Page 25 of When Hearts Awaken

The lustful noises are louder now, but they don’t sound pleasurable to me. They sound like torture.

My mind blanks as my strides quicken. I want to escape, to be anywhere but here.

But aren’t you trying to get over your fear? Don’t you want to control your body? To have sex like a normal human being?

Don’t you want to dance Odette? How can you dance her when you’re so angry all the time?

The questions are bullets to my mind, hitting me from all directions. I break into a jog, my sneakers squeaking against the floor as I hurry past private booths and alcoves decorated with glass and velvet curtains, past more couples in the throes of sexual release, the sound of skin slapping against skin making me want to retch.

Finally, I find my way to a quieter space. It’s darker here, almost like the abandoned dance studio I call my second home, and my tense muscles slowly relax. I can almost imagine myself back on the rooftop of ABTC, dancing under the pale moonlight.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the cold AC sweeps across my sweaty skin, and I shudder from the sudden onslaught. This was a bad idea. Maybe I should just resign myself to a loveless and sexless life and be a kickass cat lady. That’s safer. Much safer.

Huffing a disappointed chuckle, I walk toward the entrance when I hear it.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“You want to be punished like this, huh?” a barely audible voice whispers.

“Yes.” A soft moan.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

“More.” The woman’s voice grows desperate.

“See? This is how you punish her for disobeying you. None of the gentle slaps. Let her have it,” the man murmurs, and I hear another man respond with a grunt.

“You need to see it again?” the first man asks.

I assume the answer is in the affirmative because I hear a collision of slapping noises again, each one louder than the other.

The woman screams, her cries loud and piercing. My heart slams into my throat.

My instinct is to run away, but something about the first man’s voice draws me—commanding, dominant, and yet…the way he asks the woman for her permission, I couldn’t get that out of my mind. My breathing is thready, my pulse louder than the beats of the sultry music, and I slowly peek past the half-opened curtains of a private room.

A woman is held down on the couch by a dark-haired man. Sweat pours down her face as her breasts thrust against the air. Her skin is red, and tears are streaking down her cheeks.

Horror streaks through me.

I’ve made a mistake.

She’s crying out in pain.

A light-haired man stands next to her, a whip in his hands.

My feet stay rooted in place and memories of that horrible night assault me again. I break out in a sweat, my breathing coming out in quick pants.

“More?” the blond man asks.

The woman cries out something, but the pulse in my ears drowns out her response.No.I shake my head.No, I can’t let this happen. Not to her. No.

“I’ll show you one more time, Colt.” The blond sets the whip down on the table, takes off his gray suit jacket, and flings it to the side. Then, I watch in horror him taking out his cufflinks and slowly rolling up his sleeves, showing his muscular forearms.

He grabs the whip again.

“No! Stop it!” I scream.

They turn toward me, and I find myself at a loss for words because the blond man staring back at me, his sky-blue eyes burning like the hottest fire, is none other than Ian Vaughn’s nephew.

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