He was right; my wrists ached already. If I continued struggling, I’d tear my skin away, possibly even damage the delicate tendons.

I had no hope of fighting him if I couldn’t use my hands once I was free. Because even though my brain acknowledged the futility of attacking him, the primal part of me wanted nothing more than to claw his eyes out, to protect myself in whatever way I could.

He continued to stroke me with the whip, petting me with the implement that would torture me. The gentle sensation of the soft leather sliding down my back was completely at odds with the way my body was braced for pain. The dichotomy muddled my mind, sensation and expectation polar opposites.

I tried to breathe, and my lungs seized. A choked, hitching sound caught in my throat: the threat of a harsh sob.

I swallowed it down and gritted my teeth, searching deep inside myself for a shred of defiance. Fear would not break me. Dante could play his sick mind games, but he wouldn’t touch the core of who I was. I couldn’t allow it. I didn’t think my soul would survive it.

He brushed a kiss over my cheek, communicating his satisfaction at my capitulation; I’d stopped struggling.

He moved behind me once again. I had less than a heartbeat to brace when I heard the whoosh of the flogger cutting through the air. Then fire raked across my bottom, a harder hit than the first.

I bit my lip, holding in the terrified cry that wanted to escape. Truly, it hadn’t hurt more than when he’d struck me with the newspaper. In the moment, the fear that clawed at my brain was far more potent than the slight burn of the whip.

I could master the terror. It would not rule me.

I would survive this. I would endure, like I always did.

“That’s better,” he approved, noting a change in my posture. “You’re very brave, Nora. But you still think you’re in control. You aren’t. Not with me. Let go.”

A harsher lash, a deeper sting. A hundred needles pierced my skin before the pain sank into my flesh in a heavy throb. He took up a steady rhythm, landing twin hits on each side of my bottom to kiss my tender skin with heat. I pressed my lips together and breathed through it, letting the pain wash over me, until it was a low buzz that blanketed my mind.

“You’re doing so well, pet.” There was no hint of mockery in his praise. Whatever I was doing pleased him.

I stiffened, hating him. He wanted me to accept the pain. I wanted to resist, but how could I do anything else? The only way to resist was to absorb the pain and deny its power over me. I would not cry. I would not beg. I would not—