Vow of Obedience ( Cavalieri Della 2)

She gasps awake and her crying stops. But only for a moment, then she’s back at it, the sound muffled in bedclothes. I count to ten and then get to my feet, staring down at her with my hands on my hips. I gave her one of my T-shirts to sleep in and she’s swimming in it. She’s got her face buried in the pillows and her shoulders are heaving.

“Branwen—”

She sits up and crawls to the edge of the bed, slipping off the mattress so her knees are on the floor. She rests her weight on her elbows and presses her bound hands together, gulping down her sobs.

She’s trying to pray. She was praying all those months ago when I found her and she’s still doing it now. If praying was going to fix anything, it would have happened by now. I go over to her, hook an arm around her waist, and haul her up off her knees. I don’t like seeing girls on their knees unless I put them there myself, and I don’t like them crying unless I’m the one to make them do it.

“Stop fucking doing that.” I sit down on the bed and settle her in my lap. She’s soft and warm and though she struggles weakly, I don’t let go.

“Baby. You’re going nowhere.”

She slumps tearfully against me, her breath shuddering. What the fuck did she do? She’s, what, eighteen, nineteen? What could she possibly have done to warrant so many tears?

It’s a three-day drive to Napa and we’re not going to make it if I don’t get some goddamn rest. I’ve not slept properly since Arthur told me Trefor was dead and I’m running on fumes.

“You’re trying to find forgiveness but that praying shit doesn’t seem to be helping, does it?”

Branwen frowns at my blasphemy. Please. As if I’m afraid of damnation. I cup her chin in my fingers. “What is it you people say? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned? Why don’t you try, ‘Sorry, daddy, I’ve been bad.’”

Her eyes go round with shock.

“You heard me. I can give you punishment, baby. I can make you very, very sorry.”

Branwen, predictably, doesn’t say anything, but she’s gazing at me with mingled curiosity and alarm.

Slowly, I close my hand around her throat and squeeze. Her pulse pounds beneath my fingers, wild and panicked. I press on the arteries, making the blood rush to her brain. Making it just that little bit harder to breathe.

“You fucked up, Branwen,” I snarl, my face close to hers. “You fucked up real bad. Everyone’s so disappointed in you.”

Her eyes fill with pain and tears. I’m breathing life into her worst fears, the cruelest goddamn thing I could do. I know how terrifying I must seem to her, with my hard, angry face and my hand wrapped around her throat. I’m a mean motherfucker at the best of times and I’ve just amped it up to a fifteen. She grasps my wrist with her bound hands, trying to pull it away, but I don’t relent. Not for a second.

“Everyone is talking about the things you’ve done and they fucking hate you for it. Are you even sorry for it? The people you’ve hurt?”

She nods emphatically, tears tracking down her face. Her eyes are so earnest and pleading, as if she’s trying to convince herself of this as much as me.

I narrow my eyes and lean in even closer. “You’re a goddamn liar, Branwen.”

Without another word, I flip her over so she’s face down in my lap. I know how to make her very, very sorry. I palm her ass with my hand. She’s wearing only white cotton briefs beneath my T-shirt. They’re so fucking cute. I started getting hard as soon as my hand closed around her throat but seeing her soft, plump behind gleaming in the moonlight makes my cock like iron in my jeans.

Guess I’ll be sleeping later.

Her skin looks so pale against my rough, tanned hands and I stroke her lovingly. Fuck, she’s soft. I want to continue petting her, maybe roll her briefs up tight into her ass and plant kisses on her powdery skin. The thought of hurting her seems a damned shame.

For about a second.

“You’re just so pretty, and I have to make you hurt. I don’t want to, but I’m gonna have to. For your own good.” Branwen’s problem is, she’s been saying over and over that she’s sorry, but before you can be forgiven, you have to

be punished.

Branwen makes a little whimpering noise and tenses in my lap. I raise my hand and give her a smack, then press my palm over the spot, instantly soothing it. She gasps and wriggles in my arms like I’ve branded her with a red-hot poker.

Grinning, I hold her firmly until she settles. What a little baby. I hardly touched her.

A minute later, I spank her again, harder this time and just enough to raise a red mark on her skin, then stroke the spot. Oh, but that does look pretty. It’s still barely anything but Branwen is fighting to get away. You’d think I was beating her with a cane on wet skin the way she’s acting. I grab her and pin her in place and I can feel her chest heaving against my thigh.

“I’m being so gentle with you and you’re still flinching like a baby. Hold the fuck still.” When she doesn’t respond, I give her a little shake. “Is that a, ‘Yes, daddy’? Do I have to say that for you too? You fucked up, baby, so now you have to be punished. That’s how it works.”

She doesn’t answer. I grab a fistful of her hair, gripping tightly and she makes a little mewling noise. “I asked you a question. If you take your punishment like a good girl, daddy will forgive you, no matter what you’ve done. Do you want that?”