Page 51 of Submit
I down the glass in two big gulps and leave my stool, disappearing before Max can come back to me and see that I got the note.
I’m fuming as I go down the hallway and turn left down the next one, headed to the private rooms, the ones with no windows for viewing. He could be doing anything to her in there and no one would know. Fuck all if I’m going to allow that. Not after what I just saw him do to her sister.
I already thought I’d lost her once today there’s no fucking way he’s getting the chance to actually take her from me. Rules of the club be damned; he’s overstayed his welcome on this earth.
As I stalk the hallway, I’m getting angrier and angrier, with my monster chomping at the bit to come back out and play, and in a play room like the one they’re in, there’s plenty of tools that can be used to torture him before he dies.
“Easy, you’ll have your fun.” I whisper to myself as I stop in front of the playroom door.
I don’t hear anything at first, then when I place my ear to the door, I hear the unmistakable sound of the bullwhip slicing through the air, followed by the shrieking scream of my bunny in pain.
“Fuck!”
The door shakes as I slam my shoulder into it once, then again, and again until it breaks at the hinges and falls inward. I’m shaking in my rage when I get in the room, but what I see has me beyond murderous, and in self-preservation, the man in me dips out and lets the monster take over.
Chapter
Twenty-Six
“Get the fuck off her!” I bellow out, my voice booming through the large playroom, echoing back at me like we’re in a cavern.
Millie, my Millie, is tied spread eagle and face up to the king size bed in the middle of the room. She’s naked, except for that fucking ugly ass collar with the single ring on it. Her belly, chest, and tits are covered in red, linear welts that seep slowly. She’s been whipped more times than I can count by the man standing above her ready to strike again.
Her eyes are covered with a black blindfold, and his face is hidden too, but I know it’s him. Behind the white ski mask is the man, the killer who took her sister, and will take her too if I don’t stop him.
“If you touch her again, so help me God.” I say, storming over to him, grabbing his stupid fucking mask, pulling his face to mine so that his dark eyes have to look into my blue ones that have turned to ice with my rage.
“She’s mine to do with as I want. Not yours.” He hisses, bringing his whip hand up over us like he’s about to strike me with it.
I don’t care if he brings that weapon down on me. I’ve been whipped more times than I can count, by men and women much stronger than him.
“No, that’s where you’re wrong. She’s not yours. She never was. With you, she’s a prisoner, a tethered animal. With me, she’s a fucking queen.”
There’s already a commotion out in the hall, security will be here any moment. I’ve broken club rules just by knocking down the door and interfering, so I need to make it quick.
I need to get him out of here, to do to him what I’m seething inside to do, to make him bleed, to suffer, to die at my hands. If killing Angela wasn’t enough, which it is, finding him cutting my bunny with a bullwhip is. If I take him from the room, I can’t torture him, and I decide that the punishment of the club’s owner will be more than worth it. I don’t need a place to play with her, I can do what I want with her anywhere and anytime.
“A queen? She’s a fucking filthy toy to be played with.” He laughs and brings the whip down.
Reaching out, I grab his wrist, stopping the downward motion of it. I squeeze the bones together, making them crunch loudly, and swing my head forward at the same time, cracking my forehead on his nose.
It hurts like hell on my already concussed head, but I couldn’t care less. To see him grabbing his face again, bleeding again because of me, is so very enjoyable.
He stumbles back, his now bloody mask pulling from my grip, and as he takes another step away, I raise my foot and kick him square in the chest, throwing him onto his ass with a solid thump on the hardwood floor and a loud “oomph” from him as he lands hard.
I don’t give him the time to collect himself before I stalk over to him and stomp on his crotch with my booted foot, grinding the sole on the front of his pants. He screams a shattering sound and throws his upper half forward, his hands not knowing where to grab, his face or his dick.
Laughing at his pain, I walk to the side of the room behind him and look at the rack of whips and tools that dangle from steel hooks. There’s a big assortment, from short crops to long leather whips, and with a devious smile, I grab the thickest of the flogger whips, the one with metal balls on the tips of the tails.
He startles and panics when I lash out at him, smacking the center of his bare back with the whip. The silver ended strands cutting his flesh from the force of my swing. He arches back, his hands flying behind him, but unable to reach the wound.
“You like making women bleed with whips? Then you’re going to bleed with them.” I say, bringing it down again, then again, splitting open his skin with large, angry, bleeding punctures.
He throws himself forward, getting up to his knees, then climbing shakily to his feet. When he turns to face me, the white mask is saturated red with his blood, and he rips it off his face, showing me the splits in the skin. It makes him look vile and evil, like the monster he really is.
He doesn’t scare me though. I’m not a soft woman, or anyone with anything to lose that he could take from me. I’m better than him in every way. In body, in mind, in career, in wealth, and in love. Yes, I said love.
I strike out again, missing him as he leans back then bows his head down and charges at me like a bull in an arena. It’s the perfect analogy. The bleeding and injured bull coming for the matador in pained anger.
