Chapter 2: Knees

He's a whiny toddler—one who can't handle failure or rejection. The moment something doesn't go his way, he turns to violence.

 

Mrs. Hopson still has a black eye from his last assault.

 

He's not a figure of authority. He’s a ticking time bomb with too much power.

 

And I will kill myself before I ever feel his hand on my skin.

 

If I become his submissive, he’s allowed to touch me. Not sexually—there are strict rules against that—but he can still put his hands on my body whenever he wants.

 

We have to stay virgins for our future husbands.

 

Yes, we have sex classes. Practice sessions. But only females are allowed to participate. We’re trained in… creative ways.

 

I know Henry wants to touch me. His eyes crawl over my body every chance he gets, and he’s always finding the smallest excuse to punish me. He and his pack of friends are the worst kind of people. The top-tier assholes of this twisted university.

 

“Someone needs to beat you down, Danika. Collar you like the dog you are,” Henry snaps, his face inches from mine.

 

I feel flecks of his spit on my cheeks. I cringe inwardly.

 

No, not cringe—I nearly vomit.

 

“You’re not my dominant, Henry,” I remind him again, my voice clipped and steady.

 

He exhales sharply, irritated that I won't break.

 

“On your knees,” he growls.

 

I clench my jaw so hard I feel the bruise forming beneath the skin. My cheek is already burning from his earlier strike. He didn’t hold back. He never does.

 

And the order I absolutely despise the most is-

 

“On your knees, dog,” he spits again.

 

I hate this. I hate that I have no choice. My knees have met the floor for this tantrum-throwing tyrant more times than I can count. And I know Emma will come for me later. She thinks I’m trying to steal her man.

 

Bitch, please.

 

Several male dominants are watching from across the classroom, their eyes locked on us with a sick kind of fascination. Henry’s their golden boy. Around here, whoever screams the loudest gets the most respect. Some of them probably get off on watching this sick power play unfold.

 

Daniel—Henry’s best friend—lifts his phone, filming us from beside my almost-friend and his sub, Isla. She watches in quiet horror, but stays silent. Smart girl. She knows how to survive here.

 

Everything inside me begs to slap Henry across the face. Just once. Just to feel something other than humiliation. But I know better. That would only make things worse. It would be funny, though.

 

One day, Danika. One day, you'll get your revenge. But not today.

 

I lower myself to the floor with slow, measured grace—an act I’ve perfected over the years. Henry practically vibrates with satisfaction as my knees press into the soft carpet. I keep my head down, my eyes locked on his polished, overpriced shoes. They probably cost more than everything I own.

 

“Kiss my feet, Dani,” he orders.

 

Humiliation crashes over me like a tidal wave. The entire classroom is silent, watching. Judging.

 

Most of the girls are too far gone, brainwashed beyond recognition. But some, like Isla and Rose, still have a sliver of fight left in them. They know how to toe the line just enough to survive.

 

And then there's me—the cautionary tale. The example. How not to act.

 

I’m a walking commercial for what rebellion gets you.

 

CRACK.

 

The ruler slices through the air and connects with my face again. The sound is sharp enough to split the silence in half. Pain blooms like fire across my skin. It’s so bad I almost grunt aloud, and my jaw throbs with what feels like a hairline fracture.

 

But I won't give him the satisfaction.

 

He will never see my pain. He will never see a single tear.

 

Slowly, I tilt my head and lower it toward his shoes. My hair grazes the floor. My nose brushes the gleaming black leather. I press a kiss to his right shoe, then the left, the sheen of my lip gloss leaving behind a faint, shimmering mark.

 

I pull back. He stares at his shoes like he’s just won a war.

 

I know he will keep the smudges of my lip gloss on his shoes. I know he will show it to his friends like trophies. I know their stares will linger on me as I walk past.

 

'The untouchable has kissed his shoes,' I will hear later on. It’ll go on for days—until my lips finally fade from the leather.

 

He steps back, leaving me kneeling in front of him like a trained animal. His eyes rake over me, his ego bloated with power.

 

I keep my hands folded in my lap. My eyes on the floor. The weight of the entire room presses down on me—disgust, pity, curiosity. I let it all settle in my bones like a familiar poison, knowing I’ll cry it out later.

 

When I’m alone. In my room without Isla. When no one can see me.

 

I wish I could say their stares didn't matter, that I am stronger than that, but I can't. Their judgment cut me open every single day, making my mind bleed. And some days, the bleeding doesn’t stop.

 

“To the headmaster, Danika,” Henry suddenly commands.

 

My head jerks up. No. No, no, no.

 

“Explain to him what you’ve done,” he adds, his gaze fixed on my bruised cheek.

 

Terror skitters down my spine.

 

The headmaster is the last person I ever want to see.

 

Because he’s Henry’s father.

 

And worse than his son.

 

My rage simmers beneath my skin, white-hot and ready to explode. I know the headmaster won’t protect me. I know the punishment will be crueler than usual this time. Every week I end up in his office, and every week he finds new ways to break me. His words cut deeper each time, the pain increases, my fear heightens.

 

I hate every single man in this godforsaken school.

 

“Fuck you, Henry,” I snap and surge to my feet.

 

Gasps echo across the classroom. Shock ripples through the air like lightning. Fury explodes behind Henry's eyes.

 

But I don’t care.

 

My hand clutches the sharp pencil I picked up earlier. Before I know what I’m doing, I throw it.

 

It hits him square between the eyes.

 

Emma screams. Two other girls follow. Panic rises in my throat, but adrenaline pushes me into action. I turn toward the door, ready to run.

 

NOW.

 

Henry’s fingers brush my wrist.

That’s it. He’s lost control.

 

He’s not allowed to touch me. That rule is sacred. Violation of it could get him expelled in a heartbeat.

 

But he’s the headmaster’s son. The rules don’t always apply to him. And if I let him get a grip on me now, I might not survive it. He’s beyond furious. He could break something—my wrist, my arm… my neck. He's in a state of absolute fury, and it's aimed at me.

 

I rush through the door and slam the door shut behind me so loud, it rattles the windows.

 

I thought being late to class would be the worst part of today.

 

Turns out, it’s going to get a whole lot worse.