Taming Her Beasts

Chapter 8

The next morning, I woke just past eight, the small clock on the bedside table confirming the time. The events of yesterday churned in my mind like a storm I couldn’t escape. This tiny, confining room felt heavier than ever, as if the walls themselves were pressing down on me. My stomach twisted with unease, and the absence of even my purse, taken when I arrived, only added to my vulnerability.

I began pacing, back and forth, each step echoing in the stillness, but my movement did little to distract my racing thoughts. Questions burned through me: What other secrets had I yet to learn about my husband? Was this man truly my father? Where exactly was my husband now? And how could I possibly escape this place?

A sudden knock at the door made me jump. My heart hammered as I quickly sat on the edge of the bed, eyes wide and hands trembling. The door creaked open, and Maxwell stepped inside, his expression calm but firm.

“Hello, Mrs. Hemingsworth. I am here to take you to breakfast with your father this morning,” he said, his voice steady, measured, unyielding.

I felt a wave of anger rise like molten fire. “I am not eating with that man. He is not my father!” I snapped, my voice trembling with frustration and fury.

“Miss, I believe it would be in your best interest to do as your father asks,” Maxwell replied cautiously, his tone respectful but firm, clearly aware of the danger in contradicting her.

“I shall not. You can tell my father he can kiss where the sun doesn’t shine for all I care,” I shot back, my words sharp and deliberate.

“Miss, your father can and will punish you for disobedience,” he warned, his voice low, careful, warning without provoking more anger.

“I don’t care. Leave.” Maxwell hesitated for a moment, as if weighing his options, then quietly shut the door, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts again. I resumed pacing, anger and fear coiling together in my chest, a knot tightening in my stomach with every step.

Maxwell, meanwhile, returned to the dining room where Master Smith waited, seated at the head of the table with a look that could slice through stone.

“Where is my daughter, Maxwell?” the man demanded, his voice tight with irritation, each word sharp, dangerous.

“She says she isn’t hungry, Sir,” Maxwell replied carefully, softening her words without lying. He knew how quickly anger could escalate in that room.

“Oh really? Well, we’ll see about that,” Master Smith snapped, rising so abruptly that the chair screeched across the polished floor. His movement was swift and commanding, leaving Maxwell slightly spinning, reminding him who truly held the power.

I froze as the door to my room swung open again. My so-called father stood in the doorway, eyes blazing with fury.

“Elizabeth Marana Smith, you will come to breakfast this instant, or I swear I will bend you over that bed and s***k your butt good,” he barked, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I rose, defiance surging through me. Even if I couldn’t win, I refused to go down without a fight.

“I will not eat with you ever! You are not my father!” I shouted, fury igniting every word.

“I have just about had it with your disrespect! Your husband should have taught you better during those five years together,” he growled, each syllable a strike against my pride.

“Do not speak of my husband! He taught me not to talk back to him—not to you!” I spat, my anger burning hotter than fear.

“You would do well to learn not to talk back to me either,” he warned, his hand shooting out to grab my arm. The grip was iron-strong, painful, and unyielding.

He dragged me toward the dining room despite my struggles, flopping me roughly into a chair before taking a seat beside me. My body trembled from adrenaline and rage.

“Now eat,” he commanded, the weight of authority in his voice leaving no room for resistance.

“No,” I replied stubbornly, my voice small but defiant.

The servants around us stared, mouths open, as if I’d performed some impossible feat of rebellion. My heart raced with fear and frustration, my stomach twisting with helpless fury.

“Marcus!” Master Smith called, his voice sharp.

My husband entered the room, head bowed in submission, every movement controlled, practiced. My eyes immediately found him, taking in the way he held himself under the weight of his old master’s command.

“Yes, sir,” he replied quietly, his voice low, respectful, and painfully restrained.

“Your wife here seems to think it’s acceptable to disobey me,” Master Smith said, his gaze snapping to mine, cold and unwavering. “Turn around and show her what disobedience brings.”

My husband obeyed, lowering his pants to reveal the red, swollen marks of forty lashes across his backside. My breath caught in my throat. I could hardly believe what I was seeing. The raw, painful evidence of Master Smith’s control made my stomach churn with shock, anger, and helplessness.

“Elizabeth, please… don’t disobey him,” he whispered, pulling his pants up and walking out of the room, head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor.

I sat frozen, my heart pounding violently in my chest, anger and helplessness twisting together. The room felt colder, the weight of this place pressing in more than ever. I knew the coming days would test me in ways I had never imagined—and that survival would require more than stubborn defiance.