Page 161 of The Darkest Hour

I had been a difficult child, rebellious and wild, and she had known exactly how to break me.

Her methods were harsh, but effective.

She would pull me into her cold, dimly lit office that reeked of incense and age. Her cruel eyes were always sharp as daggers, promising pain.

The ritual was always the same.

She would order me to drop my pants and underwear.

And that voice was cold and commanding.

My hands would tremble as I obeyed, my heart pounding in my chest as she took out the large, thick paddle.

And I would go to her desk and bend over.

I could still remember the sound of it striking my bare skin.

But it wasn’t just the pain that stuck with me; it was what came afterward.

When she was done, she would put the paddle aside, and her demeanor would soften just a little bit.

With a haunting smile, she would kneel down in front of me, her hands gentle as she would reach for my penis and tuck it inside my underwear as if she were putting away a delicate toy.

That moment—that act of control and care—had imprinted itself on my mind, entwining pain with pleasure in a way I could never unravel.

No matter how many years passed, no matter how much power I accumulated, I could never shake the memory of those moments, the way she had owned me so completely.

Now, as I approached Indra, those memories flooded back, fueling my desire.

She stood there, silent and obedient, embodying the same contradiction that had haunted me for so long.

I could see it in the way she held herself, in the way she allowed me to approach without a word, knowing exactly what I wanted, what I needed.

Unlike the days with Sister Anthony, I was the one in control now.

By the time I reached Indra, I was hard as a rock. My cock strained against the fabric of my pants.

I stopped just two feet behind Indra, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.

Yes. Very good. Just how I like it. Silent and stiff.

My breath came out in ragged gasps.

Oh. I’m going to fuck you good, and you’re not going to make a sound.

My hands moved on their own, undoing the button on my pants.

Heated desire surged through me like a drug.

I reached down and pulled my cock free.

And right as I stepped forward to lower myself and grab the hem of her dress, a cold, unyielding pressure was suddenly at the back of my head.

What?

I’d been in the assassin world long enough to understand that the pressure was the unmistakable touch of a gun barrel.

I froze, every muscle in my body tensing, my mind racing to make sense of what was happening.

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