Page 22 of Don't Say A Word

CHAPTER ELEVEN

RYKER

Because I left her dangling, the cuts around her wrists have grown worse. Fresh blood drips down her arms and I curse myself for my stupidity. Atterton texted a few minutes ago. Junior intends on coming at the end of the day to inspect his gift.

And her skin is broken.

“Why the fuck did you put her in chains?” I say, eager to ensure Marcel takes the blame.

“Because that’s what I do. It’s all part of my method. First, you’ve got to—”

I tune out. Already I’ve grown tired of him and I’ve only been here a few hours. He talks too much. He eats too much. And he doesn’t seem to visit his girls often, choosing instead to spend time in front of the monitor, one hand stuffed down his pants. I told him if I find him like that again, I was going to chop it off. His hand. Not his dick. I have a feeling that a lack of dick would affect his work standards and Senior wouldn’t stand for that.

His voice drones on and on and I’m almost tempted to turn up the volume on the girl sobbing in the corner. Anything would be better than the sound of his voice.

“Not what you expected, is it?”

It takes me a while to realize he’s asked a question. I glance over at him, trying my best to look uninterested, but he doesn’t seem to take the hint.

“The first one is always the hardest. They stick with you, you know?” He leans back, tipping the chair to balance only on the rear legs. “I still remember my first. She still appears in my dreams. Her tears. Her cries. So fucking human.” A slight smile creeps over his face at the memory. “But you’ve got to stop thinking of them like that. You’ve got to break them. Destroy their spirit, just like they do with the horses.” He balances on the two back legs of the chair, swaying precariously and I resist the urge to kick them out from under him. “What can I say? It’s what the clients want. Preferably, I like a bit of fight, but apparently our clientele doesn’t.”

Turning my attention back to the monitors, I see my girl has twisted her legs over on themselves, making it even more difficult for her to maintain balance. “She needs the bathroom,” I say, getting to my feet and talking over Marcel.

His arm bars my exit, his gaze traveling up my body to meet my eye, a hesitant smile in place as his arm disappears.

“Leave her,” he says. “Humiliation is good. It’s effective and it doesn’t leave them physically scarred.”

A trickle of liquid runs down her legs.

Marcel laughs then turns back to me. “Have you got many tools?”

“Tools?” I repeat.

“Tools.” He gets to his feet, disappearing into his room before returning with a hard suitcase. He flicks the locks and opens it. “Whips, lashes, handcuffs.” He lists all the options on display, his fingers running over them reverently, the same way mine had run over her flesh. “Here,” he pulls one out, “this might come in handy.” He flicks the small stick toward the ground and it lengthens, extending out from itself. “This one stings like fuck, good for the newbies, but it’s almost impossible to inflict any damage other than a welt which will vanish within a couple of hours. You won’t even be able to break skin with it.” He lashes it over his hand. Immediately a line of red appears but he’s right, there’s no serious damage. “Take it.” He holds it out to me. “This is a good starting point. You need something to help break that girl. I don’t think asking nicely is going to do it for you. And if it doesn’t work, you move onto something harder, something more painful, more convincing.”

I take the lash begrudgingly, knowing he is right.

“Try the soles of the feet. Hurts like the buggery.” He grins and his tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip.

“I need to clean the blood and piss off her first,” I say, briefly running a fingernail down the sole of my foot to check its tenderness before tugging on my shoes.

Marcel nods to a small closet. “Buckets, cloths, bedding, sheets, pillows and all that sort of crap in there. Yell out if you need a hand cleaning her up. I wouldn’t mind getting close to her. I bet she feels like satin.”

“Touch her and fucking die.”

Marcel holds his hands up. “Whoa. Calm down, psycho. I was just messing with you. She’s yours alright. I’m not going to interfere. Unless you want me to. You know,” he lifts his brows up and down and winks, “double team her and all.” He chuckles and walks into one of the girls’ rooms before I can knock his teeth out.

I need to get her out of the chains and cleaned up before Junior arrives.

She’s quick to obey this time. I guess that’s what a few hours dangling in chains does. She’s eager to get the gag removed from her mouth, but she flinches when I touch her. It’s to be expected, it’s early days, but she needs to learn to control it, be open to my touch. His touch.

I warn her, keeping my voice low and steady and she stills as I wipe her clean.

Not that I’ll admit it to Marcel, but I’m grateful for the lash when she refuses to open her legs. It’s quick and effective. Then I remove her blindfold and sit in the chair, waiting for her to regain her sight as she adjusts to the stream of sun blinding her through the window.

She twists in her restraints, the movement sliding the muscles of her stomach under her skin. She’s not overly muscly, it’s only because her hands are still stretched over her head, elongating her. Her waist is curved and her belly has the slightest rounding, so sensual, just a hint of the lines of her muscles showing at the sides. Her thighs are shapely, and her calves are so tight I want to sink my teeth into them. Her dark hair is a tangled mess, but it’s her lips that make me want to groan. So full. So sensual. Plump. Kissable. Fuckable.

I shake my head, clearing the dangerous thoughts that linger there. What am I doing? She’s Junior’s, not mine. And she’s young.

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