Chapter 3: Headmaster

I drag my feet across the black marble floor toward the most dreaded hallway in the entire university. It’s dimly lit, the only brightness coming from a harsh spotlight aimed directly at the three chairs. This is where students wait for their doom.

 

I take a seat and feel the camera’s gaze lock onto me. I don’t look at it, but I know the red blinking light means I’m being recorded. I know the headmaster is already watching.

 

But he doesn’t call me in—not for another forty-five minutes. He stretches the silence, savoring his power. Letting the fear sink in.

 

There are rumors that he killed his wife—Henry’s mother. That he found her in bed with another man and stabbed her sixty times. They say he went so mad with rage, he slaughtered half the staff who were present in the villa that day.

 

So no, I’m not excited to be here.

 

He hates women.

 

A sharp beep breaks the silence. My signal.

 

I rise slowly and walk into the lion’s den.

 

His office is as cold and masculine as he is—spacious, dark, and lined with heavy, polished wood. Every sharp edge seems designed for punishment. Once, he threw me against a dresser so hard I needed stitches from the university’s private doctor.

 

We have four of them—doctors, that is—mostly to tend to females injured by their dominants. Every punishment is acceptable here, within certain boundaries. No fatal injuries, no lasting head trauma… but everything else? Fair game.

 

Emma’s seen the doctor more than I have.

 

I knock on the door, three times, and slowly enter the death trap.

 

Mr. Miller sits behind his desk, scribbling furiously on thick parchment, pretending I don’t exist. I enter, my steps slow and silent, and let the door fall shut behind me. The click of the door is familiar and always bring a sense of dread inside me.

 

I shuffle closer, nervously wringing my hands, and take a seat opposite of him.

 

“What now, Danika?” he growls without looking up.

 

“I—”

 

My tongue freezes. I try to find the safest, most acceptable wording.

 

“I was late to class, Sir. And… I was rude to a dominant,” I say finally.

 

He sighs and lifts his gaze. His eyes—exact replicas of his son’s—pin me in place.

 

“This is the second time this week you’ve been sent here.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” I reply, my throat tightening.

 

“Do you think my time is here to be wasted?” His brow rises.

 

“No, Sir,” I answer quickly.

 

His eyes shift to my cheek. It’s swollen. I know the bruise is already forming, an ugly mark of what happened earlier.

 

“Looks like the dominant already punished you,” he notes, finally setting the pen down. An empty hand. A dangerous one.

 

“Yes, Sir,” I say quickly. “I’ll never do it again. I’m truly sorry, I—”

 

“Did I say you could speak?” he cuts in sharply.

 

I shake my head, my hair falling around my face.

 

“Hand on the corner,” he orders.

 

My stomach drops.

 

But I don't hesitate. Not like I do with Henry.

 

I place my hand on the sharp edge of the desk. My fingers curl around the corner tightly, bracing.

 

He picks up a heavy hardcover book, one I know so well, and he grips it in his hand with a heavy breath.

 

“You have shortcomings, Danika.”

 

He takes a breath—then slams it down.

 

Severe pain radiates through my hand. The sharp edge of the desk instantly impales my hand, and I feel blood stain his desk. That's what he likes to see. “You'll never find a husband with that despicable attitude,“ he barks, slamming the book again.

 

Another wave of pain surges through me, and blood drips onto the black marble below.

 

That's one of the reasons why we have such ridiculous expensive floors. It's expensive, and well, it cleans easy. Blood, urine, spit, hair, cum—I’ve seen it all.

 

All byproducts of punishment.

 

Blood, from beatings like this. Urine, from when girls are made to pee in front of their dominants. Spit, when they’re degraded. Hair, ripped out by the handful. And cum… for when dominants make us sit and watch them masturbate over us.

 

No sex, remember. But rape is a clear threat here. As soon as we leave this school.. We're free game.

 

He puts the book down, and I'm surprised by the small amount of hits. Normally, five is the minimum. “Which dominant did you disrespect?” he asks, though he already knows.

 

“Henry Miller,” I murmur, keeping my eyes down.

 

He exhales, like I’ve confirmed something he already decided.

 

“Henry has offered to be your dominant,” he says. I swallow thickly, not once looking up at him.

 

I shake my head as answer.

 

I know multiple dominants have offered to be my dominant. I've heard them all. I've denied them all. Henry has tried multiple times.

 

And I know the headmaster doesn't take my answer lightly. I’m a bad reputation. A spark of rebellion. The gossip of rival academies.

 

“Danika,” he says with chilling calm, “by the end of tomorrow morning, you will be assigned to a dominant.”

 

“No!” I shout, my head snapping up.

 

His hand slams across my face.

 

I’m thrown from the chair and hit the marble floor with a sickening crack. My lungs empty on impact. I claw for breath as pain radiates through my entire side.

 

He stands, towering over me, gripping the book again.

 

“It is your duty as a woman. If you don’t choose a dominant, you’re out. And once you’re out…” He sneers down at me like I’m something he stepped in. “Any man can do whatever they want with you. You’ll no longer fall under the protection of this institution. I know what men are capable off, and what they will do to you.”

 

Because you are one of those men.

 

“My son included,” he adds. “It’s time he released some of that frustration you’ve built up in him.”

 

My cheek rests against the marble. The cold feels good, numbing.

 

If there’s one difference between father and son—it’s strength. Mr. Miller is stronger. So much stronger.

 

“Henry will be a good dominant for you. He'll beat some sense into you. Gods know you need it,” he says as he bends down. He removes the hair from my face, extremely careful not to touch my face, and looks down at my bruised face. “If you don’t accept, Danika, I will throw you out. And I’ll send my son after you. He can use you, ruin you, and toss you aside like trash. Maybe then he’ll finally stop fantasizing about you.”

 

I'd rather slit my wrists.

 

I glance at him, at his serious, murderous expression. Is this what his wife saw seconds before she was murdered? Was she simply looking for a soft touch from another male, one that her husband couldn't provide?

 

“You have twenty-four hours,” he snaps. “I’ll inform the dominants.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” I manage to reply.