Page 44

CHAPTER 44

M ary

I looked back at the mosaics, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, of what it all meant. The images told a story, I realized—a narrative of domination and submission, of power wielded and surrendered, all in service to some greater purpose. The men in the red robes seemed to represent the Pretorian Guard itself, the inheritors of Mithras’ legacy. The bound women… I shuddered, understanding all too clearly what—who—they represented.

My eyes found Camille’s again, saw in them the same dawning comprehension, the same mixture of dread and unwilling fascination. Whatever was about to happen to us, it was connected to the rituals and beliefs depicted in these ancient mosaics. We were to be initiated into something as old and terrible as the Sons of Odin—perhaps even older and more terrible—something that had existed in the shadows of civilization for thousands of years.

The silence in the Hall of Fire seemed to deepen, to take on a weight and presence of its own. Even the crackling of the flames in the abyss seemed muted, as if the very air held its breath in anticipation. I became acutely aware of my heartbeat, of the rise and fall of my chest, of the cool stone beneath my knees.

Suddenly, the double doors at the far end of the Hall slammed open with such force that the sound echoed like thunder throughout the chamber. I jumped, a small cry escaping my lips before I could stifle it. Cassandra shot me a warning look, her hand tightening on the leash attached to my collar.

Five men in red robes entered, their heavy footfalls echoing against the ancient stone. The ceremonial garments hung open at the front, revealing their naked torsos and—my breath caught—their heavy, semi-erect penises as they advanced toward us with measured strides. My pulse thundered in my ears as I recognized the man leading the procession: Leo Marmareus, his skin gleaming in the firelight, his dark eyes reflecting the dancing flames.

Behind him walked two men I had never seen before—enormous, muscular figures with the hard, impassive faces of professional warriors. Their broad shoulders strained against the red fabric of their robes, and their manhoods hung thick and imposing between their thighs.

But it was the sight of the final two figures that made my heart nearly stop in my chest.

Sven. My Herra . My true master.

And beside him, Erik.

Both wore the same red robes as the others. Did that mark them as members of the Pretorian Guard? Surely not. I knew better. I knew who they truly were, what they truly represented. Sons of Odin, warriors of the North, infiltrating the heart of their enemy’s sanctuary.

I couldn’t help myself. Neither Cassandra’s warning nor my fear of punishment could stop the cry that escaped my lips.

“Sven!” His name tore from my throat, half sob, half prayer.

The procession halted in front of us. Five pairs of eyes turned toward me, but I saw only one. Sven’s gaze locked with mine, his ice-blue eyes unreadable, his expression a careful mask that revealed nothing of his thoughts. For a terrible moment, I feared he wouldn’t acknowledge me, that he would pretend not to know me to maintain his cover.

“Were you told to be silent, Mary?” he asked, his voice stern and controlled, carrying the familiar tone of command that made my body respond instantly, submissively. There was no warmth in it, no indication that I was anything more than a disobedient initiate to be corrected.

Misery washed over me. I nodded, my eyes lowered in genuine shame. I had failed him, had broken a rule he clearly expected me to follow, even here, even now—even though the rule had been imposed by the organization he had told me represented his arch enemy.

“I expect you to obey that order as if it had come from me,” Sven continued, his voice implacable. “Do you understand?”

Another nod, smaller this time, my throat too tight for speech even if it had been permitted. Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I would not show such weakness, not in front of the Pretorian Guard, not in front of these men who had captured and used me.

“Does anyone have a whip?” Sven asked, his gaze sweeping the faces of the other men. The question sent a jolt of fear through me, followed immediately by a shameful pulse of arousal. My body remembered the punishment my master had delivered before—careful, precise, controlled. For my benefit, as well as his enjoyment.

One of the massive men stepped forward, producing a mastix from the folds of his robe. He handed it to Sven with a slight bow, a gesture of deference that seemed at odds with his imposing physique. My stomach clenched at the sight of the implement, the memory of its bite against my skin still painfully fresh.

“Thank you, Nymphobus Lucius,” Marmareus said, his voice solemn.

Sven took the mastix , testing its weight in his hand, his fingers curling around the polished wooden handle with ease, as if the Pretorian Guard’s disciplinary implement was as natural as the Sons of Odin’s punishment straps. He stepped toward me, his movements fluid and deliberate, the red robe accentuating the power of his muscular body.

“Kneel up,” he commanded, his voice resonating through me like thunder. “Raise your hands.”

I rose on trembling knees into the more erect posture, my leather restraints making me feel even more vulnerable before all these men. The contrast between their robed forms and my own bound flesh heightened my sense of exposure, of helplessness. With shaking arms, I lifted my hands above my head, assuming the position Sven had trained me to take for punishment.

His enormous hand closed around my wrists, engulfing them completely. The familiar sensation of his skin against mine sent a shock through my system—a jolt of recognition, of homecoming, despite the circumstances. He bent over me, his face close to mine, his breath warm against my ear.

“Six strokes,” he announced, his voice stern.

Then I gasped, softly, because I had heard also, somehow, something else: as if the sight of his gorgeous face had activated the volva in me—the seeress he had begun to train.

Feel me in each lash, Mary. Feel our connection.

I nodded minutely, understanding blooming within me like a dark flower. This punishment wasn’t merely for show, wasn’t just to maintain his cover among these men. It was a reclamation, a restoration of the bond between us that had been strained by my captivity, my use at the hands of Leo Marmareus. Each stroke would rewrite the marks left by another man, would replace them with Sven’s own signature upon my flesh.

The first lash fell across my shoulders, the knotted tails of the mastix finding every nerve ending with unerring precision. I cried out, unable to contain the sound as fire erupted across my skin. The pain was clean, honest, delivered by the hand that owned me truly.

The second stroke landed lower, across my shoulder blades, crossing the fading welts left by Marmareus earlier. I felt the difference immediately—where his punishment had been clinical, designed to break down resistance, Sven’s carried an intimate knowledge of my body, my responses, my limits.

The third and fourth lashes fell in quick succession, crisscrossing my upper back, drawing gasps and sobs from my throat. Tears streamed down my face now, but they weren’t tears of shame or despair. They were tears of recognition, of homecoming, of the paradoxical relief that came from being truly seen, truly known.

The fifth stroke landed across the fullest part of my bottom, reigniting the welts left by Marmareus’ earlier punishment. I screamed, sure that at least this violation of the Guard’s rule would prove acceptable to these hard men.

The sixth and final stroke was the harshest yet, the knotted tails of the mastix finding the tender junction where my bottom met my thighs. I howled, my back arching, my body convulsing with the intensity of the pain. But beneath that pain, like a current of molten gold running through base metal, was something else—something profound and intimate that belonged only to Sven and me.

As the initial shock of the final lash faded into a throbbing heat, I felt it—the reconnection, the reestablishment of the bond that had been strained, but never broken. My volva sense opened like a third eye, and I perceived Sven not just with my physical senses, but with something deeper, more primal. I felt his essence reaching for mine across the gulf that separated us, his dominance wrapping around me like invisible bonds far more powerful than the leather restraints that adorned my body.

My breathing came in ragged gasps as I struggled to compose myself. I could feel the welts rising on my skin, my flesh remembering the shape of the mastix , the weight of Sven’s hand. The pain had begun to transform itself already, melting into the familiar warm glow that I had come to associate with my master’s discipline. My pussy throbbed with shameful arousal, my nipples hard and aching even through the humiliation of being punished before these strange men.

“Thank you, Sven,” Marmareus said to Sven, his voice carrying a note of genuine respect. “You are indeed a skilled tamer of your bed thralls. Such mastery of the mastix is rare, even among those steeped in our traditions. You maintain order and civilization with skill and precision.”

I remained kneeling, head bowed, hands still raised above me though Sven had released his grip on my wrists. I could feel sweat trickling down my spine, mingling with the welts left by the mastix , creating a stinging sensation that kept me acutely present in my body despite the dreamy aftermath of punishment.

“The discipline and use of women is the foundation of civilization,” Sven replied, his voice carrying the perfect blend of authority and philosophical detachment. If I hadn’t known him so intimately, I might have believed him truly one of them. “Without it, chaos reigns.”

“Indeed,” Marmareus agreed. “Which brings us to the matter at hand.” He turned his attention to Camille and me, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight. “These Columbae have shown promise, notwithstanding their… unconventional recruitment. The time has come for them to advance in their training, to be initiated as Nuptae .”

Nuptae —like Cassandra and Viola. A new rank in the confusing labyrinth of the Guard’s hierarchy. I glanced at Camille, seeing my own confusion mirrored in her wide eyes. We had seen how Nuptae moved, how they spoke, their apparently perfect obedience.

“It is important,” Erik said suddenly, his voice carrying across the Hall of Fire, addressing Camille directly, “that you accept this initiation without knowing what it will involve or what it means.”

The unexpected statement made me catch my breath. Erik’s words seemed loaded with hidden meaning, his gaze intense as it flickered between Camille and me. Like Sven, he wore the ceremonial robe with a disturbing naturalness, as if he had been born to it rather than donning it as some sort of courtesy extended by the Pretorian Guard.

“Nod if you accept initiation,” Marmareus commanded, his tone severe.

I lifted my gaze to Sven’s face, searching desperately for some clue, some guidance. His expression remained utterly unreadable, a perfect mask of stern authority. For a heartbeat, I wondered if Sven knew how Leo Marmareus had affected me, how deeply the enemy agent’s dominance had penetrated not just my body, but my psyche. Did he sense my shame, my fear that in moments of weakness—pinned beneath Marmareus’ powerful body, strapped to that diabolical saddle—I might have betrayed him? Could he see the conflicted tangle of emotions that threatened to choke me: loyalty to him warring with the undeniable responses Marmareus had wrung from my trembling flesh?

Silently, almost imperceptibly, I nodded my acceptance. Beside me, Camille did the same, her dark eyes wide with fear yet resolute. Whatever awaited us as Nuptae , we would face it together, two volur bound by circumstance and shared suffering.

“Excellent,” Marmareus said, satisfaction evident in his voice. “ Nuptae , lead these Columbae to the Hall of Mithras.”

Cassandra rose and tugged gently on my leash, while Viola did the same to Camille’s. We rose from our kneeling positions, our naked bodies gleaming with sweat in the firelight, the leather restraints creaking softly with each movement. I felt Sven’s gaze on me, heavy and intense, as I stood. The welts from his punishment made my eyes water, reminding me, in a way I welcomed despite the wince, of his reclamation of my flesh.

The Nuptae turned us away from the men and began leading us forward, deeper into the Hall of Fire. I realized with growing apprehension that they were guiding us directly toward the abyssal pit at the center of the chamber, toward the dancing flames that rose from its unfathomable depths. My steps faltered as we drew closer, fear clutching at my throat with icy fingers.

“Keep moving,” Cassandra murmured, her voice barely audible above the soft crackling of the flames. “Trust the ritual.”

Trust the ritual . The words echoed in my mind, resonating with my volva training. Ritual was the backbone of all magical practice, the structure that allowed raw power to be channeled and directed—even if the magic came not from some supernatural plane but from our own human consciousness. But whose ritual was this? To what purpose would it bend my power, my very being?

As we approached the edge of the pit, the flames suddenly surged upward, a great wall of fire that towered above us, throwing a wave of heat so intense I instinctively raised my hands to shield my face. The roar was deafening, drowning out all other sounds, filling the chamber with its primal voice. Sweat poured down my body, my skin flushing scarlet in the intense heat.

“Stay where you are,” Cassandra commanded as I tried to step back from the inferno.

I froze, trembling, certain that at any moment the flames would engulf us, would consume our naked flesh and reduce us to ash. The heat felt nearly unbearable, making each breath a struggle.

From behind us, I heard Leo Marmareus’ voice rise above the noise of the flames in the pit.

“As you can see, my new friends, energy, and power in every sense, has lain at the heart of our project from the beginning.”