Salt in the Wound (Lyonesse)

by Sierra Simone

What is it about being watched that makes us want to impress the watcher?

You cannot serve both God and money, we are told. And I didn’t intend to.

Always give the people around you a reason to underestimate you. Do it the minute you meet them, if you can.

“He knows things. He knows people.” I looked down at my hands. “And that knowledge is worth me. My future.”

Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle, I prayed silently as I set my clutch next to me on the seat and met Mark’s cool, appraising gaze. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.

“If people are to believe that I’ve claimed you as my bride, then they will need to believe that you are currently my submissive.”

“Honeysuckle,” Mark said softly. “My grandmother told me once that it was the symbol of a good marriage.”

This was beyond an owner in his club, a king in his kingdom. This was more like some shadow god in his underworld, sprawled on his throne while his glittering eyes assessed the tribute being brought his way. The space matched him, reflected him, spoke for him. It was an extension of his will, and I could feel it as I walked toward his nook, the music pulsing, the glass and lights turning everything into a dizzy dream. He was the center of it all, high above his guests, watching them all cavort in his care.

But I wasn’t an actress, and even if I were, maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Something about the things Mark did—it was more potent than any liquor Sister Mary Alice kept in her desk, as heady as the most euphoric, agonized prayer. Even through my bike shorts, the flogger bit me and pushed me. Reached into a place in my soul that I normally only let God see.

Some people had men woo them with jewelry, with roses and orchids and champagne. I had a man who sent me knives and parasitic flowers. I was smiling the rest of the day.

There was no mistaking which it he meant—the object of his obsession. And when I obeyed, the breath that shuddered out of him was worth every agony leading up to this moment, worth every sin and every shame.

“Decide what game you want to play, my honeysuckle queen,” he murmured into my mouth. “And then play it like you mean it. Even if you know you’ll lose anyway.”