Fire lashed my upper thigh, and a ragged cry burst from my chest before I could contain it. Another hit. Another involuntary scream.

I’d thought there was pain before, but this was incandescent, my sensitive skin burning beneath the harsh rake of the whip.

“So beautiful,” he sighed over my next shriek.

My bound hands curled to fists, rage fueling my resistance. I clung to my will by a thread. Settling into the pain at the beginning had been a mistake; now that I’d let down my walls against it, more flooded my system like a burst dam.

“You’re my wife, Nora,” he said with the weight of an absolute truth. “Not Luca’s. Tell me you’re mine.”

Loathing was a white-hot sun at the center of my chest. I would never belong to this monster. I would never willingly give myself to him.

Luca didn’t own me either. I belonged to myself. No one was my master.

“I’m not yours,” I forced out through gritted teeth.

Rather than becoming incensed, the bastard chuckled. My blood ran cold. He was happy for the excuse to hurt me more.

I had to protect myself. Taking a deep breath, I remembered how I’d floated in the woods last night after he’d utterly humiliated me. I took another breath and retreated to a dark, quiet place deep inside myself. Screams made my throat raw and sore, but the pain didn’t decimate me. I let it rip through me, until it was a rushing tide, and I floated on it.

The hits stopped, and his body heat caressed my side. His warm breath fanned my neck, drawing a shiver to the surface of my skin. His calloused palm skimmed down my back, stroking me with a lover’s comforting touch.

“Tell me you’re mine, Nora,” he murmured in my ear, his voice threading into my muddled mind with insidious intent. “Tell me you’re my wife.”

It didn’t matter what I said. I wouldn’t mean it. Saying the words didn’t make them real.

“I’m your wife, Dante.” The lie rasped from my abused throat.

His vibrant eyes filled my world, peering straight into me. He cupped my cheek in his big hand, his fingers threading through my hair. Mindlessly, I leaned into the caress, welcoming the soothing contact after the overload of pain.

“You don’t mean that, darling.”

My gut twisted. I licked my dry lips. “I do,” I lied again, an echo of the false vow he’d forced me to make during our sham wedding.

He frowned and shook his head almost sadly. “Don’t lie to your master.”

“You’re not my master,” I shot back before I could think. My mind rejected it on a soul-deep level.

He hummed and studied me for long, agonizing seconds, until I started to squirm with apprehension.