Uncharted Territory (The Compass Series Book 3) (16 page)

Hunter leads me to the library where he sits on the couch and urges me into his lap.

“Do you remember the first time you were in this room?”

My mind flashes back to posing in front of the fireplace and then crawling across the rug to him—how it flooded me with desire, how I’d finally felt the giddy excitement the girls at school had always reserved for the boy of the moment who I’d been bored with. It had been the first time I’d understood what everyone made such a big fuss about. I also remember the horrible, hideous meltdown I’d had not long after. Hopefully he’s talking about the former instead of the latter. “Yes, sir.”

“From the moment I saw you, I wanted you. It wasn’t an accident that I was the one who told Tobias to leave you alone. From the second you walked into my house, I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. I watched you. I listened to everyone talk about you.”

I knew he had, but the pleasure burns anew that I held his attention even then.

“You were so beautiful. But even though you were so polished, I knew there was something raw about you. I wanted that for myself. I wanted to tame you, teach you, mold you. I have. But no matter how much of you I get, I always want more. You’ve put a spell on me, my wicked little enchantress.”

He taps my nose with an index finger, and I can’t help smiling at the uncharacteristically silly and fond gesture. It’s in these sweetly intimate moments that he calls me enchantress, sorceress…witch. I don’t flinch anymore, conditioned as I’ve been, but snuggle further into him, seeking comfort while he continues.

“So you can’t blame a man for wanting to possess you, own you. No matter how much of you I get, it will never be enough. You’re going to graduate in a year and I’d like for you to come be mine when you do. Not just in the evenings, not just on the weekends. Always. That’s what I want from you. Everything. Maybe you’re not ready yet and that’s understandable. You’re young and it’s a big decision. You need to start thinking about it because when I ask, I don’t want hedging and I don’t want it to come from Rey. I want it from you.”

My eyes must be big as saucers and I open my mouth to respond, but he forges on, not leaving room for me to gather my thoughts.

“In the meantime, I apologize. Of course you may have one evening per week to yourself. And should I wish to discuss our contract in the future, I’ll give you more warning. I’m giving it to you now. We’ll be discussing the possibility of you becoming my slave in the near future.”

My lungs collapse and I can’t say which is heavier: the weight of Hunter’s desire for me, my fear of surrendering my will entirely to someone else—even someone like Hunter—or the pressure of having to make such a decision at all. But I force my lips and my tongue and my teeth to form the words: “Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s enough talking. I can think of about a dozen things your mouth would be better suited to. On your knees, baby.”

I climb down from his lap and kneel before him, happy that’s over. Hunter unbuttons and unzips his trousers and my mouth waters with want. Not just for the familiar feel of him in my mouth, the anticipation of his hands closing into fists in my hair, but also for the taste of certainty that comes with this act. I can please him, I will please him, and that confidence helps drown out the doubt crashing around my head. Just as he knows it will.

‡

Year Four

“W
hat’s the matter,
baby?”

I’m curled in Hunter’s lap in tears. I bury my head further into his chest as he applies firm strokes of his hand to my neck.

“Did your mom call?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have a fight?”

I hesitate. Not a fight exactly. Doesn’t it have to be two-sided to be a fight?

“What did she say to you?”

“She said…” Normally I don’t talk too much to Hunter about my family. He’s refused to meet them or introduce me to his parents. He doesn’t speak with them often and hardly ever sees them, even though they only live in Philadelphia. Family feels like something he’s roped off, too sordid to deal with.

I don’t usually mind, preferring to keep them out of the picture myself, but sometimes I crave the same direction and comfort he offers me with all my other problems. And sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by dealing with them that I can’t hide it from him. I try to handle them while I’m at school, but after several tetchy voicemails—“Indie, this is your mother. I don’t think returning a phone call is too much to ask”—I’d called her back while I was here.

I’d tried to manage my feelings myself, but when I’d come down to the library and he’d asked me how my day was, I couldn’t contain myself. So here we are.

“Tell me now.”

“She said my not bringing a date to Ivy’s wedding reflected poorly on her. That they sent me to Princeton to find a suitable husband and what on earth have I been doing for the past four years? She said that I’m self-absorbed and defiant and it’s not going to matter how smart I am when I end up old and alone because I’m frigid.”

“And what part of that are you worried is true?”

“None of it, but I have no way to defend myself.” I scrub tears from my face and sit up. Most of the time it doesn’t bother me that Hunter and I are a couple in private, in the scene and nowhere else. Usually if I have to attend a function, Rey comes with me, but he can’t this weekend.

“We’re not talking about this again, India.” His face is an implacable and infuriating mask. Easy for him to say.

My fists clench. “Again? We never talk about this.”

“You signed a contract so we don’t have to. I’m not going to argue with you. If you insist on it, you’ll be punished. Your choice.”

My head is foggy with anger and frustration. This is so un-fucking-fair. I hate being wedged between two intractable people who demand opposite things.

“Hunter, please. Just this once—”

“No. That’s ten.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t need a reason. That’s twenty.”

“Why would it be so awful? I wouldn’t say you’re my boyfriend.”

“Good because you’d be lying. You know how I feel about lying. You’re up to thirty. Do you really want to keep going? I’m not going to your sister’s wedding and pretending to be something I’m not. I don’t know why you are, either. You don’t even like those people.”

“You know why.”

“Is this about the money? You have options. You don’t need them. You could be done with everything: school, your family… I’d take care of you, you know I would, but you’re just too stubborn to say yes. That’s another ten. We’re done discussing this.”

My rage is bubbling over. Yes, my options—if I want to keep the life I’m used to—are to stick it out and be a good little girl for three more years to get my trust fund when I turn twenty-five or to tell my parents to fuck off and be Hunter’s indentured servant until he tires of me.

He thinks I should be flattered he wants me to be his pet, his beloved sub who wants for nothing, who he trains up precisely how he’d like, his trophy slave for everyone to admire. Sometimes that doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Until there’s something I want, I need, that he doesn’t want to give, and I’m left feeling hollow and lost. Like now.

He interrupts my pity party with a pinch above my elbow that makes me wince.

“The best I can offer is to clean up the mess afterward, which frankly, I shouldn’t have to. If you want to subject yourself to this, I’m not sure why I have to suffer the consequences. I’ve already given you the night off. I’m not capitulating to any more of your unreasonable demands. Go up to your room, clean yourself up, and be in the playroom in half an hour. Wear your green corset and don’t lace it too tight. You’re going to be there for a while.”

*

Hunter’s tethered me
to the spanking bench and gagged me, telling me he doesn’t want to listen to me anymore. I’m on my knees and my thighs are spread, held in place by cuffs attached just above my knees to the frame. My ass is thrust out, begging to be punished for my mouth’s transgressions. I’m guessing a paddle. He doesn’t usually use something harsher when I’ve earned so many, but I was very bad. Bad enough he pinches my nipples, and a clamp tightens on one and then the other. I pull back experimentally… He’s wrapped the chain for the clamps around the frame of the bench and anytime I move, I’m going to feel it in my nipples. Shit.

When I’ve tested my bonds, Hunter holds a familiar paddle in front of my face. It’s long and slender, like a leather-clad ruler with a handle.

“You’ll get twenty-five with this.”

Not bad. I’ve gotten double that before. It left marks for a few days, but I survived. Next?

“Ten with this.” He hefts his favorite fiberglass cane as if he needs to reacquaint himself with its weight. As if. That’s going to hurt like a bitch. But the thing that worries me is that the cane is usually the last stop of Hunter’s Tour de Force. I’ve got five strokes left. When he produces a crop that’s more whip than crop, I tug and immediately regret it, feeling the shooting pain in my nipples. “And five with this. Hopefully that will teach you to listen more carefully.”

This is the worst punishment I’ve ever gotten, and I tense, clutching the rubber balls in my hands. There’s a red one in my right and a yellow one in my left. If I drop either one, the session will stop. I don’t safeword often—Hunter’s attentive to my limits, and even when I think something might be too much, it very rarely is—but he’s pushing me today. Hard. Maybe that’s just what I need.

*

I bite down
hard on the bit gag between my teeth as the cane imprints another line across my ass. I grunt my agony, but there’s no respite, only a harsh line of fire overlaying the other ones. The tears are flowing from between my lashes. I don’t usually cry during punishment, but Hunter’s trespassed beyond my pain slut territory and is well into this-just-really-fucking-hurts land. I have two more with the cane and then five from the whippy crop.

I could safeword. I could literally drop the ball. The agony would stop because he always stops when I say the word. Always. As I’m debating, the last strokes are landing and I break. How can I safeword when he’s given me what I asked for, what I need? Nothing matters except making it through the next five lashes. That’s the only thing I can think about. Five stripes of stinging. Five lines of burning that won’t be extinguished when the whip leaves my skin. Five more welts to soak up my pain and confusion and make me hurt. If I can do that, I can do anything.

I’ll go to this wedding with my ass bruised and smarting from the whipping I’m currently taking, as well as another one I’m sure to get for reneging on my obligation to spend Saturday evenings with him. Every time I sit, every time I move, I’ll think of this instead of my mom and my sister’s snide remarks and effortless cruelty, my dad sneaking too many drinks to numb himself against the same. We’ll keep our secrets, the poisons we’ve picked to medicate ourselves from the constant emotional battering rams that are Samantha and Ivy Burke.

There’ll be another beating when I get home to silence their shrill voices for good and to let me get back to being myself. My real self. Not Indie, but India. India, who can eviscerate someone in a classroom debate during the day and curl up contentedly at Hunter’s feet at night. If I can take these last five lashes, surely I can bear the muted agony of three more years of being Indie Burke. Only one way to find out and it doesn’t involve safewords.