I close my eyes for a split second, willing the voice away.
It doesn't leave.
It never does.
You've been too gentle. She'll think you're weak. Show her what you really are.
My grip tightens on the crop until the leather bites into my palm.
No.
I'm in control here. Not the thing inside me. Not the monster that was forged in a warehouse basement twenty-four years ago, tied to a post, starving, waiting to die.
You are me,the voice whispers.I am you. We are the same.
Crack.
The crop comes down harder this time. Hard enough that Emmaleen cries out—a full-throated sound of pain that she can't suppress.
The mark blooms darker. Angrier.
The candle slips from my hand, sputters and then goes out. Fuck.
That was too much.
I kneel beside her, setting the crop down, reaching out to touch the welt forming on her skin.
She flinches away from my hand.
"I'm sorry," I murmur. "Too hard. I?—"
Don't apologize. You're teaching her. She needs to learn.
"Shut up," I mutter.
Emmaleen's head turns slightly, confusion flickering across her tear-stained face. "Sir?"
"Not you. Never you."
I press my palm flat against the worst mark, feeling the heat radiating from her skin. Checking for broken capillaries. Signs of bruising that goes too deep.
It's fine. She's fine.
But I'm not.
The monster is clawing its way up my throat, demanding to be acknowledged. Demanding to befed.
I stand abruptly, stepping back from her.
She's still restrained. Still waiting. Are you going to leave her like this? Unfinished?
No.
Yes.
I don't fucking know.
I press the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to push back the memory that's surfacing. The one that always comes when the monster gets too loud.