Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 322(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 215(@300wpm)
“No, you brat. It is not a sex thing, it is a punishment for disrespect thing.”
“I’ve disrespected you?”
“You sound surprised. Yes. You have. I am used to obedience from those around me. I give orders, and they are followed.”
“Soldiers,” I say. “You’re talking about soldiers. Not wives. I believe they’re different.”
He snorts. “They might be. Mine will not be. I expect to be obeyed. I expect to be spoken to with respect. And I expect you to mind what I say.”
He called me a brat. I haven’t been called that in a very long time, not since there was a stable hand who didn’t like me when I was a girl. He thought I was spoiled because my mother let me ride whichever ponies I liked. What he didn’t realize and what this man who calls himself my mate also doesn’t realize is that I have never been spoiled in any way, and I am not a brat. I say what I think because I don’t know what else to say. I have never understood Maraline’s little games of what she called tact, and which always seemed to somehow possess more cruelty than my own plainer speech.
I still don’t understand what he is annoyed about. I told him that he didn’t have to be romantic with me if he didn’t feel it, and I told him that I was his wife. Both of those things are true, and hardly cause to call me a brat.
“You’ve not said anything that makes sense,” I comment.
His brow furrows, and I know that I have yet again said the wrong thing.
“Maybe you could say it again. Try using longer words.”
His jaw clenches. Okay. That was worse. Oops.
“Come here, you little…” He reaches for me, and I do what any sensible creature does: I shy away. He misses his grip the first time, but not the second. He catches me by the back of my simple gown, right up near the nape of my neck.
Besides the doctor, I have never been touched by a grown man before. I had no idea that they were all so incredibly strong. Arthur handles me as though I weigh nothing more than a doll. I feel my feet leave the floor as he swings me around.
He slaps my ass with his open palm, imparting a horrible sting that makes me yelp. It is an incredible pain that is swiftly followed by a good dozen more slaps delivered mercilessly.
It is painful, that much is obvious. But what I did not expect, or understand, is that it also fills me with shame. It is deeply embarrassing to be whipped, even by hand. My hips are pressed over his thigh as he sits down with me over his knee.
“You are my wife. My bride. My mate. You belong to me. Your presence in my life is ordained and commanded by the Artifice. All of those things mean that you will have to learn how to behave in this world, which is my world.”
He smacks me again, once, twice, thrice, on and on. This is a painful indignity.
And then he subjects me to the worst indignity so far. He throws up my skirt and strikes me over my undergarments.
“Think before you speak, Mila,” he growls. “Remember that your words have power, and much damage can come from simply saying whatever comes to mind. There are times I will want to know what you think, but I expect you to express yourself respectfully and mindfully.”
His big palm makes solid, stinging contact with my ass over and over, making it throb and ache. This is a humiliating punishment that serves to somehow make me feel smaller than I did before. I don’t like it. I don’t like it and I am not going to give into it.
He pauses for a moment, holding me in place, and speaking to me as if I am his to chastise.
“I hope you have learned your lesson.”
“I can assure you I have not. I have no idea what it is, besides the fact that you are willing to be an absolute brute for no particular reason.”
“The lesson was in minding your tongue.”
He doesn’t want me to talk? Very well. I shall say nothing. I feel as though I should cry, but I absolutely refuse to. He has spanked me in such a manner that cannot possibly befit his wife. I have never even seen a servant subjected to such humiliating discipline.
“Do you understand, Mila?”
I don’t answer him. I lie over his lap and I continue the stony silence. How dare he. How very fucking dare he.
“I see, and now you petulantly refuse to speak at all. I think you need some time to think about how you are going to behave,” he says, setting me on my feet and steering me toward a corner of the room. Yet again, I have absolutely no idea what he intends to do with me. I find myself in the corner, standing in the place two walls meet for some entirely inexplicable reasons.