It stokes the fire of my rage and a need for something from her I can’t even identify. I don’t know what it is I want as my palms skim over the red lines on her ass. They look so lovely against her flesh. In fact, I’d dare to say I’ve never created any art as beautiful as this. But she isn’t unconsciously arching into my touch anymore. She isn’t bowing under my weight, and she isn’t fighting either. She’s just… disconnected. Her empty gaze is focused on the wall, and she’s never looked so unrepentant. There’s a sudden, aching need in me to touch her softly. To coax her back to life. But that won’t do.

“Beg for forgiveness,” I demand.

She doesn’t respond. I squeeze a handful of her ass and repeat the order, the threat in my tone unmistakable. Again, there is no response from her. And I find that her silence irritates me more than anything else ever has, a revelation that only adds to my frustration with her.

It appears I've been too soft on my wife, and she seems to be under the illusion she actually has a choice to ignore my demands. She’s lost sight of her purpose. The entire reason she's here. But after tonight, she will know it.

When I hoist her up over my shoulder and carry her down the corridor and upstairs to her room, she doesn't protest. She thinks this is the end. That her punishment is over. I can hear it in the way she's calming her breath, staring longingly at the sanctuary of her bed. When I lower her onto the decorative rug instead, her muscles become rigid once again.

I retrieve the things I need from the small dresser I keep in here. When I return with the ropes and kneel beside her, she resumes her favorite activity of trying to defy me. But she is no match, and soon, her body is bound from her wrists to her ankles. By the time I'm finished with her, she's wearing the blind mask and the collar and chain from her marking ceremony. I leave her there to silently pray for salvation while I retrieve my own cloak and mask.

Ten minutes later, we are in the back of the Rolls with Marco behind the steering wheel. It doesn't take long to reach IVI's compound. I remove the bindings from Ivy’s wrists and feet and pull her from the car, a blanket draped around her as I force her forward. Tonight, there are a few men gathered in the courtyard drinking, but they know not to look too long when they see where I'm heading.

Our identities are obscured by the masks, and when I enter the dimly lit corridor that leads to the Cat House, we will appear just like everyone else.