SEVEN

CAMILLA

I froze the second I heard his voice.

“I believe you’re going somewhere, miss?”

Slow. Calm. Almost playful. But there was a sharp edge underneath that made my blood run cold. My entire body stiffened.

I shook my head so fast my hair whipped against my shoulders. “No… no, I’m not going anywhere.” My voice came out louder than I intended. Heart hammering, pulse thundering in my ears.

He chuckled. Low. Dark. The kind of laugh that sent a shiver crawling up my spine. Then he stepped closer, the air around him shifting, electric.

His hand wrapped around my throat. Not enough to choke, but firm, deliberate, a reminder of the control he held. I could feel it in every nerve ending. My breath hitched.

“You should have listened to me, pretty girl. I warned you not to run.”

Instinctively, my hands went up, brushing against his wrist, trembling. “No… no, no, I’m not running. I swear.”

“Camilla…” Ama’s voice floated from behind me, small, panicked. “Oh… sir…”

August’s head snapped toward her. His glare—it could have frozen fire. I flinched. “I told you to watch her.”

Ama went white as paper. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she stammered. Her voice shook with guilt, almost audible panic.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at her again. His focus snapped back to me. Then, without warning, he bent, hooked an arm around my waist, and lifted me as easily as if I weighed nothing. My head dangled toward his back, face inches from his ass. My world tilted, stomach dropping in a dizzying rush.

“Sir, please—” Ama started, frantic, worried.

He ignored her completely. Just strode back into the penthouse, each step measured, confident, unbothered by the chaos trailing us. Her footsteps hurried behind us, rambling apologies trailing after him. “It’s all my fault. I should have stayed right there. I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t think—”

He didn’t hear. Didn’t care. Or maybe he did, and it didn’t matter.

He carried me through the living room, up the stairs, and down the long hallway. Not to the guest room. Not under Ama’s supervision. To his room.

The door closed behind us with a heavy, final click, locking us in.

He dropped me onto my feet. I stumbled, catching myself against the edge of his massive bed. Every nerve in my body screamed, my pulse hammering as I tried to regain some sense of balance.

“Go kneel beside the bed,” he said. His tone wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t polite. It was a command, a law.

I stared at him. “Why?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Camilla. Go. Kneel.”

Something in that tone—the sharpness, the inevitability—made my knees buckle before my mind could even consider arguing. 

I moved. Slowly. My shins pressed into the soft carpet, the fibers tickling and grounding me, but doing nothing to calm the chaos in my chest. Heart hammering loud enough that I felt sure he could hear it.

“I want your face down,” he continued. “Do not look up until I am done with you.”

I swallowed, nodding, whispering, “Okay.” My forehead pressed to the carpet, arms stretched out in front of me. Waiting. Dread curling in my stomach.

The silence stretched. Long. Heavy. I could hear my own heartbeat thudding. The faint rustle of his movement.

Then footsteps. He returned. Strong hands lifted me effortlessly, positioning me over the bed. My upper body leaned forward, ass pushed high, vulnerable, exposed.

He paused, slow, deliberate. A predator taking inventory, every detail noted. The hem of my dress was lifted, cool air washing over my skin. Then his palms smoothed over me—warm, possessive.

“Now I want you to count, Camilla,” he said. Rough. Controlled. His words sank into my stomach like lead. “You disobeyed me. I hope you know it is only right that you get punished.”

My stomach twisted. I shook my head violently. “I’m sorry. Please. I’m sorry.”

Then the first strike landed—sharp, sudden, fire blooming across my skin. Not his hand. Something thinner, crueler, precise. A whip. My body jerked.

“What—” I gasped, looking back, but his eyes, dark and feral, silenced me instantly. There was a wildness in his gaze I hadn’t expected, something almost unrecognizable.

I dropped my forehead back to the mattress, breathing ragged, heart hammering.

“If you disobey me one more time,” he said quietly, dangerously, “you won’t like it.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice barely audible. “I won’t disobey you again.”

The second strike came, harder this time, flames blooming across my skin. I flinched, gasping.

“One,” I managed.

He paused briefly, rubbing the spot gently, soothing, reminding me—control and pain wrapped into one.

The third. “Two.”

The fourth, fifth… each one sharper, each one followed by the slow, deliberate rub of his hands, teaching me the rhythm of his dominance. Pain and comfort, punishment and tenderness in the same breath.

By the tenth strike, tears were sliding down my face, silent but burning, unstoppable. By fifteen, I collapsed forward entirely, knees giving way, body shaking violently.

“I’m sorry… I can’t anymore,” I whispered, voice breaking, sobs threatening.

The whip thudded softly to the carpet. I heard him moving behind me, slow, deliberate, gentle.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice raw, broken, almost human in its vulnerability. “I’m so sorry.”

Confusion twisted inside me. One moment, I was the one being punished. The next, it sounded like he was the one in pain.

He turned me gently, my sore, hot skin facing him now. His hands rubbed slow, tender circles over the areas he had just struck. Soft kisses landed on each cheek. Tender. Careful. As if trying to erase every sting, every mark, every moment of fear.

Then, without warning, he pulled me onto his lap. Cradled me against his chest. His lips traced the tears from my cheeks, from my forehead, from the curve of my eyelids. His hands held me as if I were fragile glass.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered repeatedly. “I’m so sorry, Camilla.”

I couldn’t stop it. The sobs came in full force, shaking my entire body. My head buried in his chest, my heart pounding. He held me tighter, rocking me slowly.

His thigh shifted beneath me, and I winced in pain.

He froze instantly. “It hurts… I hurt you.” His voice cracked, soft and guttural, raw with regret.

He stood quickly, setting me on the bed with so much care it made my chest ache, tender, aware of every bruise, every burn, every mark of the punishment.

“I’ll tell Ama to bring you numbing cream,” he murmured, fingers running through his dark hair, frustration and apology mixing in a sharp exhale. “I’m so sorry, Camilla.”

Then he left. The door closed softly behind him, leaving me stunned, sore, trembling.

I sat there, processing. What the hell just happened? The switch. One second, he was feral, commanding, punishing. The next, gentle, tender, broken. Confused. Vulnerable. Apologetic.

Was this… bipolar? Or some other kind of dangerous obsession? I had no idea. All I knew was I was trapped. Trapped in a world where pain and pleasure, fear and tenderness, were intertwined in ways I didn’t understand.