Page 65 of Sinful

“I don’t think so, my sweet little Rosebud.” He nodded toward the chalkboard. “That’s enough conversation. Time for your lines.”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot write what you commanded me to write,Master.” Venom practically dripped from my tongue as I addressed him in the way he’d demanded of me. He wasn’t my master, and I would never accept him as such, but I wasn’t sure I could take any more zaps from the shock collar.

“I thought we understood each other,” he replied, eyes flickering with a mix of anger and disappointment. “You don’t get a choice. You do as I say, no matter what.”

“But Master, I—”

He clicked his tongue and shook a finger, cutting me off. “You need to realize something, Rose. Things have changed for you. Permanently. You must accept this. If you don’t, and you continue to fight me and displease me, I can punish that behavior in any number of ways. Not just the shock collar.”

“How?” I asked in a hollow voice. I instantly realized I’d forgotten to call him ‘Master’ again, but he didn’t say anything about it. Undoubtedly, I’d be punished for it later.

“I’ll leave that to your imagination.”

Tears suddenly sprang to my eyes. Earlier, the sheer shock of the situation had staved them off, but now I was suddenly overcome by the urge to sob and wrap myself in the blanket, curling into a ball on the floor.

“Pick up the chalk and write the lines, Rose.” Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “The Entity isn’t real. I do not belong to it. I belong to Sebastian Thorne.”

My bottom lip wobbled as I replied. “Please, Master…”

“You’ll be rewarded if you do it. This isn’t all about punishment. I’m not a complete monster.”

“Rewarded how?”

“You’ll see.” He smirked and lifted the shock collar controller again. “Come on. We don’t have all night.”

I took a deep breath, swallowed my tears, and picked up the chalk, turning back to the board. The Entity would understand ifI did this. He would see that I was put in an impossible situation and forced into it.

“How many times must I write it, Master?” I asked flatly.

“Fill up the board. It’s quite large and your handwriting is probably very small, judging by the size of your hands, so that’s…” He paused to contemplate it. “A hundred times, I’d say.”

I turned to look at him, mouth dropping open. “A hundred?” I said sharply. “M-master,” I added in a meek murmur.

“Yes. Begin.”

My hand shook as I etched the first sentence on the board. This would take two hours, at least. Maybe more. By the time I was finished, my hand would be in agony.

“I’ll be back later,” Sebastian said, striding out of the cell. “I expect you to be done by the time I return.”

I took a deep breath and completed the second sentence. After the first hour of writing the same lines over and over, my hand was so cramped that I could barely move it. I forced myself onward, intent on finishing before the words seared themselves into my mind. I knew that was what Sebastian wanted—for me to write such a disgusting lie so many times that I actually started to believe it. It wasn’t going to work, though. I wouldn’t allow myself to believe such wicked lies.Ever.

By the time the board was filled, my hand was on fire. It would probably ache for days. I tossed the chalk down, trudged back over to the blanket, and picked it up, covering my nakedness again. Then I sat on the narrow bed, eyeing the black bag Sebastian had left behind earlier. Part of me wanted to peek inside to see what other so-called educational devices he had stored in it. A bigger part of me was too afraid to look.

He finally returned a few minutes later, holding a tray of food. “As promised, a reward for good behavior,” he said, balancing the tray on one hand as he unlocked the door with theother. “Italian food for you to try. You’ve never had it before, have you?”

I stared at the tray, stomach growling as I inhaled the delicious-smelling food. “No,” I murmured. “It looks good.”

“Do you have something to say to me?”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Good girl.” His eyes skated over the board, and he smiled thinly. “You did a great job. You must be sore.”

“Yes. My hand is burning.”

“You can eat with your left hand.” He waved a hand toward the food, face still turned to the board. His eyes narrowed, and he stepped forward. “Wait… what’s this?”

“What’s what, Master?” I asked, heart suddenly pounding all over again. I’d done as he instructed. Written the horrible, blasphemous sentences over a hundred times, until there wasn’t a sliver of space left on the board.

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