Page 102 of Traitor

Then she swings again. Full force.

The wood and metal spikes bite deep, tiny punctures opening across my already burning skin. I let the breath out slow, nostrils flaring. That one was so fucking personal I felt it straight in my balls.

And I deserve every goddamn second of this.

Left. Right. Left. Right. Every strike lands harder than the last, the rhythm of pain steady, relentless. The spikes don't just sting — they dig, tiny knives biting in, tearing open raw, fresh wounds.

Five down. Fifteen to go.

A grunt breaks the silence — not mine. Mindfuck, maybe. Fang. Doesn't matter. We all bleed the same today.

I roll my shoulders, letting my cut settle heavy against my back, the only piece of clothing I've got on. Not that it does shit for the fire spreading across my ass.

Six. Seven. Eight.

No hesitation. No mercy.

By the tenth hit, my legs are tight as iron, locked in place to keep from shifting.

By eleven, my breathing is slower, measured.

By twelve, I can feel thin rivulets of blood sliding down the back of my thighs, nothing major, just enough to sting like hell.

Thirteen.

The deep ache sets in, pain building on pain, layering hot and sharp over muscle and bone.

Fourteen.

Every strike lands with the same brutal precision. She fucking practiced for this. There's no other way.

Fifteen.

My vision blurs at the edges, just a little. I breathe through it.

She doesn't slow. Doesn't hesitate.

Sixteen.

The spike-covered wood lands high, right where the curve of my ass meets my lower back, and I have to grit my fucking teeth to keep the growl down.

Seventeen.

Eighteen.

The burning is everywhere now, radiating up my spine, into my ribs, down my legs. Into my balls.

Nineteen.

She throws her weight into that one. I feel it deep, the sting riding high, forcing a sharp exhale through my nose.

Then comes the last one.

Twenty.

The second the final hit lands, everything goes dead fucking silent.

And then I fall. On my knees, for my queen.

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