Blood Money by Lana Sky

Chapter Seven

You were whipped…

The anger in his voice seems alarmingly out of place. My breath catches as I weigh the possibility that my scars somehow offended him. They’re so small, that I was assured surgery wouldn’t be needed to erase them. In fact, few have ever pointed them out, at least not to me.

And not like this.

“I… I thought you knew everything there was to know about me?” I rasp. Especially since he spent more time with my father than anyone. He would know exactly what a man like Roy Pavalos is capable of.

“Apparently not,” he replies. Hot like a poker, his finger traces one of the linear scars, triggering a memory I try to ignore.

Pain, sharp and stinging. The chilling hiss of leather snapping at the air. My own screams…

“Were you? Whipped?”

I flinch at the question, phrased so differently than the first time. Like he wants me to confirm it. This hint of violence clashes with the fictional version of Ada Pavalos he’s formed in his head. I’m so sure of what he thinks of me—a dumb slut who never had to work a day in her life. No way could the scars on her back be anything more than a harmless accident.

“I fell into a cactus on a trip to the desert,” I blurt tonelessly, shrugging his fingers aside.

It’s funny how little I’ve said that lie in comparison to how many days I spent poring over every detail to make it believable. How much information to give. How much to withhold. How to make my tone the right mix of bored and embarrassed to sell it.

I’ve gotten so good that I’ve fooled myself.

I even fool him.

He withdraws, bored by the marks. No part of me holds his interest, I see when I sneak a glance at him from over my shoulder. Even naked, I might as well be a part of the wall.

Shame bites deep despite every ounce of logic in my brain warning me that this is a good thing. I don’t want to appeal to him. Being seen as unattractive by a monster should be a blessing. It shouldn’t sting.

“Get up.” He’s on his feet again, crossing over to the counter. From a drawer, he withdraws a silver brush similar to the one Ines used on me earlier. I shudder at the thought of how he might go about such a task.

When I climb from the tub, I spot the towel he procured, resting on the floor, just beyond my reach. I take a step toward it.

“No.” Domino snaps his fingers. “Not yet. Come.”

The floor is slick enough to make every step a struggle. I slide the second I try to move, flailing my arms to stay upright.

I don’t know if he takes pity on me, or if it’s a willingness to adhere to his “schedule” that makes him approach me himself, brush in hand.

“Look forward.”

I cringe as he raises the brush, expecting the worst. As the first stroke runs through my hair, some of the tension in my muscles loosens. Some. He’s as briskly efficient as Ines, and when he’s smoothed every last strand, he grabs the towel himself.

I reach for it, hoping he’ll let me dry myself. Ignoring my outstretched hand, he steps behind me, dragging the towel over my back. Then across my ass and down my thighs.

I think the fact that I’m waiting for the cruelty is why the softness of his touch catches me off guard. He’s methodic, working just enough pressure into my skin as he goes to soothe the muscles underneath. As the cooler night air tickles my body in contrast to the heat of the water, his ministrations, paired with the quality of the towel’s material, have me relaxing before I can help it.

Everyone knows how violent physical pain can be. How aching limbs can throb and sting. Few people ever recognize that the worst part can come afterward. When the very person responsible for inflicting those aches and pains is the same one who takes it upon themselves to soothe them. It does something to a person’s mind, to have the source of brutality provide comfort.

My body is already conditioned to the dichotomy. That’s why I arch into his next pass that travels from my lower back down to my thigh, raising goosebumps. I don’t know exactly when it happens…

When I start to twist along with his movements as he dries off my legs. I have no control over how my nerves prickle with the awareness of him. How my breathing hitches the lower he goes.

My eyes are closing without permission from my brain. For a second, it’s almost too easy to teleport myself somewhere else. But where? Clara would never touch me like this—swiftly but with a subtle, teasing intimacy that feels too hostile to match any prior lover of mine, either. No.

Those men worshiped me. Used me. Groped.

Domino…

He toys with me. Plays me the way my father would his old guitar when he felt the need to show off during a dinner party. Like any good entertainer, he knew how to create hype with every stroke of the strings. How to build anticipation by drawing out every second he spent tuning the instrument, well before he began performing in earnest.

I hate myself for how easily Domino can turn my own body against me. Conspiratorially, his heat eats through the towel, coaxing my limbs into submission. I’m suddenly aware of every breath expanding my lungs, filling my chest. I can feel each nipple tighten in the next breeze to blow in from the open windows. I can smell him. Taste his scent mingling with the aroma of the body wash he used on me—lavender.

It’s like I’m drugged on the stench of it all. I forget the source responsible for the creeping pressure inching up my inner thigh. I forget that I should shy away from it.

I spread my thighs instead…

“Jesus Christ, Ada-Maria.” The disgust in his voice hits me like a slap.

I wrench my eyes open as shame floods my cheeks.

“I knew you were a whore, but damn.” He pushes past me, dropping the towel on the floor. Angry, fierce strides carrying him into the hall before the full weight of my embarrassment has a chance to sink in.

What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve become accustomed to training my body to react separately from my brain. To endure the touch of greedy, grasping old men, or drooling sycophants of my father. I’ve perfected how to smother every ounce of discomfort. How to turn pain into pleasure. I know how to fake and fake and fake.

But my heartbeat hammers out a mocking beat as if to taunt me with the truth.

Thump. You weren’t faking. Thump.

“I said come.”

The command lashes at the air, and a sense of foreboding erases all traces of his touch. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that note in his voice before. That cold, detached hiss.

Run, Ada.

I stoop for the towel and drape it over my torso as I creep to the doorway and flick my eyes in the direction opposite the way he went. I should run now. Try to escape. A part of me knows deep down that to try at all would be a waste. Still, I can’t shake the sense that I should, if only to prove to him that I can.

And to myself.

“Run,” he calls to me as if reading my mind. I stiffen, puzzled by the prospect of him giving me permission to escape. “And you will sorely regret it. My patience is running thin Ada-Maria. Come!”

Left with no choice, I shuffle toward the voice, swallowing hard the closer I come. I finally find him in that white room, only now—considering the sun has fully set and darkness officially fallen—it’s silvery in appearance, illuminated by a crystalline chandelier above.

It’s been transformed in my absence—a pointed reminder that we aren’t alone here. There are other servants in addition to Ines. During my bath, they stripped the bed and replaced the sheets with an identical set devoid of blood. A long, rectangular gift box, wrapped in white and topped with a matching bow, rests near the foot of the mattress. A present?

The floor has been polished to shine and in the center of the space now rests the same white table he offered me “tea” on earlier. Now, it’s laden with a platter of white fish, a bowl of salad, and a basket of steaming rolls.

Rather than smirk at me from a seated position, Domino stands with his back to me, his gaze on the window.

“Eat,” he snaps, and my unease grows. He’s angry, but as I replay the incident from the bathroom in my mind, I don’t think he should be. If anything, he should be gloating. I played into his narrative of a dumb, stupid whore.

The nerves contribute to how my stomach twists at the smell of the food. I can taste the freshness of the fish just from its aroma—but I don’t dare trust it. Or him.

I quash the gnawing hunger pains, reclaiming my flimsy grasp on control. Meeting his gaze, I lie without an ounce of guilt, “I’m not hungry.”

“I suggest you draw out your reprieve as long as you possibly can, Ada-Maria,” he warns in a tone that stops my blood cold. “Now sit down and eat!”

I stagger to a chair and collapse onto it, reaching for a fork, only to fumble and send it—and the rest of the silverware by it—clattering to the floor.

My eyes cut to him, my lungs paralyzed. Seconds tick by, but he doesn’t react.

Because he’s dwelling on something, I suspect. Somehow, I offended him, more than just by responding to his touch. But how?

I bite my lip at the sensation washing through me. It’s painfully familiar. Ironic, in a sense. Papa is supposedly dead, but this man can make me feel the same way only he could.

On pins and needles, dancing on eggshells around a mood as volatile as a summer storm.

“I don’t hear you eating.”

I grab the fork, as well as the knife and spoon. Hastily, I assemble a plate, noisily scraping each platter as I go to prove that I’m obeying.

Once my plate is full, however, I can no longer play pretend. Impulsively, I resort to my tried-and-true method for making it through one of my family’s mandated dinners.

I stab at a piece of lettuce and drag it across the porcelain plate to a distant corner. Then I cut the fish into squares. Quarters. Then those chunks into smaller slivers. Flakes. Mush. I spread it across my plate in random sections to make it look like I’ve picked through it. The bread I rip into three pieces and try to crumble them as small as possible.

It’s a convincing effort when all is said and done—or at least it would be.

If I didn’t look up a heartbeat later to find him watching me, his arms crossed, gaze unreadable. Gradually, his expression morphs from callous to interested. Then enraged.

He moves too quickly to muster a defense. All I can do is cringe into my seat as he snatches my plate from the table and hurls it against the wall. Wham! The porcelain shatters as the food speckles the floor in a colorful display.

“I’ve shown you mercy, Ada-Maria,” he snarls that word as though it’s the most coveted gift in all the world. Mercy from him. “I gave you time to heal from your journey here. I offer you nourishment. I bathe you. Give you clothing. I ask you nicely for what it is I’m after. And this is how you repay me?”

He’s shouting, his voice booming. Brutally, he snatches the towel from me. A hard shove pushes me from the chair to the ground. I cry out, wincing as my sore thigh aches with the impact. Instinct takes priority, urging me to my knees. Cower. The way I have so many times before, I scurry from the threat, staring only at the floor before me.

Move, Ada. Move!

“You play fucking mind games,” Domino snarls. “No more. I’ve decided that it’s time for your punishment.”

“D-Don’t!” I cover my head as his steps resonate through the floor, but they blow past me. Through trembling fingers, I watch him approach the bed instead.

He grabs the “present,” ripping off the lid. The box, he throws aside, revealing what it contained, brandished in his fist.

“N-No…” I’ve never heard my voice sound like this. This weak. Then again, I have—just in those memories I’ve pushed to the back of my mind, never to revisit. “Don’t!”

I’m on my feet, racing toward the door with a single-minded focus.

I don’t even see him coming.

Wham! I hit the floor on my side, unsure of what struck me. Or where. The air wheezes from my lungs as specks of light dot my vision. A shadow moves from the corner of my eye. His hand.

He grabs my hair, yanking me onto my stomach.

“I said, on your knees.”

I rush to comply, toppling over twice in my attempt. When I look up, he’s standing over me, that thing trailing from his hand to graze the floor.

It’s a whip. Brand-new, made of braided black leather that fans into a tail of three separate points. They’re naked—not tipped with metal, thank God—but I know that the pain is only slightly less. The wounds won’t scar the same way. But God, will it hurt.

“Please, don’t—”

“You were twenty-two minutes late the first night,” he growls. With a flick of his wrist, he extends the whip. “You ignored Ines’ request. For that, I will double your tally. And after the stunt you just pulled…”

His eyes glow, and I know there’s no point in running.

I go numb, crying silent tears as he moves to stand behind me. His shadow paints the floor, illustrating exactly what he’s doing—not that I need the visual.

Crack!He tests the whip against the air with a sound that draws a whimper from my chest.

“Please don’t—”

“You try to run, and I’ll add fifty more lashes for every attempt. You brought this upon yourself.”

Fire.It’s like being severed in two, this kind of pain. My brain disconnects from my body, and I’m just a bystander watching a pathetic, sniveling creature at the mercy of someone else.

One.

“Your father coddled you like a fucking child your entire life, and you obeyed him, didn’t you? His perfect little girl?”

Two.

I groan as three individual lines catch the flesh clinging to my spine. It hurts. So badly…

I was wrong before. He is nothing like my father.

Roy drew out my punishments sadistically with an enviable sense of control. He rarely gave in to rage from the outset. It was a game with him. How long could he maintain restraint? Always right until I’d least expect it.

“You helped him!”

Three.

Seven.

Eleven.

“You helped him kill her, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

On the one hand, I know that Domino’s voice is in my ear, booming and gruff with rage. At the same time, another voice overlays him.

“You’ve made me do this, you understand? You aren’t held to the same standard as those other little bastards. You are a Pavalos!”

“P-Please.”

Another blow drowns out the plea.

Fifteen…

Or is it seventeen?

“Not a day goes by when I don’t fucking regret letting your mother carry you to term. You are a disappointment, Ada. A fucking disgrace! Say that you deserve this. Say it!”

“I’m sorry.” I go prone, pressing my forehead to the floor. I’m sobbing openly, snot mingling with the tears. It’s what he wants, so I cry and rock back and forth with the pain. I put on a show; I give in to the fear. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I deserve it; I’m sorry. Please, Papa—”

“Jesus Christ.”

I blink, confused. That voice isn’t like Roy’s. Never before would he relent this early. No. I’d need to repent for longer, and far more earnestly than that. I’d need to prove without a doubt that I deserved his forgiveness.

No matter how much blood he drew.

Thud!

I flinch, gritting my teeth against the next searing pain.

But it doesn’t come. The only sound to follow is the slap of footsteps retreating from the room, into the hall.

When I finally contort myself to peek around my arm, I realize he’s gone. Domino—because my father was never here. Nearby, the whip rests discarded on the floor, and I crawl in my rush to scurry as far from it as I can. My hip strikes the wall, and I finally take stock of the agony radiating up and down my back.

He lacked the cruel precision of Papa. He was ruthless. Reckless. My back feels sticky, my flesh so raw that it hurts to even attempt to stand or sit upright.

So, I curl into a ball and breathe through the agony.

He’ll return soon enough.

He never finished counting.