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CHAPTER 18

B eatrix

I was supposed to see the therapist today, but when the time for the session comes around, I decide to skip it. The idea of talking about what I dreamed about feels fucking awful. I don’t want him to know what happened. I don’t want Armand to know what happened. I wish I didn’t know what happened. Every bit of memory feels like I’m being cut from the inside.

I shut this stuff off from my memory for a reason. I repressed it because it doesn’t help to remember. Remembering feels like wanting to scream continuously all the time day and night.

Fortunately, the chateau is a very large place and there are always at least a hundred people milling around it at any given time. It’s not hard to get lost in one of the libraries, sitting rooms, game rooms, conservatories, art studios, and studies. This is a building made for people who want to get lost while not actually running away from home.

I am in the second-floor conservatory, a later addition, glass walled and jutting out over the cliff against which the chateau is set. Sitting out on the edges of the room make me feel as though I might go tumbling over the side at any moment.

I like this room because just being in it is unsettling, and it being unsettling means I’m just distracted enough not to think about…

A tap on my shoulder makes me turn around.

Mr. Volkov is there, his arms folded over his chest.

“We have a session.”

“I changed my mind.”

“It’s a matter of courtesy to inform someone if you don’t intend to keep a meeting with them.”

“I don’t like your tone.”

“I don’t like your behavior.”

“Okay, now I really don’t like your tone. You’re talking to me like I’m a child. I’m an adult. I’m eighteen years old.”

“Yes. You should be in school, being looked after by an adult.”

“Armand is an adult.”

His jaw clenches for a moment. “The two of you are a couple of incorrigible children who hold the lives of dozens of others in your hands.”

“I thought you’d been fired, why don’t you fuck off, you big, fucking stupid…” I go off on him, cursing furiously until Armand appears. He does that, when there’s enough chaos.

“What’s all the yelling about?”

“He called me a spoiled child,” I say. “He said we’re irresponsible.”

Armand looks at Mr. Volkov with an expression I know means violence.

“Why would you say that?”

“We had a session, which she did not attend. I told her that it is rude not to let someone know if you’re not coming.”

“It is rude,” Armand says. “If you’re going to make me retain this man, you should attend the sessions you make with him.”

“Okay. Maybe. But you have to remember that I don’t care.”

He smirks, but shakes his head. “No, Beatrix. You’ve been rude to our esteemed guest, and you will have to pay the price.”

“What…”

Armand sits down in the chair I was sitting in, and pulls me over his lap, tipping me over his thighs like it’s nothing. It all happens so quickly I don’t really get a chance to respond before he smacks my ass.

“Ow!”

He spanks me again, hard enough to make me yelp for real.

“Is this what you need, Mr. Volkov? A demonstration of discipline? Some evidence that I do not let my mate run entirely wild? Do you want to see her bare bottom spanked?”

He flips my skirt up and smacks me over my panties. I curse and earn myself another slap as a result. Spankings don’t really hurt, not the way actual violence hurts. But they sting in a way it doesn’t. It’s like he’s whipping my pride, not my ass.

“This isn’t necessary,” Mr. Volkov says.

“Isn’t it? You’ve been insisting that I’m not sufficiently in control of my mate, and this pack, but here I am, showing complete command.”

He’s making a point, and he’s using my butt to do it.

I should be angry, and I am, but this is also an opportunity to fuck with Mr. Volkov, and I want to take that. Armand’s hand peppers my ass with a series of harsh slaps that make me tingle with arousal.

“Does she look under control now?”

“She looks like she likes being treated this way. And you like treating her this way. This isn’t discipline. It’s foreplay. This is more evidence that the two of you are unsuited to the situation in which you find yourselves. If you were, you’d not resort to these antics, talking about weddings when you should be…”

“Oh, that’s right, we’re getting married, just as soon as she accepts my proposal.”

Mr. Volkov makes a noise under his breath, turns, and walks away just in time to save my ass from getting really sore. The moment he’s gone, Armand stops spanking me and just starts rubbing instead.

“We are fucking with him a lot.”

“We are,” Armand agrees, rubbing my ass.

“It’s nice to share a hobby.”

Armand grins, and in that moment we feel completely on the same page. “He called us murder brats once.”

I snort. “Well, that doesn’t fit.”

“You hardly murder anyone, and I’m never a brat.”

“You are…” he laughs. “You are such a brat, Beatrix.”

“I am not! Brats are spoiled and they get their own way, and they push limits even when the limits are clear. I just do what I want when I need to do it and I have never been spoiled in my life.”

“I regret to inform you,” Armand smiles. “I have already spoiled you terribly, and as for the rest of it, you’re describing a brat.”

“I was raised in an orphanage, so I’m not a brat. You were raised in this house. You’re the brat, Ma?tre .” I grin, teasing him, knowing it’s a bit of a sore spot, but wanting to play with it anyway because he called me the name first.

Armand lets out a low growl and picks me up, swinging me around and bending me over the back of the chair. He throws my skirt over my back, pulls my underwear down, and slaps my ass a couple of times before reaching between my legs and rubbing my clit.

“How does it feel now? Do you feel like you’re about to be bred by a brat?”

“Yes,” I laugh as he grips my hair, pulling my head back, arching me as he frees his cock and slides it right inside me. It’s a tight fit, but the spanking got me wet already and fucking with him turns me on.

He makes a deep growling sound, not appreciating that term at all.

I have my pussy fucked hard and fast over the back of the library chair, his fingers strumming my clit the entire time.

“Tell me I’m a brat, will you, you spoiled little pup,” he growls as he fucks me toward a gorgeous orgasm.

I squeal and gasp and writhe, perfectly kept in his hands and then trapped on his knot as he breeds me once more, fingers circling my clit insistently, demanding I come, demanding I suck the cum from him with my contortions and contractions.

In the end, we both find ourselves in the chair, messy and half-clad, and grinning like a pair of idiots. Me sitting on his lap, his fingers trying to untangle the mess he made of my hair.

I love him.