Page 1 of UnTrained: Volume One
1
LANA
“Kneel.”
I drop to my knees at the command. I tuck my hands to my sides, my palms pressed against the small of my back. I gaze at the floor. My position is perfect.
Even so, I hold my breath as Master walks by.
He inspects us, one by one. Some girls receive a small correction, their hands not exactly even or their big toes parted. Others need more direction.
The snap of the crop echoes through the room as one girl is disciplined for looking somewhere other than the floor directly in front of her.
I wince, remembering when I was in her position. It takes a while for me to submit to their direction. Longer for me to get things right.
The scars on the back of my thighs are reminders of those days.
Master's boots click against the floor as he gets close.
I keep my eyes downcast. I can practically feel his gaze running over me, judging my obedience, my posture, my submissiveness.
“Stand.”
My stomach drops. I don’t know what I missed, but we’re rarely asked to stand during inspection. If we are, it’s for something big, and the punishment matches the infraction. The last time I was told to stand, I passed out from the pain of the whipping.
My legs tremble as I rise to obey. I focus on being graceful, but my movements feel clumsy and exposed.
“Good,” Master says.
His words throw me off. I wonder if I’ve misunderstood, because praise from Master is rare.
"Look at me," he says, his voice oddly gentle.
I raise my eyes slowly. I’m careful not to move too quickly. I’ve been here long enough to know better.
As I lift my gaze, his face comes into view—the strong jaw, the penetrating gaze that usually makes me tremble. But there’s something different in his expression today.
"You've progressed well," he continues, circling me. The leather of his pants creaks as he moves. "Your obedience is... impressive."
My heart pounds against my ribs. Compliments from Master are more terrifying than his crop. They mean something unexpected is coming.
He reaches out, fingers grazing my cheek.
I fight the urge to flinch, because pulling away will be punished, too.
“You’re ready,” he says.
I keep my gaze neutral. I know better than to ask questions. But silently, my mind races.
Ready for what?
What will they do with me?
I’ve been a prisoner here—wherever this is—for long enough to learn their rules. Almost long enough to forget about the life I had before this.
At first, I promised myself that they wouldn’t break me.
Now, I’m not so sure.
