Page 36 of Heal Me

She gives the tiniest nod, and I scoff. I thought Dax just let her wander about, but it seems he has no clue what she’s up to—he can’t control her.

“See, she has to be punished,” I tell Dax, stating the obvious. “Since she bothered my girl, it’s only fair that she gets it from me. If you want to have a go at her too, be my guest and continue once I’m done.”

“No, Dorin,” Lavinia begs behind me. “It’s not her fault. She tried to help me.”

“She fucking went to you without permission. She gets punished,” I tell her, then aim my attention at the girl about to taste my stick. “You’ll learn your lesson hard.”

I regret having released Lavinia from the wall as she scurries across the floor and presses herself into me. “No, Dorin. If anyone has to be punished, punish me. I’ll take it for her.”

I push her aside. She probably hopes I’ll kill her with my stick, and it goddamn infuriates me, making me want to punish her too.

“Please, Dorin. Let me take it,” she begs again, just like she begged me to let her take her own life in the tub a week ago. I’m about to either bark at her or take the syringe in my pocket and snuff out those infuriating suicidal thoughts with drugs, but Mikhail interrupts before I can decide.

“Silence! I’m sick of this. You two clearly aren’t capable of figuring this out yourselves, so I decide who gets to punish who.”

My blood boils as I watch Mikhail. I think I just might rip his head straight off his body if he makes the wrong decision. But then again, it probably wouldn’t be such a good idea. Dax would probably be the fucker to take over this place, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to take orders from an idiot who can’t even keepa girl under control. So I accept Mikhail's decision and await his decree. Which is fucking ridiculous.

Pointing at my songbird, he says, “She gets the punishment.” He points at Dax’s girl. “She gets to watch.”

I’m about to protest, but Mikhail stops me. “I don’t have time for this. Get on with the punishment, or I’ll hand your special little project off to someone else.” With that, he walks away.

I gnash down on my teeth, but when I turn to see the relieved expression on my songbird’s face, my anger gets a new target. As much as I want to punish Dax’s girl, I want to makeherhurt. For wanting to leave me so fucking badly.

I grab her by the arm and steer her down the hall. Leaning in, I snarl into her ear, “Don’t even think for one second that I’m gonna beat you to death. I know just how to wield this stick to make ithurtwithout causing any lasting damage.”

She gasps. “That’s not—”

“Shut up.” I don’t want to hear any of her fucking excuses.

She remains quiet as she stiffly follows along, wobbling beside me and almost falling several times as she struggles to keep up with my long strides, still dazed from the drugs lingering in her system.

She doesn’t protest as I lead her into a whipping room and place her beneath the ceiling hook we use to string up girls. Her compliance only angers me further. I have no idea what’s going through her mind, but I’m sure it has to do with some kind of warped hope that I’ll end up beating her to death. Or maybe it’s like a twisted sort of self-harm to escape—me. The need to punish her for hating me and wanting to leave so damn badly blots out my need to punish the other girl, and I barely even notice that Dax walks in behind me with her.

“Stay,” I tell her as I go to retrieve a bundle of ropes from the wall. When I get back, she’s in the exact same spot, staringstiffly at the wall as I come up beside her and start unbuckling the straitjacket.

“Are you still hoping I’ll beat you to death?” I ask as I help her out of the sleeves.

She gives a slight shake of her head, jaw clenched tight as she refuses to meet my gaze.

“Good.” I don’t know if she’s lying or if it’s dawning on her that she’s about to feel the full brunt of my anger without getting the release of death at the end. Something is getting to her, that’s for sure. She starts shuddering as I wrap the ropes around her wrists, lift them into the air, and attach them to the hook.

Frantic whimpers erupt from behind me, from Dax’s girl, as I unclip my baton from my belt. A small surge of satisfaction rushes through me knowing she, too, will get some kind of punishment just by witnessing my brutality.

My blood swooshes through my veins as I feel the heavy weight of the baton in my hand. The chaos in my mind dwindles to a low simmer as I bounce it in my palm, grip it tightly, and aim. Everything around me disappears in a vacuum as I strike.

The baton thuds against her ass, hard and unforgiving. She jerks under the force, but there’s nothing she can do. She’s mine to abuse. Mine to hurt. Power swells inside me. A heady feeling that’s close to soaring. I strike again. Her right thigh. Her left thigh. Her knees briefly cave in, and I feel strong and mighty. In control.

But something’s off, I realize, as I lift the stick to strike again. There’s no scream. No frantic writhing. She just stands there. Taking it.

The girl behind me screams, though, like she’s the one receiving the blows. It’s a good thing Dax has her wearing a muzzle, or I’d have to beat her for making so much noise and distracting me.

I take a step back to put in more force, and that’s when I notice the whole picture in front of me. Her scarred back. The cuts, the burns. Her blonde hair spilling over her milky skin. Then mental visions flood my brain. The blood in the tub. Her vulnerable eyes staring up at me, begging me to end it all. The sound of her song in my ears.

I fling the baton aside, and it clatters against the wall across the room. The baton is for breaking; this girl is already broken.

Then I do something I never do. I open my hand and aim my flat palm at her ass. On the rare occasion I use my hands, it’s closed fists. I don’t think I’ve ever spanked a woman. It somehow seems too merciful—too personal. But as I slam my palm onto her ass, it’s like finding a glove that’s a perfect fit. It’s not as much the physical sensation of my palm around an ass. It’s the feeling of her skin. Her body. This broken little creature that gives in to me in ways no one ever has before. Or did.

The force of my hand sends her forward, her feet scraping against the rough floor as she staggers to regain balance, her wrists straining against the ropes that catch her. I can’t have that. She only gets the bruises I allow. So I press my left palm to her upper stomach, just below her breasts, supporting her as I deliver another heavy blow of my hand. This time, a tiny yelp escapes her. I almost miss it as the sharp sound of the smack bounces off the walls. Pulling her closer, I lean in to listen as I deliver another blow. Sure enough, there’s that tiny sound again. It’s despair, grief, and helplessness all wrapped in one small, but potent package. I wrap my arm around her waist and lean my head against her shoulder, needing to comfort her even as I deliver two more staggering smacks that has her chest shuddering.

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