Page 87 of Her Viking Master

CHAPTER44

Mary

I looked back at the mosaics, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, of what it all meant. The images told a story, I realized—a narrative of domination and submission, of power wielded and surrendered, all in service to some greater purpose. The men in the red robes seemed to represent the Pretorian Guard itself, the inheritors of Mithras’ legacy. The bound women… I shuddered, understanding all too clearly what—who—they represented.

My eyes found Camille’s again, saw in them the same dawning comprehension, the same mixture of dread and unwilling fascination. Whatever was about to happen to us, it was connected to the rituals and beliefs depicted in these ancient mosaics. We were to be initiated into something as old and terrible as the Sons of Odin—perhaps even older and more terrible—something that had existed in the shadows of civilization for thousands of years.

The silence in the Hall of Fire seemed to deepen, to take on a weight and presence of its own. Even the crackling of the flames in the abyss seemed muted, as if the very air held its breath in anticipation. I became acutely aware of my heartbeat, of the rise and fall of my chest, of the cool stone beneath my knees.

Suddenly, the double doors at the far end of the Hall slammed open with such force that the sound echoed like thunder throughout the chamber. I jumped, a small cry escaping my lips before I could stifle it. Cassandra shot me a warning look, her hand tightening on the leash attached to my collar.

Five men in red robes entered, their heavy footfalls echoing against the ancient stone. The ceremonial garments hung open at the front, revealing their naked torsos and—my breath caught—their heavy, semi-erect penises as they advanced toward us with measured strides. My pulse thundered in my ears as I recognized the man leading the procession:LeoMarmareus, his skin gleaming in the firelight, his dark eyes reflecting the dancing flames.

Behind him walked two men I had never seen before—enormous, muscular figures with the hard, impassive faces of professional warriors. Their broad shoulders strained against the red fabric of their robes, and their manhoods hung thick and imposing between their thighs.

But it was the sight of the final two figures that made my heart nearly stop in my chest.

Sven. MyHerra. My true master.

And beside him, Erik.

Both wore the same red robes as the others. Did that mark them as members of the Pretorian Guard? Surely not. I knew better. I knew who they truly were, what they truly represented. Sons of Odin, warriors of the North, infiltrating the heart of their enemy’s sanctuary.

I couldn’t help myself. Neither Cassandra’s warning nor my fear of punishment could stop the cry that escaped my lips.

“Sven!” His name tore from my throat, half sob, half prayer.

The procession halted in front of us. Five pairs of eyes turned toward me, but I saw only one. Sven’s gaze locked with mine, his ice-blue eyes unreadable, his expression a careful mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts. For a terrible moment, I feared he wouldn’t acknowledge me, that he would pretend not to know me to maintain his cover.

“Were you told to be silent, Mary?” he asked, his voice stern and controlled, carrying the familiar tone of command that made my body respond instantly, submissively. There was no warmth in it, no indication that I was anything more than a disobedient initiate to be corrected.

Misery washed over me. I nodded, my eyes lowered in genuine shame. I had failed him, had broken a rule he clearly expected me to follow, even here, even now—even though the rule had been imposed by the organization he had told me represented his arch enemy.

“I expect you to obey that order as if it had come from me,” Sven continued, his voice implacable. “Do you understand?”

Another nod, smaller this time, my throat too tight for speech even if it had been permitted. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I would not show such weakness, not in front of the Pretorian Guard, not in front of these men who had captured and used me.

“Does anyone have a whip?” Sven asked, his gaze sweeping the faces of the other men. The question sent a jolt of fear through me, followed immediately by a shameful pulse of arousal. My body remembered the punishment my master had delivered before—careful, precise, controlled. For my benefit, as well as his enjoyment.

One of the massive men stepped forward, producing amastixfrom the folds of his robe. He handed it to Sven with a slight bow, a gesture of deference that seemed at odds with his imposing physique. My stomach clenched at the sight of the implement, the memory of its bite against my skin still painfully fresh.

“Thank you,NymphobusLucius,” Marmareus said, his voice solemn.

Sven took themastix, testing its weight in his hand, his fingers curling around the polished wooden handle with ease, as if the Pretorian Guard’s disciplinary implement was as natural as the Sons of Odin’s punishment straps. He stepped toward me, his movements fluid and deliberate, the red robe accentuating the power of his muscular body.

“Kneel up,” he commanded, his voice resonating through me like thunder. “Raise your hands.”

I rose on trembling knees into the more erect posture, my leather restraints making me feel even more vulnerable before all these men. The contrast between their robed forms and my own bound flesh heightened my sense of exposure, of helplessness. With shaking arms, I lifted my hands above my head, assuming the position Sven had trained me to take for punishment.

His enormous hand closed around my wrists, engulfing them completely. The familiar sensation of his skin against mine sent a shock through my system—a jolt of recognition, of homecoming, despite the circumstances. He bent over me, his face close to mine, his breath warm against my ear.

“Six strokes,” he announced, his voice stern.

Then I gasped, softly, because I had heard also, somehow, something else: as if the sight of his gorgeous face had activated thevölvain me—the seeress he had begun to train.

Feel me in each lash, Mary. Feel our connection.

I nodded minutely, understanding blooming within me like a dark flower. This punishment wasn’t merely for show, wasn’t just to maintain his cover among these men. It was a reclamation, a restoration of the bond between us that had been strained by my captivity, my use at the hands ofLeoMarmareus. Each stroke would rewrite the marks left by another man, would replace them with Sven’s own signature upon my flesh.

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