Severin ordered Isolde to go to Room 429 while he and Corvin left the VIP lounge—for what, she didn't know. Maybe Severin was seeing his guest off, considering Corvin hadn't come here for pleasure. He clearly had no interest in sleeping with one of Severin's carefully curated whores.
In Room 429, Isolde racked her brain trying to figure out how to amuse Severin—even just a little. She had asked Liraine what Severin might like, but Liraine had been absolutely useless. The only clue Isolde had came from Severin's earlier conversation with Corvin: Severin liked things extreme.
From the way Severin commanded his men, the way he walked, smoked his cigar, and even the arrogant way he sat and stared people down—Isolde could tell what kind of man he was. Dominant. Not just in how he ran his filthy empire but in bed, too.
She had proof twice now, Severin had fucked her, and both times had been brutal. The first time, he'd burned her with a cigarette and kicked her. The second, he slammed her head against the table so hard it split her forehead open.
Isolde undressed herself slowly, stripping down as she walked toward the collar and chain, the same one she'd worn the first time Severin brought her to this room. Room 429.
One deep breath. She prayed she wouldn't flinch, wouldn't regret this decision. This was the only way she knew to survive, at least until she could be sure Lucien kept his word.
Until she knew that for certain she couldn't die. She mustn't die. Because that would mean all of this had been for nothing. She fastened the collar around her neck. Naked, she knelt facing the door, waiting for Severin.
Her head bowed, eyes on the cold floor, her mind wandered—thinking about the wreck her life had become. Every time she was alone, surrounded by silence, she couldn't stop herself from thinking about the stupid choices that had dragged her into this fucked-up mess.
The sound of the door opening echoed through the room. Isolde, who had been bowing her head, lifted it to look at Severin as he stepped inside.
She forced the corners of her lips into a smile, pretending to be pleased by his arrival—even though she knew her body would be torn apart by him soon enough.
"Master…" Isolde whispered softly, lips curled into that fake smile.
The corner of Severin's mouth twisted into a smirk—confirmation that Isolde hadn't stripped herself and knelt here for nothing. She'd learned from the first time when Severin entered and found her still fully clothed he'd been furious. He'd kicked her hard enough to leave a bruise.
This time, she'd done it right. Just enough to amuse him. His footsteps echoed across the silence of Room 429. With every step, the sound of his shoes tapping the cold floor made Isolde hold her breath, bracing herself for whatever he might do next.
Would he kick her again?
Severin loomed in front of her—towering, still fully dressed—while she remained naked, save for the collar fastened around her neck.
Isolde tilted her head up, eyes locking with his. She knew what he was waiting for. She moved closer, lowering her head to his pants. Her lips brushed against the fabric; she rubbed her cheek against him, teasing whatever hardness lay beneath the cloth.
Severin didn't say a word. He watched her with that same unreadable look as if he were evaluating her.
Isolde repeated to herself that she couldn't mess this up. She had to use everything she'd learned, all the experience she'd gathered from every man who had ever used her, to satisfy Severin.
Her fingers reached up, unfastening his belt and unzipping his pants. She pulled out his half-hardened cock, wrapping her hand around it, gently stroking him.
Her eyes stayed on his face, studying him closely—but his expression didn't change. Flat. Blank. Unmoved. And just like that, Isolde felt small—like her touch wasn't even enough to excite him.
This wasn't the time to feel small. Isolde had to remind herself—this was her only chance to be safe.
She kissed Severin's cock, then took him into the warmth of her mouth. Wrapping her lips around him, she began to move—forward, back—working him the way she used to with her ex-lovers.
As she pleasured him with her mouth, fragmented memories began flashing through her head. Isolde remembered the first time she'd learned how to do this.
She'd been young then. Innocent, or at least not completely. Isolde had been aware of these things long before she reached the legal age.
She remembered how her parents only ever paid attention to her when it served to hurt Olivianne—her younger sister, born from her father's affair with a prostitute.
After that prostitute had left her father, taking a good chunk of his wealth with her, his affection flipped overnight. He began to hate Olivianne. And suddenly, the daughter who used to be beaten, Isolde, became the one praised and pampered.
But only in front of Olivianne. It was never real. None of it was because he loved her. It was just another weapon to hurt the other daughter.
If Olivianne hadn't existed, Isolde would have been invisible. Her parents wouldn't have noticed if she disappeared, wouldn't have cared if she caused trouble, aced her exams, or failed them. Her entire existence had revolved around Olivianne. Every parental reaction was meant to hurt her sister.
And that made something inside Isolde go hollow. She started seeking affection elsewhere, hoping for a kind of love that had nothing to do with Olivianne. She found it in her piano tutor.
He used to touch her in ways no teacher ever should have while pretending to correct her hand positions at the keys. And Isolde hadn't resisted. She'd found a strange kind of comfort in it.
Feeling desire for her body and nothing else had once made Isolde happy, even though she was clearly being violated by someone much older than her. But back then, she didn't know it was wrong. She hadn't known she was a victim. She shouldn't have felt happy about something like that.
And yet, being wanted had made her feel euphoric. It was her piano tutor who first taught Isolde how to kneel in front of a man and how to properly cradle a man's erection, and now, she was using those lessons on Severin.
Isolde kept her eyes on Severin's face. His face was still void of any emotion, blank. On the bright side, he wasn't crying for Olivianne's name like her piano tutor once. That brief incident triggered an adverse reaction, and she began to hate her sister even more.
However, Severin's expression of no emotion really bothered her. Is it that she had made some mistake? Was her mouth and hand's movement insufficient for him to get pleasure?
Suddenly, Severin yanked her hair back, and Isolde flinched. Had she messed up?
He dragged her across the room toward the wall. So she had done it wrong. She hadn't pleased him properly, and now he was angry.
Severin pulled her toward two metal posts near the wall. He shoved her forward and cuffed her wrists one to each post, leaving her arms stretched upward, her body hanging.
Isolde's throat bobbed as she struggled to swallow, still kneeling before Severin, lips wet with her own saliva as she looked up at him.
In Severin's hand was a long, thin object. Isolde couldn't remember what it was called. One of her exes had owned one. Paddle whip, was that the name?
The flat, black leather tool brushed against her cheek. Severin moved it slowly, letting it hover—deliberately teasing her skin as if he wanted the touch to tickle and unsettle her.
Of course, Severin wasn't going to be satisfied with the usual kind of service from Isolde. He didn't want ordinary. That's why he had her cuffed like this.
The paddle whip trailed lower from her neck down to her chest, circling the peak of her breast. Isolde bit her lip, suppressing a reaction to the teasing, ticklish sensation.
Slap!
Isolde held back a wince as the leather struck her breast hard. A sharp sting bloomed across her skin. She was sure it would be bruised and red.
She squeezed her eyes shut when the same harsh blow landed on her left breast. The paddle whip moved down again, gliding over her stomach, descending until it reached between her legs. Severin deliberately brushed the leather against her folds, and Isolde couldn't help the gasp that escaped her lips.
In that instant, the paddle whip struck her face. The sharp sting across her cheek made her blink in pain. She wasn't allowed to make a sound. Isolde bit down on her lip, forcing herself to stay silent. But things only got worse when Severin slipped a small vibrator inside her. The vibrations made it nearly impossible to keep quiet.
Each time a moan escaped her, the paddle whipped her skin again, merciless, calculated punishment.
Severin watched her with twisted delight as she struggled, her body trembling with cold sweat, trying desperately not to make a sound. Her skin was marked everywhere, cheeks, arms, breasts, and hips, all decorated with bruises left by Severin's hand.
But when Severin increased the intensity of the vibrator inside her, she couldn't hold back any longer. A moan escaped her lips—and again, the leather cracked against her skin.
"You surprise me," Severin whispered, his voice low and sharp. "Moaning while your body's covered in bruises like that. Maybe you're not as innocent as I thought. Maybe you like being treated this way."
He tossed the paddle whip aside, letting it land wherever, and stepped closer—bringing his erection to her bruised, trembling lips.
Isolde opened her mouth instinctively, letting Severin thrust in without resistance. Severin reached into his pocket and pulled out a folding knife, bringing the blade to Isolde's throat.
"If you mess up, this knife goes straight into your neck," he threatened, making Isolde extra careful not to let her teeth graze his cock.
It was hard, her lower body still trembling from the vibrator Severin had left inside her, but she couldn't flinch, couldn't moan, couldn't make a single mistake with him inside her mouth.
It's okay. She could survive this night. She had survived the night Severin threw her to his men. She could survive this, too.
She had to. Isolde believed she could.
…