The Bratva's Bride (Wicked Doms 2)

My stomach rolls with nausea, and he continues to hold me so tightly, pain flares on my scalp. I can’t even think about what awaits me. My only focus now is the death grip on my hair, individual prickles of pain that blossom into one single throbbing ache. I try to get away, dipping my knees and arching my back, but his grip is immovable.

He doesn’t even release me when he opens the door to his room, dragging me with my hair wrapped around his fist. I scream when he yanks my head and spins me out in front of him, pushing me to my knees.

Tears blur my vision from the pain, and this is only a taste of what’s to come.

He warned me. God, why did I do this? Why so soon, when I could have bided my time?

“Who were you calling?” he asks, arms crossed on his chest as he glares at me.

Shit, I’m not prepared for this. He can never know my sister lives.

When I don’t respond at first, I brace myself for the blow, but none comes. Grasping my chin between his fingers, he lifts my eyes to his.

“I asked you a question, kisa,” he growls. “You’re facing punishment for your disobedience. Your decision to answer me or not will make the difference between sleeping belly down in bed with an aching, punished ass or curled up in a cage for your defiance.”

He lets the weight of his words settle on me for one brief moment. I think I maybe underestimated how badly he can hurt me. What part of this ever made me curious?

“This is your last chance to answer me.”

“I went to call my friend,” I tell him, which is not a lie. Not really.

“They allow you to call people in mental hospitals?” he asks, eyes focused on me.

“Only during this time of day,” I lie, looking away from him. If I lie to him, he’ll know. There’s no doubt in my mind, he’ll decipher the truth.

“Strip,” he instructs, his feet planted apart while he glares down at me. With trembling hands, I clumsily remove my dress, but I’m too slow, and he grabs my zipper, yanking it down so harshly I hear the tear of fabric. When I’m divested of my clothing, he lifts me as if I weigh nothing it all, but there is no tenderness in this touch. It’s merely impatience to punish my body.

He’s bringing me to the bed. I was a fool for thinking I could get away from this. Why did I think I’d be able to manage a phone call without his notice? When we reach the bed, he arranges me like I’m a rag doll. First, my arms. He drags them above my head and snaps them into cuffs, the pull aching along my chest and back from being stretched like this. I’m on my knees, bared to him, unable to do anything to get away, when he walks away. I know he’s going to the closet.

I hear him rummaging through his tools, and I tremble with nausea and anticipation. I close my eyes. The brief caning he gave me was only a taste of what he would do to me.

How far will he go to punish me?

Now that I’m on the verge of paying for the sins of disobedience, I wish to make it stop.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I tell him. “I only wanted to call my friend. I didn’t even make the call. I had no dial tone, so I couldn’t even do anything.”

No response.

“I have hardly any friends,” I say, my voice trembling because this is true. Hardly anyone I care about in this world but Calina. “I promise you, I was doing nothing to escape. Nothing at all.”

Still, no response, but I hear him coming up behind me. My arms are so secure above me, I can’t turn around to face him, so I have no idea what he’s gotten from the closet.

“Please, sir,” I plead. “Please, give me another chance.”

“Oh, you will have another chance to obey me, Calina,” he says. “But there is no escaping punishment for this chance that you failed.”

Then he’s right beside me, his mouth to my ear, and I jump when something trails along my back and shoulders. My stomach sinks when I smell the distinct scent of leather.

His heat is gone, and he’s standing beside me. I freeze, not breathing, not moving, I know what’s coming before it does.

I hear a whistling sound through the air, then I register the sound of a loud smack before I feel pain light up my ass. I scream in agony, writhing in my restraints, before another harsh blow lands. Over and over, he whips me with something vicious and unyielding. Merciless, barely a break between scorching blows. I howl in pain, pulling my wrists so hard in the shackles above my head my wrists ache, but nothing compares to the agony of this punishment. I’m sobbing, tears streaming down my face unchecked, writhing beneath his lash.