Page 74 of His Runaway Mate

“You’re welcome to do so,” he says. “And if you do, the consequences will be painful and probably quite embarrassing for someone of your temperament.”

I hear a dull thud. My brows rise and I confess I step around the corner. The two of them are facing off against one another. I do believe Laura has just thumped Fescue in the arm, not unlike a spoiled thuggish little brat attempting to start a brawl.

Fescue has caught her wrist, his much bigger hand wrapped around it. She is giving him a steely stare and threatening him with bared teeth.

I lean against the wall, fold my arms over my chest, and watch with some amusement. It’s interesting to watch someone else handle a spoiled little uncivilized animal for once.

“Do you want your spanking over my knee, or would you prefer to bend over the side table?” he says quite calmly.

“What? Fuck off!” She panics and tries to pull away, but he clearly has no intention of allowing that. He keeps a firm hold of her wrist.

“Over my knee, or the table? If you do not choose, it will have to be over my knee.”

“You don’t have any right!” Laura is starting to sound quite panicked now. She looks around for help, and her eyes land on me. She blushes furiously, knowing that I am not going to be any particular help to her, and she is about to be spanked in front of me. I wonder how many times little scenes like this will play out with the Runaways as we assimilate them. A great deal, I think.

Fescue gives a little sigh and leads her over to a chair. She fights him along the way, even going so far as to bite his hand in the effort to make him release her.

“I’ll fucking kill you if you do this,” she says. “I swear to god, you won’t live until the end of the day if you, argh!”

The last part is her being tipped unceremoniously over Fescue’s knee. Interesting how she calms right down the moment she finds herself with her head down and her ass up high over his thigh.

“The thing about threats,” Fescue says, “is that you need to calibrate them to the individual receiving them. I do not fear death. If you wish to concern me, you need to threaten something else.”

“I’m gonna cut up all the good clothes and replace them with fast fashion!”

“A much better threat,” Fescue says, his mouth flattening as that threat hits home.

“I mean it! I’m gonna cut everything up! I’m gonna go online and find cotton poly blends that will pill the second you look at them and cling to your skin!”

Fescue snugs her closer over his lap. He hasn’t started spanking her yet, and I find myself wondering if the threats are, on some level, working.

“I’m going to introduce harder water into the laundry so the soap creates a hard film over everything!”

She continues to make ever more fearsome threats. I see Fescue hesitate about the laundry water threat. This girl is good. She knows how to hit him where it hurts. The prospect of having to decalcify machines is clearly concerning.

“I’m going to have all your pants taken in by a seamstress who doesn’t leave the excess!”

Fescue is visibly amused now, though he is trying not to be. I note that not one single slap has landed on Laura’s upturned ass. Her leggings are pulled tight over her cheeks. The target must be alluring. He is not taking advantage of it.

“I’m going to take the inserts out of half of your shoes, so you have to change them all to custom insoles!”

That one is diabolical.

Fescue breaks. He snorts with a hint of laughter, slaps her ass hard once, and tips her back onto her feet.

“You are incorrigible,” he says. “And if you were mine, you would be a very sore, very sorry little whelp. Get out of my sight before I change my mind about letting you go.”

He doesn’t see the look of disappointment on her face as she dashes past me, pretending to be relieved at having gotten out of his grasp.

“You are going to end up dealing with her again sooner than you think,” I tell him.

“It would not be a complete hardship,” he says, standing and smoothing his vest down. “Is all well with your mate?”

“She is resting, and will be well soon, I am sure,” I say. “I need to handle the matter of her father. Taking him with us may have been a mistake.”

Not three minutes later, the truth of that statement becomes incredibly apparent. I go downstairs in the effort to handle the situation with some diplomacy, only to discover that the situation has already handled itself in explosive fashion.

My guards rush up to me, greeting me at the front door. “There’s been a breach of the jail, sir. The prisoner escaped when the doctor tried to sedate him. We’ve had to call a medivac in for the doctor.”