Her entire body trembled as she nibbled the food and contemplated her plan. It would be necessary to kill Crow with a single blow, and considering the size of the small knife in her possession, that left her with only one option–stabbing him through the eye. She shuddered.
“Are you cold, your highness?”
“No, sir,” she mumbled, feeling sick. But how would she even retrieve the knife without his notice? Nothing seemed to get past the man.
She allowed her bowl to slip through her fingers and topple to the floor at her feet. “Forgive me,” she muttered. “My hands are clumsy after being tied.” She reached down to catch the bowl, snatching the knife when Crow stood to call to the Saxons for a cloth. Tucking the knife under her thigh, she scooped her meat back into the bowl and accepted the cloth to wipe the juices from the floor.
She handed the bowl to Crow.
He looked at the food in it. “Do you wish for a fresh serving?”
“No, thank you,” she said. “I am not hungry.”
He shrugged and handed the bowls and the cloth to the Saxons, shutting the door behind them. He came back to tie her bonds and she sat still as a stone, waiting for his approach. The moment he squatted before her, she grabbed the knife and struck in one fluid movement.
He caught her wrist and twisted his head the instant before impact, but her blade still struck, catching him below the left eye and tearing across his cheek when he turned his head. She gasped, terrified at what she had done, watching blood spurt from the gash.
Crow wrenched her arm backward, slamming her wrist on his knee to dislodge the knife from her grasp. His arm returned, cocked to backhand her, but froze mid-air. She could not breathe, her heart stuck in her throat, once again paralyzed by her own terror, though whether she was more afraid of what she had done or its consequences, she could not tell.
He hauled her to her feet and carried her several paces to his chair, where he rested one foot upon the seat and pushed her torso over his thigh. When he yanked up her tunic and chemise and began to unfasten his sword belt, she realized his intent. Fighting as if for her life, she struggled against his hold, forcing him to drop the belt and wrap both his arms around her, pinning her arms to her side.
He spoke in her ear through gritted teeth. “You can take my punishment and keep me as your guard or I can leave you to see how you fare with the Saxons. Which is it?”
She stilled.
“Wise decision,” he said, bending her wrist behind her back as he leaned over to pick up the belt. She looked over her shoulder as he doubled it, and drew his arm back to swing, blood still dripping from his face at a frightening rate.
The leather bit into her bare skin, leaving a sting in its wake. He whipped her fast and hard, each lash falling right after the last, searing her bottom with the flexible leather until she danced with the pain. Still he continued thrashing her, with no sign of stopping. She wondered if he had lost his senses in his own pain, whether he would ever stop, and if he did not, how long she could take it. She attempted stoicism, but at last she reached a breaking point.
“Please!” she gasped.
To her surprise, the spanking stopped.
“Please, what?” he demanded.
She could not think what answer to give.
“Please stop or please forgive me?” he prompted.
Please stop. “Please forgive me,” she gasped.
He lifted her from his thigh, turned, and sat on the chair, pulling her to perch on his knee, her clothing still lifted so her bare skin connected with his hose. The intimacy of it affected her, the humiliation outweighed by her physical response to his dominance. Wetness leaked from her sex, and she feared he would feel it soaking his hose. Her bottom stung, the heat only stoking the fire between her legs.
She dared look at him and gasped at the sight. His entire shoulder and front of his undershirt were soaked with blood, the lower half of the mask clung to his face in the sticky mess.
“You must remove the mask─”
“Do not speak,” he ordered with gruff authority.
She obeyed, watching him with held breath. He sat, staring at a point in the distance, as if thinking, or more likely, recovering his temper.
He released her, pushing her to stand. “Go fetch me the knife,” he commanded.
She complied, her mind whirling with fearful thoughts of what he planned to do with it. Did he mean to exact retribution? Make the same cut on her face she had made on his? Or would he just threaten her with it? She considered her options, and despite having a useful weapon in her hand, she knew she would not use it again. One failed attempt was all she could manage. At least for one day. She handed it to him, hilt first, and found herself pulled roughly to sit on his knee again.
“What was your plan?” he asked. His voice sounded like his own again, the threat she had heard in it moments before ebbing.
She could not meet his eye, nor could she look at his bloodied face, the wound gaping open and still bleeding profusely as he did nothing to staunch it.
“You were aiming for my eye?”
She gave a small assent.
“Probably your best strategy considering your size and the length of the blade. But how did you plan to handle my men out there?”
“Could you spare me the critique?” she asked, more to hide her fluster than out of ire.
His voice turned hard again. “Do not speak disrespectfully to me.”
“Or what?” she dared.
Crow let his head fall to the side, looking exasperated. In the next moment, he upended her over his other knee, his thigh clamping over her legs to pin her in place. He shoved her clothing up and began spanking her with the flat of his hand, which should not hurt a grown woman, but did. Her bottom was already swollen and sore from the whipping, and now his hand stung like a dozen bee stings as he smacked at a pace too rapid for her to catch her breath. Lying over his lap, being spanked with his hand made her feel like a naughty child, even more shameful than being bent over his knee and whipped. She could not squirm out of his grasp, no matter how hard she tried.
“Forgive me!” she cried. “Forgive me!” she cried louder, fearing he had not heard her.
He did stop, his large hand coming to rest on her bottom, which still twitched and pulsed from the assault. To her shock, he rubbed her throbbing cheeks, making slow lazy circles over her heated flesh.
What was he doing?
The sensuality of his touch charged the air between them. His thumb trailed between her cheeks and she froze, but he withdrew it, continuing the slow strokes. She imagined his view–her bare bottom reddened, her sex probably visible between her legs. Because she did crave his forgiveness, she irrationally hoped he took pleasure in the sight of her.
Eventually he stopped the caress, though his leg remained firmly clamped over hers, holding her in place. She heard the sound of fabric ripping, and looked over her shoulder to see him cutting another swatch from the bottom of his undershirt with the knife she had brought him. Balling it up, he held it to his cheek, at last attending to his wound. Holding her in the shameful position whilst he worked to right the damage she had done completed her humiliation.
“Are you finished with your rebellion?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said, lifting her to her feet.
She stood between his knees, unable to meet his eye, blushing from the humility of her predicament.
He shocked her by picking her up and carrying her the few feet to the pallet, where he laid her gently on her side.
Just Right!
