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17. The Slave Stays
Avery’s POV
"Get up, Slave," a rough voice commanded from above me. I stirred, the remnants of sleep clinging to my consciousness. The pain that had enveloped me the night before had dulled to a persistent ache, yet my body was drenched in sweat, my clothes glued uncomfortably to my skin. My hair felt damp against my neck and shoulders, and my mouth was parched, as dry as the desert winds. Shifting slightly, I turned my head and my eyes locked with Liam's. His gaze was dark, intense, almost piercing.
As we stared at each other, something stirred within my mind—fuzzy, blurry, and dreamlike. Flashes of scenes from the previous night flickered before me, scenes that seemed incongruous with the monster he had been yesterday.
Fragmented images haunted me—of him cradling my face tenderly in the sterile light of the bathroom, his eyes brimming with a torment so piercing it threatened to splinter my heart. He was pleading with me, his voice thick with
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Avery’s POV "Of course, by 'terms' I meant terms of punishment, because your slave here disrespected me," Andrew's voice dripped with condescension, each word carefully crafted to twist the knife deeper. I stood there, gaping at him in stunned silence. He had been openly extorting me for a kiss, leveraging the threat of punishment which I feared—deeply and viscerally. Against every instinct screaming inside me, I had been moments away from capitulating, only to find myself now falsely accused of a defiance I hadn't even dared to voice. Liam's gaze, icy and penetrating, shifted onto me, and I felt a shiver of dread ripple through me. "Disrespected you how?" he demanded, his tone sharp as flint. "She told me to go to hell," Andrew replied with a casual ease that belied the gravity of his accusation. As he spoke, he sent me a quick wink, a secret little signal that went unnoticed by Liam, who was too absorbed in his scrutiny of me.
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