I’m shaking as he drags me into his quarters. The dip of the sun toward the horizon casts the space in shadow, and the heavy furnishings give an undertone of masculine virility. A bed designed for a king sits atop a platform in the middle of the room, outfitted in midnight blue. A color fit for royalty.

He ushers me away from the bed and gently shoves me into a seat at a small table in front of a set of French doors. Beyond the glass, I spy a balcony. “You’re not to come in here unless I instruct otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” I say, teeth chattering. “Why am I here?”

“Lay your hands on the table, palms up.”

I obey, knowing now is not the time to question him. With a decisive nod, he strides across the room and pulls something down from a rack on the wall. My stomach drops upon his return.

“Do you know what this is?”

A hard swallow precedes my answer. “It’s a riding crop.”

“Do you know why your hands are on that table right now?”

Without thinking, I yank them back.

“Do not move them.” The leather end of the crop makes a harsh smack on the table, punctuating his command.

I inch my hands back into position, every fiber of my being urging to me to take flight. But how far would I get? Out of this room? Maybe I’d breach the penthouse door before he catches up with me. Maybe I’d make it into the elevator, then I could streak through the tower as naked as the day I was born.

“Do you understand why you’re being punished?”

“Because I was touching myself?”

“Because you did it without permission.”

“You’re not being fair. I didn’t know it was against the rules.”

“Discipline is how you learn, Novalee.” He gestures to my vulnerable, exposed palms. “If you move your hands again, I’ll have no choice but to take you to our enforcer for punishment. Trust me, neither of us wants that.”

His threat collides inside me, a fatal crash of anger and fear. Trust him, he says. I want to laugh and cry and scream at the irony in that demand. As he steps back and raises the crop, an ominous preamble, I remind myself that I’ve been through worse.

I needed medical attention and a soft cushion for a week after Uncle Rowan unleashed his whip on my backside for trying to escape.

“You’ll receive five strikes to each palm.” His hand twitches, a millisecond away from inflicting pain, and our eyes lock. “Brace yourself, my sweet girl.”

Smack!

I jump, suck in a breath, and another notch of anger forms on my armor. He brings the crop down on my left palm.

Then the right.

Back and forth, reddening my fair skin.

Causing my eyes to water.

I glare at him through my unshed tears.