A few more hours spent poring over the code. Breagha knocks on my door, telling me the family’s gathered for Sunday Roast. I shout that I’m not hungry and hunker down for another review, teasing apart Wolf’s strategy.
I remember the swoop in my belly when he gave me mysafeword. I remember the steady pulse between my thighs when I said, “Green.”
My eyes are scratchy. My back aches. My neck is stiff from staring at my screen. I’m almost ready to give up, to concede that I can’t parse one more word of code. And then I see it.
I remember the pull of the terrycloth around my ankles, the tug on my wrists. I remember the thrill ofchoosingto splay my knees, to expose myself to Wolf’s frozen gaze.
I left a single line of code vulnerable. I failed to specify a time delay at a crucial step. That was enough of an open door to allow Wolf to slip through behind me. Shaddow was right—I’m a fucking loser.
I remember the shock of Wolf’s belt landing exactly where he promised. I remember the roll of my orgasm, growing with every measured blow.
I’ll take that under advisement.
I’mthat.I’m the thing Wolf will consider owning. I’ll be his to manipulate, to control. That shouldn’t matter. I’ve always belonged to someone. I’m my father’s daughter. I’m a Lynch clan princess.
But being handed off to Wolf is different. It cancels what I did last night—choosingto go with him,allowinghim to tie me up,lettinghim make me come. It turns me into his property. It hurts.
It hurts so much that I need a distraction. I need another pain—oneImake. OneIcontrol.
I just need to wait till midnight.
I watch the clock on my nightstand, the digital one that I bought for just this purpose. At twenty till midnight, I start my preparation.
Ichoose to take the leather case from under my mattress, filling my head with the buzz of a million bees.
Ichoose to braid my hair, pulling the plaits tight.
Ichoose to go to the jacks, to wash my hands three times, drying them carefully between each round.
Ichoose to inspect my scalpel, testing its edge against my thumb.
Ichoose to open the bottle of bright blue antiseptic, to swab my thigh three times, letting it dry between each washing.
11:58.
11.59.
Midnight.
I insert the tip of the blade, pushing with just the right amount of pressure, slicing my skin for just the right length. I free the bees to pulse through my veins, to sting all the way to my heart.
It hurts, a lot. The metal scalpel burns like I’ve heated it in a furnace. The cut stings—from my bedroom’s cool air, or from the antiseptic I sponged on, or from the failure of cutting again when I’ve promised myself, I’ve sworn, I’ve vowed never do this again.
My blood buzzes as it wells up, angry as a hive of drones. It’s bright red against my pale, pale thigh, almost fluorescent. It shimmers. It glistens. And then it flows down my leg, humming furiously as it beads over my old scars, over all the promises I’ve ever made to myself, all the ones I’ve broken.
The trail of new blood reaches the bruise around my ankle. It follows the shape of a terrycloth belt. It spreads across skin the color of lazy summer twilight. It darkens. It cools.
Only then does the buzzing finally stop.
11
COLE
My monthly visit with the Andersons behind me (and my refrigerator filled with the leftovers Mrs. A insisted I take home), it’s time to get back to the real world. I need to decide if marrying Kate is worth the twenty million dollars her father is offering.
She says she hates me. That she’ll never willingly come to my bed. That her safeword is permanently set to red.
I’ve tamed plenty of brats before, and I know how to practice patience. I can tolerate a certain amount of sass, giving my sub room to express herself so she doesn’t break permanently.