He hurries away to do his master’s bidding, and the room falls silent as Mr. Bordeaux reaches for his belt. “Bend over the table and lift your skirt,” he commands me, sliding that thick strap of leather from around his waist. He loops it in one fist, and I know without a doubt he won’t change his mind the way Liam did four days ago.

Just as I know he’ll make it hurt something fierce—far worse than the bite of Pax’s whip in the dungeon this afternoon. Steeling myself for what’s coming, I lean over the table and lift the skirt of my dress above my buttocks, determined not to cry.

Because I can’t let this cruel man win.

Mr. Bordeaux sets the belt on the table long enough to yank my panties to my knees, fingers rough against my skin, and my gaze clashes with Liam’s. He’s far from stoic, his hands fisted on the table, his mouth a severe line as he glares at the man lingering behind me.

Thighs rigid, my whole backside tingles, and I struggle to draw in a deep breath.

“If anyone in this room tries to interfere with my authority,” Mr. Bordeaux says, and by the flare of Liam’s nostrils I know the warning is for the chancellor, “the queen will be the one to pay for your disregard of protocol.”

The color drains from Liam’s face. In the month since I’ve known him, he’s never looked so…helpless. It’s an expression I can’t stand on him, because it doesn’t belong. He’s too strong to be so flayed, vulnerability spilling from his being.

Because of me.

Because he feels the need to protect me, but coming to my defense now will only mean more punishment. Unable to confront the defeat in his brown eyes, I shift my focus to Sebastian.

And that isn’t any better.

At first glance, the lion seems bored, and if it weren’t for the unfailing strength of his stare, I’d think he was unaffected. Loren’s return breaks the tense silence in the room, and Mr. Bordeaux pushes a rubber ball against my lips with a clipped order to open my mouth.

“You and your lady need to curb those sharp tongues,” he says, forcing my lips open. He tightens the strap around my head, testing the gag to make sure it won’t slip out. The contraption does more than gag me—it humiliates me on a level I didn’t know existed. All eyes in the room fixate on my degradation as saliva seeps from the corners of my spread lips.

Mr. Bordeaux shifts behind me, and yet I still don’t expect it; that first strike to my buttocks that stings my eyes. I blink, holding back the pain, and bite down on the gag when he hits me again.