I nod. I don’t know why he’s making this declaration or what he’s anticipating they’ll do.
“You’ve told me the truth, Caitlin,” he says. “You know nothing of what you held.”
“No, sir,” I say, remembering my instructions from earlier.
He nods. “And when you say you’ve never left the lighthouse, you mean that?”
I nod.
“Then how is it you know anything at all? Explain.”
“I’ve read a book a day for as long as I can remember. All sorts, all types. All I know has been gleaned from the pages of a book. Thousands upon thousands of books.”
“Right, then.” He looks at me again. “Fair enough. I must confess, your new clothing pleases me very much.”
“I’m glad you like it. I like your mother.”
“My mother’s the absolute best,” he agrees.
“She seemed to really be crazy about your father,” I murmur. “When he came in the room, she—” His sharp tone interrupts me, and I stop speaking mid-sentence.
“Excuse me?” he asks in a deadly voice.
I can’t reply. My mouth won’t seem to work properly.
“I asked you a question,” he says. “And I want an answer.”
“He--he came in before your mother did,” I stutter, speaking in in a small voice. “He had some questions for me.”
“Like what?” his voice is hard and demanding, and I try to take a step back from him but can’t.
“He... he asked me to show that you punished me. He wanted to see marks.”
Keenan curses so hard and angrily I close my eyes with the onslaught. “Son of a fucking bitch,” he says. “Testing both me and you.” Then he stills, bends to me, and holds my chin in his hand again. His fingers are rough, but his tone is gentle. “Did you show him?”
I shake my head. “I told him I didn’t think you’d approve,” I say. I don’t know what he’ll say to this, how he’ll react, but what he does shocks me. He grins.
His face breaks into the most brilliant smile, and once more I’m reminded of an angel. My goodness.
“You passed the test, then, lass,” he says. “Now let’s see if you’ll pass mine.”
A test? I don’t like that anyone’s testing me.
He releases me, steps back toward his bed, and leans against it, folding his arms across his chest. “Go to my desk,” he says, making a little twirly motion with his finger to indicate I’m to spin around. “Lift your dress and show me.”
It feels as if something warm glides through me, even as my nerves are fraught.
“What?” I whisper.
He leans slightly forward, his voice dropping to a lower octave.
“Go to my desk,” he repeats. “Lift your dress. And show me the marks I left from your belting.”
Oh.
It was his belt, then. He struck me with his belt. And he wants to see the marks he’s left.
I shiver. I passed the first test. Will I pass this one?
Why does he want to see? Is he proud of hurting me? Is a twisted, perverted part of him attracted to the marks he left? Or does he just wish to set me off kilter?
There are words for men like him, men that take pleasure in inflicting pain, but they escape me. I feel strangely lightheaded. A bit trembly. I do know I pleased him with how I answered his father, and it’s crucial that I obey Keenan now.
So I do. I walk to the desk, and turn to face it, conscious of his eyes following my every move. I take the silky hem of my dress and raise it, lifting it so all he can see are my bare legs and the white lace of my undergarments. I feel as if time is suspended while I wait for his response.
“Motherfucker,” he mutters. I hear him stepping toward me. I’m still holding my dress, my belly pressed against the cool, firm hardness of it, when I feel his warmth and presence behind me. I turn slightly to watch, then my body goes still when he drops to his knees.
His knees. This powerful, fearsome man kneels on the floor behind me, like a servant.
His large, warm hand caresses the white lace across my backside. I hold my breath when he grasps the elastic band and drags the lace downward, baring me. I begin to tremble. This isn’t right, and yet a part of me would be woefully disappointed if he stopped now. My mouth is dry. I don’t blink. Watching him. Waiting. His beautiful green eyes rove over my naked skin, and little goosebumps rise as if his very look caresses me.
“You bear my marks well,” he says in a throaty, husky whisper. The lacy panties glide down my bare legs to my ankles. My shaking intensifies. He could hurt me right now. He could violate me. Yet I don’t want him to stop.
He anchors his hands on my hips, his rough, calloused palms grazing the tender, soft skin. I freeze.