples through my muscles.
To appease the ache, I drag my sharp teeth against the tendons of her neck, the delicate skin hot under my tongue. “Think of those beasts and how you deserved to be trapped like this, their fangs against your throat.”
She’s sobbing, her body quaking under mine as I fuck her ruthlessly, her warmth slicking my cock. “You crave this, little fawn. That’s your secret. You want to be caught by the wolves.”
Her orgasm catches her off guard, and she grips down on me like a vice as she cries out. I grunt as my balls tighten, threatening to erupt right then, to finish buried deep inside her. My wolf thrashes inside me, salivating at the idea, urging me to keep going, to release my seed deep inside her. But it’s far too soon for that, for neither of us are prepared for what will happen if I do.
I rip myself from her, even as her body is in the thralls of bliss, and pull her away from the table, pushing he
r down on her knees. Her eyes are bright as she looks up at me, tears staining her cheeks, her eyelids heavy and her pupils wide with lust, grief, pleasure, pain.
Her mouth opens eagerly as I grip her hair and pull her toward me. Her lips stretch around the head of my cock, the wet heat of her mouth engulfing me. She’s watching my face as she sucks me, and I see the fervent need in her gaze, the desire to please me.
She runs her tongue along the underside of my shaft, then she swallows me down again. It’s not enough. I want to consume her, to own her fully, to punish her for the urges that threaten to overwhelm me. She winces as I hit the back of her throat, but she doesn’t pull away. I keep going, fucking her mouth, deep and hard.
The muscles in my legs and ass tighten as I thrust, my climax building with a roar inside me. Then my shaft pulses in her mouth, and I spill myself down her throat. She eagerly swallows every drop of my hot offering, her lips around the base, even as tears stream down her face.
But her eyes are filled with gratitude, with reverence, and I grind my softening length deeper, pressing her face against my pelvis. Only when her hands finally come up to my thighs, begging to breathe, do I pull out of her.
I step back, releasing her entirely, and she slumps at my feet, utterly drained. She performed brilliantly and the room is suffused with the scent of our activity. It gives me a twisted sense of satisfaction to imagine the pack gathering in here, smelling what we’ve done.
I’m not under any delusions that a little candle wax and one harsh fuck has healed a decade of trauma. But I do know that, eventually, she will begin to feel absolved. And I also know that next time, she will be begging for me to punish her. And next time I will not be so gentle.
Tucking myself back into my pants, I crouch and grab her chin in my hand, making her look at me. I study her for a moment as she stares up at me, and I see no fear. Her eyes are glazed over, her body satiated, her mind quiet. Good.
“Remember this, little fawn.” I’m quiet but firm. “Remember how it felt to think of the beasts as you were fucked. You’ll need that. Because you’ll soon come to realize you are deep in the wolves’ den.”
13
Jemma
I’m lost in a daze. I’m not even entirely sure if I’m conscious. But I know that Bishop is carrying me, the smooth fabric of his shirt pressing softly against my sore flesh.
I hurt all over. My stomach and breasts burn from the wax, my hips and thighs are certainly bruised from the table, and my scalp still stings from his fierce grip. But I relish it, I embrace the pain like a holy sacrament. It’s what I deserve, what I’ve been seeking all these years.
Bishop sees me for who I am—someone who deserves to be punished.
I find the strength to grasp his shirt in my hand, and he looks down at me, his face blank and expressionless, but his eyes drink me in, curious and haunting. His gaze cuts through the pain and a tendril of fear whispers through me, that perhaps I’ve failed some sort of test.
I need to know. “Did I do good, sir?” I croak out the question, my throat as raw as the rest of me.
I cried more with Bishop than I have in years. He’d unraveled me, stripped me of all my safeguards until I was nothing more than the sum of my sins, laid bare for judgement.
I was scorned. Condemned. Found guilty and sentenced by his punishing touch.
And all I wanted was more.
For the first time, the tears that poured from me were rejuvenating. It’s as if with every tear he tore from me, every shameful gasp of torment, a sliver of my guilt was burned away.
His footsteps pause and he regards me silently for a moment, his gaze piercing through me. A hard lump forms in my throat, but I don’t look anywhere other than his face. His startling blue eyes, his sharp jaw, the soft wave of his hair.
“You did wonderful, Fawn,” he says, his voice a soft caress of approval, and happiness blooms inside my chest.
I feel a small seedling of hope unfurl within me as I cling to him while he continues carrying me down the long hallway—something I’ve kept tucked deep down, hiding it even from myself. His praise means more than his satisfaction, it means... It means I might find peace one day.
All this time, I’ve been coddled and comforted, dismissed and disregarded, but not once has anyone ever offered what I truly need. Until now.
Finally, someone can see my transgressions for what they are, know my guilt as intimately as I do, and feel the wounds inside me, the ones that cry for retribution of my mistakes. He’s the first one to truly grasp the gravity of the choices I made that night. To understand I escaped my fate and must atone for my crimes.
Bishop was right, the therapist and doctors could never understand. They were wrong when they had told me there was nothing I could have done.
I could have chosen to die with my parents.
Between my exhausted body and the rhythmic movements of Bishop cradling me, I’ve almost been lulled to sleep by the time he carries me into my room.
It’s empty and perfectly still, not a whisper of sound reaching my ears other than Bishop’s own movements, but my tired eyes notice that the sheets have been freshly changed and the bedding is turned down, awaiting our arrival.
He sets me down on my feet, holding me just long enough to make sure I’ve got my balance. Even as he releases me, I reach for him, craving his touch, needing his strength to ground me. He says nothing but gently removes my fingers from his arm and moves away, disappearing into the bathroom.
I wait there, standing at the foot of the bed, expecting to hear the shower turn on, or the splashing noise of water filling the tub, but instead there’s only the muted sound of the sink tap running for a few seconds, and a drawer opening and closing. Then he’s back beside me, and my gaze darts to the glass of water in his hand.
“Are you thirsty?” he asks, staring at me with his curious blue eyes.
“Yes,” I reply, sweeping my dry tongue across my lips as I eye the water. Then I remember the way I’m supposed to respond. “Yes, Alpha.”
He holds the glass out to me, and I take it from him, immediately bringing it to my lips. The moment the tepid water hits my tongue I realize how thirsty I am, and I gulp the rest down in long swallows.
When I’m done, he takes the glass away, setting it on the dresser along the wall, then turns back to me. “Do you have any allergies?”
From the way he asks, I suspect he already knows the answer—just as he seems to know everything else about me, even things I’ve never uttered aloud to another living soul. My eyes dart to the small bottle of pale liquid he’s pulled from his pocket.
“What’s that?” I ask before I can help myself.
Bishop says nothing, but his lips press together in a firm line and his eyes narrow.
“No, sir,” I murmur quickly. “No allergies.”
His expression returns once again to a blank canvas. “It’s a blend of oils,” he says simply, opening the cap. He pours a large quantity into his palm then sets the bottle down and rubs his hands together, warming the oil.
Bishop kneels in front of me and brings his hands to my stomach and strokes his palms against me with firm, slow movements. His fingers sweep across the melted wax that streaks across my skin, loosening it until the soft white dots and drips slowly flake away and fall to the floor. He moves upward, to my breasts, and I close my eyes, soaking in the warmth of his palms smoothing across my nipples, the heat of his hands stroking my skin.
He doesn’t miss any part of me—his hands cover every inch, kneading my muscles as he spreads the silken oil down my hips, gliding over the tender bruises there, and sliding his fingers between my legs. He’s utterly quiet as he works, completely focused on eliminating every last trace of wax from my body.
It’s not exactly a massage, but his touch is gentle and soothing, very different from the pain he delivered earlier. His movements are calm and methodical, and a contented heaviness slowly settles into me as he makes his way down my body.
&
nbsp; Bishop is the first man I’ve been with other than Bryan, and my experience with him has been vastly different. Bishop knew every button to press, every nerve to stimulate, every touch I needed.
Bryan was never able to take me far enough, caring more about his own pleasure than my own. When he was finished, leave me wanting for satisfaction, rolling over to abandon me for sleep.
I expected Bishop to do the same—but my powerful, earth-shattering release came first, and he’d made sure of it. And now, I see that not only can Bishop give me the pain that brings me both pleasure and peace, but his singular focus on me hasn’t wavered since.
It feels like absolution.
When he’s done, he stands and returns to the bathroom again. He comes back with a soft white towel and spreads it between his hands. Slowly he wipes me down, from my neck all the way to my calves, removing the excess oil from my skin.
Then he lifts me in his arms once more and lays me gently on the bed, my sore muscles aching against the mattress. I roll on my side and let my head sink into the pillow.
The heavy blankets sweep up my body and Bishop spends a moment tucking them tightly around me, as though he’s swaddling me in a cozy cocoon. The back of his hand brushes across my cheek then he steps back.
I lift my head as he moves away from the bed, my gaze following him. “Stay with me, please.” The words come out small and needy, but I can’t help them.
His shoulders stiffen, and I expect his silent discipline, that disapproving look that sends a shiver up my spine, especially since I did not say sir or alpha. I wait, holding my breath, but he doesn’t react any further to my plea.
But he doesn’t leave, either.
Instead, he makes his way to the other side of the room and turns to face me, his expression unreadable. I eye him curiously, but he pulls out the chair at my vanity and sits down, his gaze never leaving me.
“You’re okay, little fawn.” His voice is soft but edged with a confident firmness, as though he knows exactly what I need to hear. “Sleep now.”