I glance across the table at Jonah. He's the closest thing to a confidant I have here and I can’t say any of this. He’d just call me dramatic. He’s always thought I made too much of things. I think he doesn't make enough of them, hence the reason we both just ended up locked away for a week. We’re fucking drug smugglers thanks to him — and he’s yet to make anything approximating an apology, which drives me absolutely insane.
I don’t know how many times I shoot him a look across the table, but he’s not paying attention. He’s on his phone. Hasn’t come off the fucking thing since we got out of jail, I bet.
“No electronics at the table,” Father Bryn says.
Jonah gets up from the table and walks away, eyes still locked on the screen. I expect the priest to do something, but he just watches Jonah leave. What the actual fuck.
I look at Bryn askance. He looks back at me. I’m wondering if he’s just going to let Jonah get away with that. His harsh response surprises me.
“Do you want to be spanked and sent up to bed?”
“No!”
“Then eat your dinner and stop making those facial contortions.”
“But Jonah…”
“Don't worry about him. He will get what he deserves.”
There’s something in his voice that makes me certain that's true, and a little sorry for Jonah, but I’m mad at Jonah. He’s my brother. He should have my back. Instead, he doesn’t give a fuck what happens to him, let alone me.
Dinner is alright. It’s a roast, which means its palatable. I can’t say that for all British cuisine. I realize that by making a fuss about him spanking me, I’ve given Bryn leverage. It’s going to be all spanking all the time now, every time he wants something from me.
I pick my way through the meal in silence. I can feel a slight burning when I shift position, but my butt doesn’t hurt too badly. My pride, on the other hand. That aches. At least in jail, which was absolutely miserable, everybody was going through the same thing. I didn't feel specifically singled out. There were dozens of women just like me, all facing the same indignities. I thought that at the very least, my week in jail would have toughened me up, hardened me. But I don’t feel tough at all. I feel weaker than ever.
That weakness inevitably makes me angry. Because I’m not weak. I’m not quiet. And I don’t want to leave Bryn with the idea that he can just say the word spanking and get me to shut up.
“It’s not fair,” I say, leaving my spoon in the custard. “Jonah isn’t showing any respect at all. And I've been both punished and threatened with more punishment for nothing at all.”
“Your brother is a lost cause. You’re worth the discipline. He is going to end up in a world of hurt.”
Now I’m offended for a whole other reason.
“That’s not true. Jonah’s not a bad guy.”
“He could have absolved you of responsibility for the drugs. He didn’t. He let you sit in a cell for a week without even enquiring after your health. Don’t think that I have not taken the time to educate myself on your situation. You deserve better than you have gotten, Nina. And I intend to ensure you get better.”
If anybody else said that, it would sound sweet and reassuring. Out of his mouth, it just sounds like a threat.
Chapter Four
Nina
I've stayed out of trouble, and that means it has been a long and boring day.
I woke up early to light streaming in through the stained-glass windows of my little turret. I have never had a room I adored as much as I do that little nook that feels as though the building itself is wrapping around me. It was easy to spend the day there, hiding away, having Crichton bring me snacks. I half convinced myself that I could just stay there with occasional trips to the bathroom for the next six months.
But the light from the sun faded away all too early and the curtains had to be drawn because stained glass is many things, but it is not highly insulated. My stomach began to complain for something more substantial and now Crichton has just come to tell me that the master wants us both down for dinner.
I go downstairs with a sense of foreboding. I have not forgotten what Bryn did to me yesterday. The sensation of his hand meeting my rear with harsh slaps has played itself over and over today, flooding me with feelings I don’t want to have. It would be easy to hate him. I think I do hate him. But it’s not as simple as that, either. As much as I loathe him, I feel… connected to him. Like I belong with him or maybe even to him. That’s crazy. What I do know for sure is that I don’t want to eat in his presence again. I want to hide away from the dark-eyed older man who carries so much intensity in his aura.