Icy fear storms through me, and I bite my lip to keep from pleading for mercy. The two men leave without another word, locks clanking into place upon their exit. A melancholy echo reverberates through the chamber. I count the ensuing seconds in the beats of my heart, senses heightened in the quiet. Gooseflesh erupts on my skin, unhindered by clothing, and I want to wrap my arms around myself, hands rubbing the chill from my flesh until I find a hint of warmth, but I don’t dare move.

Until the lights shut off, plunging me into darkness. I jerk forward, barely catching myself from losing my balance, and a whimper catches in my throat. This is the kind of blackness nightmares are made of—suffocating and oppressive as the air seems to crawl over my chilled skin like phantom fingers. The moonless sky during the Witching Hour would offer more light.

I squeeze my eyes shut and count the skittering tempo of my heartbeat.

One, two, three, four, five, six…

Liam’s seductive brown eyes flash through my mind, and I latch onto the memory of him as if it’s my only lifeline.

Because right now it is.

Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven…

He’s my armor against the dragon, and I replay the warmth of his fingers on my skin, the sigh of his breath on my lips, the cadence of his resonant voice.

Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…

His head thrown back, mouth a tight line as pleasure seizes his limbs.

Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen…

The gruff cry that plays on his lips when he comes.

I let out a breath, clinging to the comfort of the memory. But it doesn’t last forever. At some point, I’m so cold that my teeth chatter, despite the way my knees ache and burn.

And that’s how Mr. Bordeaux and his dungeon sidekick find me when they return sometime later—my body tense from holding the degrading pose for so long, jaw rigid with tension, skin pebbled from the cold. Heavy footsteps surround me as I open my eyes and blink, my vision adjusting to the headache-inducing light.

“Posture,” Pax calls out an instant before his whip strikes the flesh on my back. Gasping in stunned pain, I straighten my spine, teeth clenched tight.

“That’s better. Slouching is never allowed.”

“Neither is eye contact,” Mr. Bordeaux says as he bends and lifts my chin. Unwittingly, I meet his gaze. He frowns, sending a nod to Pax, and another strike hits my back. Eyes stinging with unshed tears, I force my gaze over his shoulder, studying the brick wall behind him.

“If you think this is difficult, you won’t like what a punishment down here entails.” Mr. Bordeaux stands, letting go of my chin. “I suggest you get it right the first time.” He pauses, but his feet are in a constant state of restlessness as he paces in front of me. “Is that clear?”