6. TAKE TURNS.
1423 Words
Melissa.
I was still drowning in questions, confused, terrified, desperate, when muffled voices pulled me back to reality.
My father’s voice echoed sharply, commanding attention, though I could not make out the words. The Alphas had moved with him toward the corner of the courtyard, their backs turned to me. They stood clustered together, speaking in low tones. Whatever discussion was happening, I was clearly the topic—my fate hanging in the balance in hushed sentences I would never hear.
My heart hammered weakly in my chest.
Were they arguing about me? Deciding whether to end the punishment? To reject me officially? Or... to kill me?
I didn’t know.
All I wanted, desperately, was to be freed. My body trembled as I lay there, still bound to the table, every breath searing through my broken ribs. I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted air. I wanted mercy. I wanted someone, anyone to say I had suffered enough.
But no one came forward.
No one spoke for me.
They returned shortly after, their expressions unreadable, their steps slow and deliberate. The moment they reached their original positions, I felt the air shift, heavier, colder and suffocating.
And then I heard it.
“My brothers and I will take over,” Cypril declared.
His voice rang clear and final, slicing into me more painfully than any whip had.
My heart stopped. I could feel the blood in my veins stall, thickening with dread.
Take over?
No.
No, no, no.
Not them.
Anyone but them.
I would have preferred Fredrick. I would have taken every lash from his cruel hands rather than be whipped by the men who, just hours ago I had believed, were my destined mates. The same men whose approval I had once secretly hoped to win. Whose eyes I had dreamed might someday soften at the sight of me.
Tears spilled freely down my cheeks, hot even against the cold wind.
Cypril stared at me with nothing but disdain.
“This is what you deserve for stealing from my fiancée, Melissa,” Caleb added harshly as he stepped forward, extending his hand.
Fredrick hesitated for a heartbeat, then handed him the whip without a word, almost gleeful that responsibility was shifting.
Caleb ran a hand along the length of the whip, straightening it slowly, almost ceremoniously. The leather gleamed beneath the sunlight, slick and deadly. He lifted it once, swung it lightly through the air.
Whoosh.
The sound alone sent a tremor ripping through my spine.
Fear tightened around my throat like a vice. I felt myself choking on air.
“How many strokes are left?” Cain asked, stepping forward, his face completely blank. No anger. No pity. Just cold, emotionless duty.
“Twenty-five, Alpha Cain,” Fredrick answered quickly—too quickly. His voice carried a twisted satisfaction, and I saw his lips stretch into a wide grin he didn’t bother to hide.
He was enjoying this.
Cypril let out a breath, folding his arms as he tilted his head with exaggerated thoughtfulness.
“We can’t split twenty-five equally, Cain,” he said casually, as if he were discussing numbers on a ledger, not deciding how many times they would tear open my flesh.
But there was something else in his tone. A hint. A suggestion. A desire to make it worse.
Cain paused only a second, then nodded once. “Two more strokes will be added,” he declared.
The finality of his voice struck me harder than the whip ever could.
Twenty-seven lashes.
From the men fate had bound me to.
My vision blurred again, not from unconsciousness this time, but from heartbreak so deep it hollowed me out completely.
There was no escape.
Only pain.
I caught a glimpse of movement at the edge of my dimming vision, Amelia.
She glided forward with practiced grace, her dress swaying lightly around her legs. Even now, even here, she looked untouched by the chaos she orchestrated. She carried beauty like a weapon, delicate and deadly.
Without hesitation, she slipped her arm through Cain’s. Her body pressed into his side like she belonged there, like she had always belonged there. She rested her head fondly against his shoulder, smiling sweetly up at him as though this scene, a girl being beaten bloody, was nothing more than entertainment.
“Thank you, Cain," she purred softly, her voice sugared with false concern, “but isn’t that a little too much for her?”
For a moment, there was silence.
Cain’s body stilled beneath her touch. Then he shifted, turning toward her as though pulled by gravity itself. His hand came up, fingers curving beneath her chin. He gripped her gently, reverently and lifted her face to his.
Their eyes locked.
“She deserves it, Amelia,” he said, voice low and unwavering. “You are my queen. No one is permitted to hurt you.”
Amelia’s lips curved into a small satisfied smile, victory, triumph, possession all hidden in the corners of her expression. She leaned into his touch as if she basked in his devotion, drinking it in like fine wine.
I stared at them, broken, bleeding, bound watching the man fate had tied me to claim someone else as queen, protector, beloved. My heart trembled inside my chest, achingly fragile.
And then…
CRACK!
Pain invaded me before I even registered that Caleb had already stepped forward. The whip collided with my back, tearing open already broken flesh. My scream scraped from my throat, raw and ragged.
He didn’t pause.
He didn’t allow a breath, a heartbeat, a second for my body to settle. His arm rose and fell, rose and fell, brutal and steady. The sound of leather striking skin echoed like thunder, each blow ripping through me, shattering me anew.
Second, third, fourth stroke.
My vision blurred. I clamped my jaw shut to hold the scream inside, and failed.
Fifth, Sixth.
Every strike sent a fresh wave of agony tearing through my spine, spreading through my limbs like poison.
Seventh, eighth, ninth.
My fingers curled helplessly against the wood beneath me. My head rolled to the side, my tears pooling and dripping down the table. My lungs refused to draw breath for a beat.
At last, Caleb exhaled, satisfied. He tossed the whip from one hand to the other before turning away. Without a word, he handed it to Cypril.
Cypril accepted it eagerly, a twisted smile stretching across his face. He bent down slightly, bringing his face close to mine so I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to.
“You should have known better, Melissa.” he murmured, his tone venomous despite the softness.
Then he straightened, drawing back his arm, and the leather met my skin once again.
I jerked violently, the restraints digging into my limbs. With each stroke, the pain became something else, beyond human, beyond flesh.The world tilted, spinning as if the ground had fallen away beneath me and my wolf whimpered, unable to rise to my aid. I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from screaming, tasting iron.
On the eighth stroke, I wanted unconsciousness to swallow me, but it refused my desperate plea.
Finally—finally—Cypril stopped, breathing hard, as though he were the one laboring through agony.
He tossed the whip carelessly aside.
Then Cain moved.
He loosened his hold on Amelia, just enough and stepped forward. No softness touched his face. No emotion flickered in his eyes. Not love, not anger, not recognition. Just cold duty.
He didn’t acknowledge my existence beyond what was required. He lifted the whip, and with the same measured brutality as his brothers, he brought it down. Each strike was efficient, as though whipping me was a chore to complete before dinner.
My body nearly gave out beneath him. My vision flickered, my hearing dimmed, darkness tugging insistently at my consciousness, begging me to let go.
When he delivered the final lash, he paused, chest rising slightly with exertion. Then his voice sliced through the ringing in my ears.
“From henceforth, Melissa is assigned to personally attend to we brothers.”
He didn’t look at me again.
He wrapped his arm around Amelia, pulling her close, and walked away without sparing me another thought. His brothers followed, three silhouettes disappearing, Amelia tucked proudly within them like a crowned queen.
They left me there, bleeding, breathless, half-broken, tied to a table beneath the fading light.
Dumbstruck.
Heart crushed.
And drowning in pain, both physical and unimaginable.
- Writer
