Page 124 of Black Castle

The thought makes her stomach twist as she pushes through the door.

The living room is too quiet, too familiar, suffocating her in memories. She shrugs off her jacket, tossing it onto the couch, then kicks off her silver flats before heading into the room.

She sits at the edge of the bed, hands clenched on her lap as her thoughts spiral. When exactly did she take the wrong turn to end up here?

Then the door suddenly swings open and she startles to her feet, her heart slamming against her ribs.

Zev stands there, silent and unreadable. The dim lighting casts a shadow over his face, deepening the darkness in his eyes. And there’s a way he looks at her—jaw clenched, gaze sharp, letting her know he doesn’t like what he is seeing.

“Funny.” His tone is a low, deliberate threat, a crackling whip in the air. “I could swear I told you what to do when you get here. And I remember you nodding in understanding.”

He shuts the door slowly behind him, his back resting on it, hands tucked inside his pockets.

“Zev—” she starts, her voice barely above a whisper. “I know you are angry. But I wasn’t going to do anything with him. It was just a harmless—”

“Five seconds.”

Her stomach drops.

“Get rid of those clothes,” he orders, moving toward the bottle of wine on the coffee table. “Five seconds or the punishment doubles.”

Punishment?

Her pulse stutters.

Nevertheless, she doesn’t wait to find out what the punishment would entail, or what it would look like when doubled. She quickly yanks the tank top over her head, her fingers trembling as she pushes down her cargo pants, then her panties.

His eyes run over her body, heat licking every part they touch. Then his gaze stops on her arm, lingering, jaw feathering, and she fears this is the day he will finally tell her to take them off—her arm warmers.

A breath of relief leaves her when his gaze finally shifts.

Vivienne has no idea what Zev thinks of the scars on her back. He has never mentioned it. His fingers alway trail them, meticulously, as if connecting the jagged lines, trying to create a masterpiece from chaos. But never for once has he uttered a word. Never asked how she got it, or who put them there.

She also doesn’t know if he’s aware why he wears the arm warmers. She never told Lucan either and he didn’t pressure her to. Every time Zev asks her to strip, his gaze always lingers, darkness flashing across his golden eyes, muscle flexing in his jaw. But he never says a word.

And she appreciates it. Because he may have understood that the scars aren’t a discussion she wishes to have.

“Move to the desk.”

A shiver runs down her spine at the brutality of the command, heat pooling low in her stomach. She crosses the room to the desk, all too aware of the dampness growing between her thighs.

She leans against the desk, her lips parting as she watches his slender fingers work at his belt, the slow, precise movement setting her nerves on fire.

“Turn around and bend over.”

Her heart pounds. But she obeys.

With both hands braced on the edge of the desk, she listens for the pad of his footsteps approaching, the quiet sound of leather slipping free from its loops.

Then there is silence as the heat of his presence looms behind her, a dark force pressing against her senses.

She gasps softly, a shiver traveling up her spine when his cold finger brushes against her waist, lifting her hip until she’s on her tippy toes.

And there it is, the sharp crack of leather tearing the skin on her ass. A loud cry tears from her throat, pain and pleasure tangling in the mix. The sting blooms across her flesh, burning, electrifying, awakening something deep and twisted inside her.

“How many minutes did he hold your hands for?” he asks, and she shivers when his cold hand gently touches the welt forming on her ass.

“I d-don’t know.”

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