Page 166 of What We Become

“You’ll get your turn,” Eli says, and there’s a warning in it that makes Milo’s hands still. “Holden.”

Holden steps forward, and I feel the shift in the room before his palm even connects. He’s precise. Measured. Each time he strikes, it’s exactly where he wants, exactly how hard, and the sound of it—crisp and clean—sends a jolt of heat through me. I gasp, fingers curling against the velvet.

“Count,” he says.

“Three,” I manage.

“Good.” His hand settles over the mark, pressing heat into it. “Again?”

“Yes.”

His palm comes down, and I make a sound I don’t recognize, something between a moan and a whimper. Fourteen in the gallery now. They’re leaning closer. I can feel it.

Eli’s fingers tighten on the leash, pulling my head back just enough to arch my throat as the final slap lands. “You’re beautiful like this,” he murmurs. “All of them watching what you let us do to you.”

I want to answer, but Knox takes his position, and I forget how words work.

His hands are massive. I’ve seen them haul a full-grown man at the end of a rope, and I’ve seen them be gentle. When his palm falls, the impact travels through my whole body, rocking me forward into the chaise. I cry out—can’t help it—and the sound broadcasts through the club, raw and unmistakable.

“Easy,” Micah says, steadying my hip.

“More,” I gasp.

Knox’s second strike lands lower, where my thigh meets my ass, and I feel tears prick my eyes—not from pain alone, but from the overwhelming rightness of it. This body. These marks. My choice.

“Keep going,” I whisper, and he lands the last slaps in quick succession. I’m left gasping, sweat and tears dripping from my face.

“Five,” he confirms, his palm spreading over both cheeks, holding the heat in.

Eli tugs the leash, turning my face toward him. “Almost there, little savage. Still with us?”

I nod, breath coming fast. “Still here.”

The gallery shows eighteen now. Eighteen people watching me tremble and burn.

Holden takes the leash from Eli and pulls it taut across my shoulder, using it to steady me as Eli moves into position. I watch them in the mirror—the transfer seamless, practiced, like men who have run the drill before.

Eli’s first strike surprises me. He’s been so controlled all night, so careful with the leash and the orders, that I expected the same measured approach. Instead, his palm comes down with something close to ferocity, as if he’s been holding back everything until this moment.

I scream. The sound tears out of me, and somewhere beyond this room I know heads are turning, drinks are pausing, conversations are stopping.

My fingers claw into the velvet. Knox’s arm comes around my waist before I can stumble, holding me securely against the chaise while the sting radiates through my hip.

“Fury.”

“I’m good.”

His hand remains on me until I look up and meet his eyes.

“I’m good.”

Only then does he step away.

The gallery counter changes to twenty-four.

“Keep going,” I gasp.

“Count,” Eli says.