Page 96 of Punish Me, Daddy

My stomach twisted. Not with fear. Not exactly.

I pressed my thighs together, trying not to shiver at the image: me bent over the edge of his bed, my bare bottom striped from his belt, tears streaming down my face, arousal dripping down my thighs.

Could I take that?

Did I want that?

I’d been through worse than a spanking. He’d spanked me hard before and I’d survived it. I could certainly survive a session with his belt.

I slipped into his office and pulled up the app I’d installed on his computer. For a moment, I stared at the blinking cursor, like it was waiting for my command and I cleared my throat and started to type.

Me: Call it off.

A pause. Then:

Ghost: You sure?

Me: Yeah. I’m not running. Not from this.

Ghost: He gets you hurt, I’m burning everything he owns.

Me: Don’t worry. I can take care of myself.

I stared at the screen for a second longer, then closed the app and deleted it. For good. It was like a symbol of the old me fading out.

I changed quickly into black leggings, a fitted jacket over a thin green silk top. No jewelry. I pulled my hair back and left the penthouse like I’d been doing it for years.

It was almost too easy.

I figured I was being watched, but I didn’t care. Let them watch. Let him see that he couldn’t control me.

By the time I reached the building where the fights were held, I was buzzing with adrenaline. I gave the code word and the door opened. I slipped inside and lifted my chin, looking around.

There was a group of fighters practicing in the ring.

The heavy, rhythmic thud of fists hitting pads filled the room. Someone grunted and barked commands in Russian. A dozen men—Nikolai’s men, I guessed—were moving around the floor, training. Practicing footwork. Running drills. Taped fists. Bruised knuckles. Sharp eyes.

They didn’t notice me at first.

I stayed in the shadows, watching.

One of them—broad-shouldered with a shaved head—threw a left hook that cracked against a punching bag like a gunshot. Another man took a knee beside the ring, rolling his shoulders as another guy inspected a shallow split across his brow.

I stepped further into the room, my boots echoing faintly against the concrete. Heads turned. Eyes narrowed. One of them—tall, lean, and sweating through a black tank top—straightened as he spotted me.

“Kingsley?” he asked, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

I just lifted my chin. “I’m not here to start trouble.”

He snorted. “Then you’re in the wrong fucking place.”

Someone muttered something in Russian. I didn’t know what he said, but I knew the tone: cautious, but with curiosity. Not hostility.

Interesting…

I walked toward the edge of the ring, keeping my pace even, my posture relaxed. A few of the guys slowed their drills. A couple stopped altogether, wiping sweat from their brows with rough hands and snapping towels at each other as I walked toward the edge of the training floor. I kept my steps even, shoulders squared. I didn’t flinch when the closest one dropped a heavy punching bag with a grunt and turned to face me.

“Didn’t expect to seeyouhere,” one of them said. He was tall, and lean, with cropped blond hair. “Your fiancé said you were off limits.”

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