Page 23 of Cruel Beginnings

I’m growing woozier and woozier, and I drift off despite the pain. When I wake up, at God knows what time of the night, my ass and thighs and boobs are throbbing. It feels like someone branded me by wrapping red-hot barbed wire around me. I feel around for the pills and wash them down with the bottle ofthewater. A little while later, I’m asleep again.

I wake up to someone yanking on my wrist. It takes me almost an entire second to remember where I am, which somehow makes it a million times worse. There’s that brief, glorious moment of confusion, and then I’m back in hell.

The dim light is back on in my cell, and I sit up too fast and cry out in pain. Elizabeth is standing there, hatred and contempt stamped on her face, which I decide is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.

It’s not bad enough that I’m here; I also wake up to the clenching of my usual first-thing-in-the-morning anxiety attack. Now, though, there’s a reason for that panic.

What fresh torture does Joshua have planned for me today? Tears prick my eyes, and I blink hard. I pray he won’t whip me again. My flesh is so tender, I’m terrified it would split and gush blood if he struck me on my bruised spots.

I stumble painfully to my feet and submit to the ritual of handcuffs being clicked onto my wrists, and then the hood being pulled over my head. I hate the fact that I’m naked. I feel raw and vulnerable as she marches me upstairs. Pain from yesterday’s beating flares with every single step, and I bite back my whimpers because I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she’s hurting me.

This time, instead of being led to the dining room, I’m taken in the opposite direction, down the hall into a room with a cool tile floor.

Elizabeth jerks the hood off my head. I’m in an enormous, beautiful bathroom with a raised tub the size of a Jacuzzi. There are steps leading up to the tub. The room is like a grotto, with flowing carved walls, sconces shaped like torches, and big fernlike plants in wooden planters.

Joshua is wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. His body is stunning—shoulders broad, stomach gorgeously sculpted. There’s a light dusting of dark hair across his chest. Scars are scattered across his torso. Slashes and round marks that look like burns.

He was abused once upon a time. Figures. And it doesn’t excuse him in the least.

Elizabeth stands there, and Joshua flashes her a look of impatience. “You may leave, Elizabeth.”

She nods respectfully, but I see the resentment in her gaze as she hunches her shoulders and walks out. Is she jealous? Of me? She can’t be. I’m a prisoner who’s covered in bruises. She’s walking around free.

Joshua uncuffs me and sets the key down on the marble sink counter.

“You will not speak to Elizabeth again the way you did last night. She works for me, and therefore you will show her respect.”

“Yes, Master,” I mutter.

“Time for me to bathe you,” he says. I look at the tub and see that there are cuffs affixed to the wall that surrounds the tub, on both ends. I’ll be splayed out, legs spread wide, obscenely vulnerable.

“I…I can bathe myself…Master.” I force myself to choke out that last word. I feel sticky and vile, and I do want a bath, but I don’t want him touching me. I don’t like that he can make my body feel pleasure. It gives him power over me that he doesn’t deserve.

He snorts in contempt. “God, I’d certainly hope so. But I didn’t ask if you could bathe yourself.” He points at the tub. “Get in and raise your hands over your head so I can cuff you.”

His hands glide between my legs, sending waves of pleasure through my body. I want to scream, “Hell, no!” But I also don’t want to bleed on the floor of his torture room. “Please, Master, I prefer to bathe myself.”

He smiles gently at me. “All right then.”

Really? My eyes widen in astonishment.

My relief is short-lived. He spins me around and cuffs my hands behind me again. He puts the hood back over my head and calls Elizabeth back.

Her hand is unnecessarily tight on my arm as she leads me, still naked, down the hallway. My heart sinks.

She leads me down to the room, snatches off the hood, and chains me back to the floor before releasing my wrists. Her lips are set in a grim line, but I see a twinkle of malice in her eyes. She officially hates my guts.

I sit there and wait. The overhead light is left on, still dim. The minutes tick by. I’m hungry and thirsty.

The minutes stretch into hours. My mouth is sticking to itself, my stomach rumbling. I feel as if there’s a sticky film of filth coating my body.

Finally, I look at the camera on the ceiling and cry out, “I’m sorry, Master!”

The minutes tick by. Nothing happens.

“Please, I’m really thirsty! Master! I’m sorry, Master!”

I flop face down on the bed. Somehow, I know I won’t be getting an answer anytime soon.

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