Requiem of the Soul (The Society Trilogy 1)

“Beg for forgiveness,” I demand.

She doesn’t respond. I squeeze a handful of her ass and repeat the order, the threat in my tone unmistakable. Again, there is no response from her. And I find that her silence irritates me more than anything else ever has, a revelation that only adds to my frustration with her.

It appears I've been too soft on my wife, and she seems to be under the illusion she actually has a choice to ignore my demands. She’s lost sight of her purpose. The entire reason she's here. But after tonight, she will know it.

When I hoist her up over my shoulder and carry her down the corridor and upstairs to her room, she doesn't protest. She thinks this is the end. That her punishment is over. I can hear it in the way she's calming her breath, staring longingly at the sanctuary of her bed. When I lower her onto the decorative rug instead, her muscles become rigid once again.

I retrieve the things I need from the small dresser I keep in here. When I return with the ropes and kneel beside her, she resumes her favorite activity of trying to defy me. But she is no match, and soon, her body is bound from her wrists to her ankles. By the time I'm finished with her, she's wearing the blind mask and the collar and chain from her marking ceremony. I leave her there to silently pray for salvation while I retrieve my own cloak and mask.

Ten minutes later, we are in the back of the Rolls with Marco behind the steering wheel. It doesn't take long to reach IVI's compound. I remove the bindings from Ivy’s wrists and feet and pull her from the car, a blanket draped around her as I force her forward. Tonight, there are a few men gathered in the courtyard drinking, but they know not to look too long when they see where I'm heading.

Our identities are obscured by the masks, and when I enter the dimly lit corridor that leads to the Cat House, we will appear just like everyone else.

A guard opens the heavy door, standing aside as we enter the den. Ivy slows in hesitation as the sound of the world around her begins to flood her senses. Whips. Chains. Grunts. Feminine moans and soft, dark music fill the space.

"Santiago?" She turns her body into me, clutching at me as if I could still be her salvation. The very man who leads her to her destruction. The man she should be running from.

I can’t fathom her thoughts, but it feels like a trick. Ignoring her pleas, I drag her deeper into the fray, even as she clings to my cloak. We pass by the scenes of sexual depravity at its finest. The masculine grunts of a dominant sharing his sub with another member are the sounds that produce goose bumps on Ivy's skin. When she comes to a complete standstill, my frustration wins out.

Tearing the blanket off her and discarding it, I force her onto her hands and knees, gripping the chain attached to her collar in my hand. The only identifying mark on her naked body is my tattoo, but it is obscured by her hair right now.

I can feel the eyes of others on her, but right now, my need to exert my dominance is winning out above all others.

"Crawl," I bark.

She shakes as she begins to crawl forward, struggling to hold the weight of her mask up. More than once, she has to pause to lower her head, but she never gives up. She never admits defeat. And perhaps that stubborn will is what draws me in so much. My wife wants to believe she’s a fighter. Determined to handle any punishment I throw her way. But she hasn't seen the worst of me. Not yet.

When we reach an empty station, she collapses into my arms as I hoist her up onto the wooden bench, forcing her torso up over the center cushion. I make quick work of the restraints, using them to secure her in place. She's on her hands and knees, legs spread wide, arms splayed out on the wooden slats in front of her. In this position, she's forced to hold up her head, and already she is struggling.

"Hello, Sir," a feminine voice whispers from behind me. "I see you already have a playmate this evening. But would you like another?"

My eyes are on Ivy as she cranes her neck in my direction. Maybe it's my imagination, but her muscles seem more rigid than they did only a moment ago. She’s frozen, listening carefully for my response.

A cruel smile crosses my face. I haven't even turned to examine the courtesan employed by IVI to work in this den. They are here for our pleasure, and she is only doing her job. But Ivy doesn't know that.