King's Ransom (Ruthless Doms 3)

“Do you need any other tools, sir?” Rafael asks. His narrowed eyes are focused on her though he’s speaking to me. He would do anything I asked of him, including extracting the truth from her himself if I wanted.

But no. I’ll deal with her personally.

“Fetch me a cane.”

“Of course,” he says with a frown, giving her a stern look. He likely thinks a spanking is taking things far too easy on her, but I don’t give a fuck what he thinks. I have questions that need answers, and I won’t mindlessly take another human life. Not tonight. Not yet. And if my suspicions are right, a woman like Taara will cave when punished.

Rafael returns with a thin, supple rod in one hand, and a pair of shining silver handcuffs in the other.

“Thank you,” I tell him, as casually as if he just fetched me a cup of coffee. I slide the cane into my back pocket and open the metal rings with my free hand.

I almost lose my resolve when her tear-stained eyes meet mine. “Stefan, please,” she begs in a small voice that breaks.

I’ve heard pleas before. I’ve been betrayed by those I thought I could trust. And if she’s innocent, a punishment meant to extract the truth won’t have a lasting effect. She may never forgive me, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.

I don’t respond but lift her arms up to a post that’s so high over her head I pull her to her tiptoes. We have rings fitted for just this purpose, though our prisoners usually face a worse fate than she does.

I can still see every single captive we’ve ever held here. I can still hear every scream, every plea. It’s unnerving the way a man’s deep voice becomes shrill and feminine under duress, or hoarse with begging. We reserve the more severe methods of extracting truth from our most hardened adversaries. Old-fashioned means of inflicting pain works most effectively for those on the cusp of caving. Taara won’t need severe methods.

In this room, I’ve been both witness and executioner. I’ve meted out pain and ordered others to do so, though it’s never been someone so young, so fragile, so fucking beautiful. But I haven’t made it to my level of power by quaking in the face of duty.

I snap the rings on her wrists and take one stolen moment to admire the beautiful sight before me. Her vivacious, curvy form still clad in thin cotton shorts dotted with daisies, so ironically innocent, and a tiny ivory tank top against stunning dark skin the color of cream-laced coffee. She has a birthmark on her upper left thigh peeking out just below the hem of her shorts. I never noticed how long and slender her fingers were until I saw them gripped on the bar to support herself. In another life, she could have been a pianist or a sculptor with hands like that.

Standing behind her, I tap the cane on the palm of my hand. Even the lightest touch on my toughened skin ignites a flare of pain. I imagine painting her body with stripes from the cane in foreplay, bringing her to the edge of orgasm until she begged daddy to let her come.

Whoa.

Christ.

Where the ever-loving fuck did that thought come from?

I can’t entertain that thought tonight. Hell, not ever. She’s young enough to be my fucking daughter, and worse, I’m about to punish her for betrayal.

I snap the cane on my palm again to school my own thoughts and temptations. To remind myself of my purpose.

The slim tool concentrates all impact on such a small surface area, it hurts like hell, making it very effective for certain methods of interrogation and punishment. In kink circles, it’s considered one of the most severe tools for impact play. The cane has a deep history as a successful tool for punishment across Europe and Asia.

We have other, far harsher methods of punishment and interrogation at our disposal, and I’m experienced in yielding every one of them.

I take my position behind her. Rafael stands with his arms crossed on his chest, watching, and Nicolai, now finished with his job, stands beside him with the same stern, immovable expression on his face. I hold his gaze for a moment, then he nods. As pakhan, I don’t need permission from either of them, but I don’t want to punish Taara. Still, knowing they stand behind me in solidarity makes it easier to follow through.

I turn back to Taara, rear back, and snap the slender rod against her ass. Though it has little impact, I know the pain level is intense. She flinches, howls, and squirms in the restraints, but she can’t get away.

I pause. “Tell us why you were here.”

“I told you!” she says, a note of anger in her voice now. “I came out here to take pictures.”