Page 104 of House Rules

I freeze. Those words hit harder than the belt ever could.

“If you were any other girl,” he continues, “I could chain you to my bed, run my blade along your most delicate skin, carve lines into your flesh—and you’d be terrified. That would be a punishment.”

He pauses.

“But I don’t think that’s punishment for you, is it?”

“I—” I choke on the word. I don’t know how to answer that question.

“See, I think if I cut your pretty skin,” Storm murmurs, “all I’d do is release the rot. All the pain other people shoved inside you—everything festering inside that beautiful body—it would spill out like poison. And it’d be a relief.”

His voice isn’t cruel. It’s reverent. And just like every other time Storm levels that brilliant blue stare at me, I feel seen.

More tears fall, not from fear. Not from pain. But from something rawer. Something that feels like hope and devastation all tangled together.

“Angel,” Storm says softly, “there’s so much we could do—so much we already are. We could stitch each other back together with teeth and blood, or peel the skin off every wound just to watch them fester. But how do I punish you… when I’m already addicted to the way you bleed?”

Again, I say nothing. My voice has abandoned me—but my heart is screaming.

He sees me. Every shattered, vicious, beautiful piece of me. And for one suspended second, I’m not alone in my ruin.

The belt cuts through the air again. But this time—I want it.

I arch into the blow, body rising to meet the strike like a lover instead of a victim.

It lands low, across the very bottom of my ass. Theheat of the leather licks against my pussy at the same time—and Storm was right.

The sharp pain is a release. A cleansing by fire.

“Five. Thank you, sir.” My voice cracks. I don’t sob—but I’m close.

“Flip her,” Atticus commands.

Suddenly, I’m airborne again—then slammed onto my back. The table’s cold surface sears my skin, and it actually feels good against the burning welts on my backside.

“You did good with the first part of your punishment, kitten,” Atticus says. “I’m proud of you.”

He leans in close, his voice silk over steel.

“Let’s see if you can survive part two.”

I want to ask what part two is. But I’ve learned by now—curiosity is a luxury I can’t afford.

I keep my mouth shut.

Atticus grabs my ankles and swings me around so I’m lying across the table again. My knees bend over the edge, and my head hangs slightly off the other side, barely supported.

“This time,” Atticus says, his tone colder now, more clinical, “I don’t want to hear a single sound from you. Unless you’re answering a question from Storm—not. One. Sound.Remember: you’re not allowed to come. If you come, you lose.”

I nod, jaw locked. I know better than to speak.

Storm takes a seat in one of the armchairs and slides close, so my head rests just over his lap. His hand comes to my throat, wrapping around it with expert precision, squeezing just enough to make my pulse jump. I can still breathe, but not deeply. Not freely.

The restriction is like a leash made of fire, tethering me to him, forcing every beat of my heart to fall into step with his will.

“I want you naked in my room,” Storm whispers in my ear, his voice pure sin, “kneeling at my feet as you clean each and every one of the blades I’m going to use on you.”

The words shouldn't turn me on. But they do. They burn their way into me, stitching want through every nerve ending.