“Helena—”
“Why do you do it? Why take the girl? Now, I mean, in this day and age.”
“I told you, tradition.”
I shake my head, because that’s not it. He’s too modern for this. “There’s something else. There has to be.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Does it matter? I did take you. You’re mine now. That’s all you need to worry about.”
We stand quietly, me watching him, him watching me.
He’s right. It doesn’t matter, not for me. Not anymore.
“Come with me.”
He almost has to drag me up the path to the post, my legs growing heavier and heavier as we get nearer. When we finally stop in the clearing, I stare at my feet in the grass.
“Look up.”
“I don’t want to.”
He moves behind me, holds me to him, and forces my head up by my chin. “Look up.”
I do. And it looms over me, this stone post buried in the ground with shackles hanging from the top. I don’t want to look too close because I see marks on it, areas that are worn smooth, and dark, human stains.
He walks me closer to it, and I’m powerless when he trails his fingers softly, like feathers, down my arms and captures my wrists. My heart races as he drags them upward, and the metal of the cuffs is cold when he closes them around my wrists.
“I didn’t do anything,” I say weakly.
“I have a question for you,” he says, ignoring my comment, sliding the tips of his fingers back down my arms, to my sides, into the opening at the sides of the dress to cup my breasts. He kneads my nipples into points, and I swear I can feel his touch at my core.
I try to protest but my head drops back into the crook of his neck as he slips his right hand out and slides it lower, down to the front of the skirt of my dress, underneath it to my thigh, and up to my sex.
“Does it turn you on as much as it does me?” he asks, grinding his erection against my back while his fingers work my pussy.
I turn my face a little, so I can see him.
“It turns you on to have a woman bound to a whipping post?”
I suck in a breath when he pinches my clit.
“Not any woman. You.”
“Me. A Willow Girl. A Willow Whipping girl.”
He grips my hair and brings his mouth to my ear. “My Willow Whipping Girl.”
I shudder.
“Now don’t bite.” He kisses me, and I don’t bite, not this time. He slips his tongue inside my mouth. I’m so wet when he turns me, and the chains easily accommodate him.
Sebastian draws back and reaches behind my neck to untie the halter top.
I wonder if he planned this. If this is what he intended all along, giving me this particular dress. And I think the answer is yes when it falls to my feet and I’m naked and bound.
He pulls back to look at me, His fingers are working my pussy, and I’m so wet, I can hear myself.
“Come, Helena.”
“No.”
“Come.”
“I don’t want to.”
I close my eyes, and he cups my ass with his other hand and squeezes. The pain makes me flinch, but then he kneads my clit, rubs it, smearing my own moisture all over it, and I suck in a loud breath and I know it’s useless to fight him. I’m close, I’m so close. I open my eyes and see his smile and draw back or try to.
“I hate you,” I say, the words forced as my knees buckle and I come. I come so hard it’s running down my legs and I can hardly breathe because it feels so fucking good.
He leans in close to my ear, still working my clit, still squeezing my ass. “Come on the post where your ancestors have been whipped raw. Where I’ll whip you when your time comes.”
I’m listening to him, my body shuddering with this forced pleasure. He doesn’t let go of my pussy when it’s finished, when the orgasm passes. Not yet. Instead, fingers smeared with his juices, he slides them backward, to my ass, and rubs and watches my face as he does.
“It’s not all bad, is it, the whipping post. I’ll teach you to come even when it hurts.”
And as if to prove his point, he crouches down and cups my ass and squeezes hard, hurting the bruised flesh as he closes his mouth over my too sensitive clit and sucks. I come again, come on his tongue until I’m almost limp, my legs no longer able to hold me up.
He rises to his feet and grips my hair and kisses me hard. All I can taste is myself. Me on his tongue, his face. My scent clinging to him.
And then, a moment later, he stops, draws back. “What happened to you fighting me?” he asks, cocking his head to the side. “Where’s the fight you promised?” His voice is low, deep, mocking.
“Let me down from here.”
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out my pocket knife, opens it. He holds out his arm, and I watch him slice his skin, just below the crease of his elbow.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“My notch.”
He doesn’t even flinch. Just closes the knife and looks at me. Any humor is gone from his eyes. He doesn’t say a word as he pockets it and turns to walk away.
“Where are you going?” I yell after him, tugging at the restraints which seem to tighten as I struggle. “Sebastian!”
He stops, turns.
“I have a meeting,” he says, making a point of checking his watch. “And as for what I’m doing, I’m being gentle with you, considering the caning you endured. Think of this as what you’re owed for all the back talk, the bad behavior. I forget nothing, and I forgive nothing, not without punishment, Helena. Think about that as you spend a few hours here and thank your lucky stars this is all I’m doing.”
“Come back! You can’t leave me here like this. Come back, damn it!”
But he doesn’t even look back. He just walks on, crosses the pool and disappears into the house.
Chapter Eight
Helena
It’s nightfall before I finally hear footsteps behind me, but when I turn, a new panic grips me when I see it’s not Sebastian but Gregory. He’s walking purposefully toward me, and I wonder when he got back to the island. If they’re all back.
He’s wearing a suit, the jacket still on, and when he reaches me, he stops, takes stock of my situation, and slips his jacket off his shoulders.
I don’t know what to expect with him, but I’m not exactly in a position where I have much choice, so when he sets the jacket over my shoulders and wraps a strong arm around my middle before reaching up to undo the cuffs, all I can do is try to stand on my own legs, which aren’t cooperating. My arms are worse, though. They’re limp. I can’t even manage to slap him away.
“Where’s Sebastian?”
“He asked me to take you to your room. Stop struggling.”
“I can walk.”
“No, you can’t. You can’t even stand. How long did he have you out here?”
“All afternoon.”
He makes a disapproving sound and carries me into the house and up to my room.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
I’m embarrassed, but I nod.
He walks me inside, and I try to squirm away. “I can do this part.”
He ignores me and walks me to the toilet, sets me on it, then turns and walks out, closing the door behind him. I pee and with some effort, manage to clean myself. I stagger to the sink and am washing my hands when he opens the door and holds out an oversized T-shirt.
“What’s that for?”
“I assumed you wouldn’t want to sit around naked but if you’d rather—”
“No.” Then, “I don’t have clothes,” I say stupidly.
He helps me to the chaise. My knees keep giving out, and I need his help.
“Can you lift your arms?” he asks.
I try but shake my head. He takes one arm at a time and dresses me like he would a child. It feels strange to have him do this. Almost intimate. And as soon as he slips the shirt over my head, I realize it’s his. I can smel
“Why are you being nice to me?”
“I’m not. I’m just taking care of what’s ours.”
He sits down beside me and pulls the table closer. He picks up the glass of water and brings it to my lips.
I drink greedily, parched. When the glass is empty, he sets it down, picks up the spoon, and scoops up some soup. He brings it to my mouth, and I hesitate.
“What do you think? I’m going to poison you?”
I don’t, but he doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? I understand my brother. Just eat.”
I open my mouth and drink the broth soup. It’s good. So good.
“Can I have some wine?” I ask after finishing half the soup.
He puts the spoon down and pours me a glass of wine from the bottle. It’s a rich, warming red, and it’s exactly what I need.
“Thank you.”
He nods. We don’t talk while he spoon-feeds me the rest of the soup and the glass of wine.
“You know, you all act like I should just get over it already and be a good little whipping girl but put yourself in my place. How would you be if you were taken against your will and made a prisoner? If you were treated like I am here? I’m alone. Completely alone.”
“Do you think you’re the only person doing something against their will?” he asks, surprising me.
“I’m the only Willow I see here.”
“Well, step back and look a little harder. You Willow’s only see things from one perspective: yours. That’s always been the problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean not all of us want to be here.”
We both sit quietly for a minute until he stands.
“Do you need anything else?” he asks.
I shake my head. “No. I’ll be fine.”
“Good night, then.” He walks to the door.
“Gregory.”
He stops. “Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“See, it’s not so hard.” With that, he walks out the door and I’m left alone in my room, the windows open to the clear night sky, alone with my bottle of wine.
Again trying to ignore the faint scent of him on the T-shirt, I use both hands to pour myself another glass, splashing some because even though the feeling is coming back, my arms are still weak.
I bring the glass to my mouth and drink a long swallow. I feel better for it and take it with me into the bathroom where I run a bath, pouring almost a full bottle of bubbles in.
After finally stripping off the T-shirt, I slide beneath the sudsy surface. I close my eyes as feeling slowly returns to my arms. I keep thinking about what Gregory said.
Who here is doing something against their will? Sebastian?
No. No fucking way.
I lay back, look up at the ceiling, follow the pattern of the molding. The scent of lavender makes me drowsy. I drink another sip of wine before setting the glass down on the edge of the tub and sliding both arms beneath the surface.
Sebastian is enjoying this. Enjoying my torment.
Gregory is wrong. He’s not doing this against his will.
He may have felt sorry for me after Lucinda caned me, or, more likely, he felt usurped by her, that she was laying claim to a thing that’s his. Taking his toy. That’s more plausible to me.
I close my eyes for a while, listening to the only sound in the room, the occasional drip from the tap. I don’t usually take baths. I don’t take the time. But I have plenty of it now.
As I lie there, I think about how Gregory said what he said.
“You Willows only see things from one perspective: yours.”
What’s he trying to say? That Sebastian doesn’t want to do what he’s doing? That he’s somehow forced to? Why?
But my thoughts are interrupted by Lucinda’s voice in the distance, followed by a male voice and then her grating giggle.
I stand up, wrap a towel around myself, and tiptoe into the bedroom. The sound of an engine starting has me rushing to the window.
From here, I see them. Lucinda and Ethan are walking arm in arm. She’s dressed in a long gown. Moonlight bounces off the gemstones around her neck. Ethan is in a suit or something like it. He helps her up the steps and onto the boat.
I recognize Gregory by his walk. He must be reading something on his phone, because I can see the screen’s light from here. Sebastian follows last.
Earlier, I’d assumed Gregory was coming back from somewhere, not on his way to it when he came to get me. I am a little put off at being left behind. At the fact that Sebastian left me out there for so long, then sent his brother to collect me when he was here in the house all along. More than a little put off the more I think about it.
I duck back inside when Sebastian turns to glance up at my window and wait there, listening for the boat to leave. I dry off quickly, the feeling in my arms back now, and put Gregory’s T-shirt back on then step out into the hallway and listen.
There’s no sound, none at all, and I wonder if the staff has already gone home. I don’t know what time it is.
The house is in semidarkness, lamps on here and there so it’s not pitch-black. I go right and try the first door. It’s an empty bedroom, the bed stripped, the windows closed. I leave it and go to the next, and I know it’s Lucinda’s because of the massive amounts of perfume that assault my senses when I stand in the doorway.
I step inside, leaving the door ajar. The first thing I do is look at the clock. It’s a little after ten o’clock. I wonder where they were going dressed in their finest at this hour.
I walk around her room, noting the pile of dirty clothes on the floor. Probably left it for a maid to clean up after her. Her bed is made and on top of it are strewn three evening dresses, one still on its hanger with the tags attached. They’re not my taste, but I can see they’re expensive.
There’s a desk along one wall. I go to it and pick up the envelopes stacked on top of it. Mail from the States and one from an Italian bank. They’re sealed, so I put them back down.
I step back and survey the room and decide I’m wasting my time in here. If I’m alone in the house, I need to use my time wisely. I go back out into the hallway and try the last door on this side, which is locked. I pass my own room again and pause at the stairs to listen, then try the room adjacent to mine. I turn the handle and find it unlocked.
The instant I push it open, I know it’s Sebastian’s.
I go inside, and this time, I close the door behind me and lean against it. I just take a minute to breathe. To calm my frantic heartbeat. I’m too chicken to put on the lights, but the sky is clear, the moon is out and the bathroom light was left on, so I take in his room.
The king-size bed is central against the far wall with its headboard of carved wood that reaches practically to the ceiling. Pompous. Like he’s a king.
The bed is made, the duvet a deep charcoal that matches his eyes. There’s a worn leather armchair with a reading lamp over it and a shelf of books behind it, a large antique dresser, and two nightstands, each with a lamp on top.
There are three doors. The first leads to the bathroom with its light still on, the second is a walk-in closet.
Entering, I switch on the light in here and stop to inhale, recognizing the scent of his aftershave, not realizing I’d noted it, memorized it.
I run my hands along the suit jackets, of which he has a dozen or more. Next, slacks are hung that go with each one. Then the dress shirts. He’s a neat freak. Everything is hung up or folded and color coordinated, the shoes polished and neatly in their cubbyholes. It makes me laugh, like I’ve found out a secret. Which is ridiculous. It’s a closet.
On the island in the middle, I pull out the top drawer. He must have a hundred sets of cuff links, and at least eight watches.
I shake my head at the opulence. The abundance. How can some have so much while others starve?
Not that we Willows are starving, but there are people out there who don’t have enough to eat, and this family has more than they will ever use up in their lifetimes.
I close the drawer and am about to step out of the closet when I notice something out of place on the floor. I bend to pick it up. It’s my pocketknife. The one he stole from me. I grin, depress the button, and watch the blade open. At least he cleaned his blood off it.
Closing it, I slide it into the pocket on my borrowed T-shirt. He’ll notice it’s gone, I’m sure. He was having fun using it to carve out our various notches. Jerk.
I leave the light on and head back into the bedroom, going to the last door with a key in its lock. I turn and open it. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see it leads to my room. Not that it matters which door he uses. He will enter at will and take what he wants at will and leave me hanging on a post for hours and then send his brother to get me at his fucking will.
From his windows, I see he has a better view than me. He can see more of the island. If I lean out, I can see the top of the mausoleum again. It makes me shudder. That part of the island, it just seems different.
I turn back in, go to his dresser, open the drawers, and rummage through them. I’m not looking for anything in particular. I just feel like I have some power right now. For the first time since I’ve been brought here. Like I’m in control.
How quickly it can be stripped from you.
The drawers in his nightstand are next. The one on the side of the bed closest to the door is empty, but when I go to close it, it sticks a little, so I try again, knocking the whole thing into the wall, making the lamp teeter.
I catch it before it falls and breathe a sigh of relief.
I walk around the bed to the other side, which must be the side he sleeps on, and am surprised to find the corner of a piece of paper sticking out of the drawer. I guess given the neatness of the room and his closet, I expected he’d be more careful putting things away.
I open the drawer and take out the sheet and notice the other items in the drawer—condoms and a tube of lubricant. I don’t know why that surprises me. I’m sure he has women here. They’re probably impressed when he brings them back to the island. His island. Probably can’t wait to jump into his bed, in fact.
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