These were specialized tools, and he chose three tawes, one that would warm her little backside up properly. He would ask her questions and hope she would answer him without lying. She’d never lied to him, but she’d been considering it. The second tawes, also crafted in the rough-hewn center-split leather like the first, was slightly larger and delivered a more punishing strike. She would definitely feel it. The split leather wouldn’t feel anywhere near the same as the thicker crop he’d used on her. He’d ask again, and if she still didn’t answer him, there was the larger tawes, which she definitely wouldn’t enjoy. It was for a severe punishment. A lie. A holdout when there was no reason. He hoped—and doubted—it wouldn’t come to that.
Savage would lay it out for her like he always did. She would choose her own consequences. During a punishment she knew there was no calling out “red” for stop. Any other time during sex, she had that right. This was a different circumstance and one she’d agreed to when they first laid down the rules to their relationship.
He’d been somewhat lax about keeping the rules. He’d let them go, didn’t keep a guard on her like he should have all the time. It was his fucking fault that his woman was nearly gunned down by a madman. If Seychelle hadn’t kept her head and been so resourceful, he wouldn’t have gotten there in time. She had essentially gotten herself out of the cottage and was running when the club showed up to deal with Arnold, but it so easily could have gone the other way. All because he’d tried to be someone he wasn’t.
He loved her so damn much he would have roped the moon and given it to her if he could have. What he did was let that fucker live the first time he’d turned up stalking Seychelle. Savage knew he should have killed him right then and thrown his body into the ocean or buried him in the forest somewhere deep where he never would have been found. Seychelle’s entire ordeal rested squarely on his shoulders because he hadn’t done what he was supposed to do—protect her. He was too busy worrying about her leaving him because he was asking her to accept too damn much in their relationship already.
He was who he really was. She had to know him, not some fucking choirboy he pretended to be. And he damn well wasn’t letting her go. She could learn to love all of him, even the not-so-nice parts. She might be afraid of what they did in the bedroom, but she fucking loved it. It was this part, having to answer to him that upset her. She didn’t like that his world had to be so controlled. She didn’t understand yet just how dangerous he could be if he didn’t have everything in place. That meant her—his everything. The center of his universe.
He wasn’t taking her bullshit anymore, and she might not realize it, but he was counting every fucking minute she was making him wait. He collected the three leather tawes and closed the cabinet and then crossed to the chair beside the spanking bench. He laid the three tawes out on the table, where she could see them when she came in. They were beautiful examples of Scottish craftsmanship. The leather was perfectly split just right, and each handle fit his palm exactly as he’d instructed.
He knew he had a well of rage in him, and this time it was dark and deep and ugly. He would have to be damn careful, because he wasn’t going to punish her for his sins. He was pissed at himself. Not at her. She deserved punishment, and he liked when he was stripping her bare and giving it to her. He’d told her how much he enjoyed it. It aroused him, and he made no secret of it. It aroused her as well, but this time there would be no satisfaction for her at the end of it. He’d asked her several times to tell him what was making her sick, given her every opportunity. His woman had a stubborn streak. Sweet as candy. A fuckin’ angel, but did what she wanted when she lifted that little chin of hers at him.
He would have smiled at that thought, but the way she had looked at him a few times worried him, especially when she’d said she’d had a nightmare. He’d been the one to interrogate that sick fuck Arnold, and he hadn’t been polite about it, but then, Savage was known for getting answers when he questioned his prey. He’d never failed the club. He hadn’t failed when he was first learning the techniques. He’d studied every poison. Every kind of weapon and where to insert knives to cause the most pain without killing. He studied anatomy, ways to lob off body parts without killing and ways to prolong life. At the club, he had cabinets with all kinds of tools and interesting oils and poisons he’d been taught to use from the time he was a young teen to extract the truth.