I walk out.
Inside the control room, dim blue light flickers against the Victorian molding like static electricity trapped in wood grain.
I should walk past the monitors. Keep moving. Get downstairs and finish what I started last night.
But as I cross the room, I notice that all twelve screens are frozen silent on the same timestamp. The same frame.
I stop.
The image is me. Standing over Emmaleen. The riding crop raised mid-strike, arm extended, wrist cocked at the precise angle to deliver the most pain.
But it's my face that holds my attention.
The expression.
Not rage. Not control.
Something else.
Something I don't recognize.
My jaw is tight, lips parted slightly, eyes locked on her body like I'm watching something burn and can't decide whether to put it out or let it consume everything.
I exhale slowly.
The monster whispers in the back of my skull, low and insistent.
Walk away. Go downstairs. Punish the slave for letting Jino touch her. Make her remember who she belongs to.
My feet don't move.
One step forward, and I'm in the stairwell. Down to the dungeon. Back to the throne where she'll kneel and apologize and take whatever I decide she's earned.
But instead of leaving, I sit.
The leather chair creaks as I settle into it. My hand finds the console and presses play.
The footage stutters into motion.
The sound comes first. Thecrackof leather against skin. Sharp. Precise. Too hard.
Then her voice. Weak, strained, hitching. "Twenty-two."Emmaleen's breathing is ragged, her wrists strain against the cuffs. Her knees tremble where they're locked open, spread wide, exposed.
I watch myself circle her.
The crop taps against my thigh in rhythm with her heartbeat—visible in the pulse at her throat, the way her chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow.
I'm talking.
My lips are moving.
Whispers spill out. Low and barely audible.
But I don't remember the words.
"You think this is punishment? This is mercy. You don't know what punishment looks like. But you will."
The crop strikes again.