Page 36 of Descent

My father and Henry share a look. It isn’t in concern for Skyla’s well-being. They don’t give a fuck about her. What they don’t like is that a member’s son, not even a legacy, is making threats to the Brethren’s princess before she’s even been able to bear an heir.

“And what did you do?” my father asks.

I pause for a moment before deciding it’s best to be honest; he’ll know soon enough.

“I beat the living shit out of him in the middle of the courtyard.”

Another hit comes to the other side of my face; this time, it’s a fist. I stumble a few steps before I feel small hands reach for my arm, steadying me. I want to tell her not to touch me, not to paint a target on her back as well, but my father is already laying into me before I can try.

“You do not handle private matters publicly! Do you see me doling your punishment in front of the masses? No! Private matters deserve private settings. When you lose control, you make us look weak!” he spits.

I feel his hand dig into the back of my hair as he forces me to look at him.

“Do you know how embarrassed I was to get a phone call from Brenton? He was bitching and shouting about his little cunt’s hand for over an hour.”

“She hurt Skyla,” I answer.

My father’s eyes turn to her, a lethal look in them.

“It seems all of your misbehavior lately has revolved around this girl. Did I make a mistake in selecting her? Because she seems to be turning you into a mannerless animal.”

“No,” I snap, forcing his eyes back to me. “It’s nothing to do with her. I just can’t stand the thought of people disobeying me, going after my property,” I say, the words heavy on my tongue as I spin the lie easily.

My father laughs, shaking his head before he gestures behind me. He forces me to sit backwards in a chair, my chest plastered to the back of it, before Henry comes around with rope, tying my hands together around the chair.

Oh god.

“You really thought I was going to buy that bullshit?” he says on a dying chuckle.

I whip my head over my shoulder to see a butler hand my father a long black whip. One that I’ve only seen once, one that I will never forget. I earned myself three lashes when I was six, because I accidently interrupted a Brethren meeting while Liam and I were playing hide and go seek.

“How many?” I ask, gritting my teeth together.

“However many it takes to break down your disobedience,” he says before I feel two hands on me, tearing the back of my shirt open.

“No!” Skyla screams before the first lash.

My back bows as much as humanely possible, pain contorting my face. Another lash comes before another, and a sobbed cry chokes out into the room. My head turns to the noise to see Henry grappling with his daughter, his hand over her mouth and arm banded around her waist as he holds her back. Those wide, bright green eyes are watching me in horror, and for a moment, I hold on to the comfort of them before the next lash cuts against new skin.

Chapter Sixteen

Skyla

Each lash against Asher’s skin leaves a new welt, and with one more crack in the same spot, the skin splits open, blood slowly running down his back from each mark. I leaped for him after the first crack of the whip, earning a punch to the stomach from my father before he covered my screams and held me back.

I tried to turn away, but he didn’t allow it, whispering that this is my doing, that I’m responsible. I’m not sure if he actually thinks that or just wants me to suffer with the guilt. Regardless, each lash does feel like my fault, and the fight in Asher’s eyes leaves with each one.

Christopher is in a rage, I don’t think he could stop even if he wanted to. His eyes are black as night, an evil sneer donning his face. Honestly, it looks like he’s enjoying it. Asher’s moans and shouts become quieter as the sheer pain no doubt begins to consume him.

Nasty gashes, welts, and cuts blending together litter his back. I know that he won’t be able to handle much more. In a move that I can only describe as stupid bravery, I stomp on my father’sfoot as hard as I can. His hold on me weakens as he howls in pain, and I’m able to break free before I bolt towards Asher.

Just as Christopher is reeling back his arm for another lash, I practically jump on top of Asher. My legs hook around his as my chest presses against his bloody back. I wrap my arms around his torso, holding on as I feel the first sharp snap of the whip.

An agonizing scream rips out of me as Asher’s defeated body seems to be reinvigorated.

“Skyla! No! Get off! Run!” he shouts as the whip comes down on me again.

Another pained scream echoes through the house, but my hold on Asher tightens, intent on not letting go. Again and again, the white-hot burn from the whip tears at my flesh. Nonstop, Asher is practically sobbing, begging me to get off him, to protect myself. I can’t, though. I can’t stand by and watch him be tortured any longer.

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