Liam startles with each strike. After the third, he rubs his hands down his face, stricken as he stares at the place setting in front of him. He can’t watch this any more than he could issue such a punishment himself.

But this is worse. The knowledge is instinctual. Liam Castle would never strike me with such force—the kind of sadism that rips apart my defenses until I’m black and blue and too close to bawling for it to stop.

And that only makes me want to smother my reaction more. It’s a stubborn move, full of pride and rebellion, and part of me hopes he’ll hit harder because that will mean my inaction is getting under his skin.

He can make me kneel and avoid eye contact and silence my voice, but he can’t make me cry.

At some point, I detect the agony of Faye’s sobs over the strikes of leather to welted skin. My fingernails gouge my palms through the clutch of the thin skirt, and I turn my head to avoid the sight of Liam’s crumbling composure. That’s when I realize Elise is crying, too.

And in the seat next to her, the man with the green eyes—usually crinkled at the corners with a secret smile—watches with an edge of dark fury that intrigues me. He turns to Elise, distracting her as another horrific blow assaults my backside.

He’s protecting her from witnessing the worst of it, and I cling to the hope it gives me as Mr. Bordeaux metes out the last strikes, using excessive force and leaving me weak and boneless on the table.

After it’s over, I return the stares of the eleven men surrounding the table, one by one, and discover reactions ranging from horror to arousal and everything in between.

Movement sounds behind me. Light footsteps, the slide of leather against fabric, and the unmistakable clank of a belt buckle.

“Loren, return Faye to her quarters,” Mr. Bordeaux says. “And deliver the queen’s dinner to her, seeing as how the queen won’t be able to eat with her mouth gagged.”

Faye lets loose one last sob, and a strangled, “I’m sorry.”

And then she’s gone, and I ache at the thought of not seeing her again for a whole month, of not being able to tell her how sorry I am for the harsh way I spoke to her.

“Need I remind you of your place, my queen?”

I let my skirt fall to my knees, covering my punished ass, then yank my panties up. With a stifled groan of agony, I lower to my haunches. Mr. Bordeaux reclaims his seat, and dinner begins, the aroma of spicy beef shooting hunger pangs through my belly since I haven’t eaten since breakfast.