Page 103 of House Rules

But eventually, he gives a single nod.

“Okay, kitten, change of plans. You’re going to get five lashes, but after each and every strike, I want you to count and thank me for your punishment.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, holding on tight to the edge of the table, trying to make my muscles relax, but they’re so tense with nerves—a potent combination of fear and anticipation.

Atticus folds his belt in half, snapping it a few times to test the leather. Each loud crack makes my entire body jump.

“Don’t forget to keep that plug in place,” Maverick reminds me, as if I could forget.

The tension in the room coils tighter around me. Their eyes are on me like wolves watching a deer—waiting to see if I break, waiting to see if I bleed.

I think the worst part about all of this is knowing that all of them are watching. Waiting for me to fail. To prove I’m just another disappointment. Another girl who couldn’t be enough for them. Another body they can forget.

The leather is soft and warm as Atticus drags it down my spine. I close my eyes, pressing my forehead into the polished wood, bracing myself for the first strike.

His touch lingers just long enough to make me want the sting. That’s the fucked-up part. I want it now. I need it to settle the chaos inside me.

I hear the whoosh of the belt as he swings it through the air—and then the crack, sharp and sudden, against my ass. The pain registers an instant later, a sting that floods heat through my body and brings tears to my eyes.

“Count,” Atticus demands.

“One. Thank you, sir.”

The second strike lands lower, across the tender place where my thighs meet my ass. My breath catches.

“Two. Thank you, sir,” I gasp.

Tears are overflowing onto my cheeks now, but I ignore them. I don’t wipe them away. I don’t let them stop me. This is part of the price.

The next strike comes at an angle, slashing diagonally across my already-burning skin. The sharpness makes me flinch—but then the warmth spreads again, melting through the pain.

“Three. Thank you, sir.” I grip the edge of the table tighter, trying to force the rest of me to relax.

“You should just use your safe word,” Con taunts.

I say nothing. Atticus only gave me permission to count and thank him. That’s it. I’m not going to risk restarting these lashes because Con wants to be a dick. He wants to see me fail. I won’t give him the satisfaction.

The fourth lash lands hard—across the fullest part of my ass again—and this time a sound escapes me. A tiny moan. Unintentional. Raw.

“Four. Thank you, sir.”

Storm shoves Con aside, stepping in close. He leans down until I can feel his breath ghosting over the shell of my ear.

“It’s my turn next, angel,” he murmurs. His voice is low and dangerous, like thunder before a storm. “How am I going to punish you?”

His words send a different kind of tremor through me. My body still stings from the belt, but it’s his voice that makes my blood run hotter.

Atticus still has one strike left, and the waiting makes it worse. The anticipation wraps around me like barbed wire.

“Answer me, angel,” Storm whispers. “You’re allowed.”

“I don’t know,” I say, voice shaking. “What do you think I deserve?”

“Your actions pushed me into a black hole of violence. You put me at risk. I could’ve killed someone. I could be in prison right now—because of you.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, his words dragging more tears from me. Not because I’m afraid—but because I know he’s right.

“I don’t know if sorry is good enough for this one, angel. You need to be punished. You need to atone for your sins.” His breath brushes my cheek, intimate and laced with something savage. “But I see the same broken pieces in you that live in me.”