Page 20 of Lethal Torture

Hanging naked by my wrists in a cage, while my father and his friends play cards at a table nearby.

Screaming under the cut of my father’s whip, while his men take bets on how long it will take for me to pass out.

And finally, mastering myself to endure the entire ordeal in utter silence.

Keeping my eyes wide open, staring coldly at each man until they can’t take it anymore and look away.

That was the last day my father ever used his whip on me. It was also the day I learned that men only want what they think they can control or conquer.

Turning myself into a dead thing, a psychopath with no soul, removes the thrill of conquest.

It removes the power in their game.

When my eyes open again, any trace of Zinaida Melikov, successful businesswoman, is gone.

In her place is the renowned psychopath feared by London’s underworld.

The vengeful daughter whose dead eyes were the last thing Oleg “the Whip” ever saw.

The external door opens, and Anatoly walks Luke to the spotlit circle on the other side of the glass, barely feet from the chair.

I wait for him to leave before walking out from behind the screen. Anatoly doesn’t like these performances.

I’m aware of Luke’s still, silent figure, but I don’t so much as glance in his direction.

Ignoring him is part of the game.

It isn’t until I’m seated on the tilted chair, with my knees up and feet on the padded footrests, that I let my eyes rest on the spotlit circle in which Luke stands.

Oh, fuck.

I should know by now that looking at him is a mistake.

Luke isn’t shifting uncomfortably. He isn’t looking around, trying to work out what is going on. He isn’t defensive, aggressive—or even turned on.

His face is as impassive as my own.

His arms are loose at his sides, feet planted firmly on the ground, stance easy but controlled. He looks like he could take anything that comes at him, but has no need to look around wondering whatmightbe coming for him.

And he’s staring straight at me.

Not at my body.

Not at my spread legs or the man kneeling between them. His eyes don’t flicker downward or from side to side.

Luke is looking straight into my eyes.

He’s looking straight into my soul.

I’m used to being on this chair, to playing this game. I’m accustomed to disassociating from the physical arousal of Rocco’s tongue, to allowing my body to react while my mind and soul remain entirely untouched. In fact, I’ve spent so long perfecting the art of detaching my inner self from my physical form that I sometimes wonder if I will ever make the two things work together again.

But there’s something about Luke’s eyes locked on mine that reminds me of exactly how connected those separate parts of myself truly are. His direct gaze is unsettling in a way I’ve never felt on this chair before.

Unsettling in a way I’ve never felt before, period.

Rocco’s tongue slides along my outer folds.

Luke doesn’t move.