The night air was cold as a knife, and it hit Eleanor's nearly naked skin like a thousand tiny needles.
She was wearing the "garment" he'd given her. It wasn't a garment. It was a spider's web of black leather straps and tiny, useless patches of see-through lace. It was a whore's costume. Her full breasts were bare, the lace just barely covering her nipples. Her pussy was framed by the straps, the lace over it hiding nothing.
'Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods,' her mind just looped, a panicked, broken record. She was outside. Outside. Dressed like this.
But her body... her body was on fire. She was ashamed. She was terrified. And she was, God help her, thrilled.
Alaric hadn't even let her put shoes on. He'd just grabbed her hand, his grip like a steel trap. "Let's go."
"Where... where are we going?" she'd whimpered, her voice a tiny, scared thing.
"For your punishment," he'd said, his voice flat and cold. "You failed me. Now you pay the price."
