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She slowly moved her finger around her cheeks and licked her finger as if it were soaked in butter.
    “You taste like musk.” She pulled the coiled whip off her hip and walked around him. “Let’s see how tough you really are, beau .”
    He braced himself for pain. The whip crackled and lashed his back. He gritted his teeth. For a woman, she was strong, and the slash cut through his taut skin. She flayed him again and again, slicing through muscle, opening up old scars and releasing the terror of the past. Each time, he held his tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of begging for mercy. He was Amadi, the formidable master gunner aboard the Soaring Phoenix .
    Forget the pain.
    He clenched his fists and curled his toes, hoping she’d tire. But she seemed to have the strength of eleven men, and he’d lost count at twenty.
    “I see the lash will not release a struggled scream, no? How disappointing.” 
    She stopped, and Amadi inhaled a ragged breath.
    Something shook behind him. He glanced over his shoulder. The Maîtresse dumped a small canister into her hand. Salt. Lordy. He hadn’t noticed a small canister on a table. 
    He inhaled and exhaled faster.
    She flashed her gaze over him as she rubbed her palms together.
    No!
    She smeared her palms over his cut flesh. Searing agony flared through him as she massaged his back, the salt seeping into his wounds. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut and yelled—a deep agonizing scream.
    “Ah, oui , ’tis what I wanted to hear.”
    She leaned her head against his trembling body then ran her tongue over his sensitive back.
    He jerked. “Stop!” But to his disappointment, his voice was a dying gasp.
    “You’re not giving the orders, gentil beau .” She cupped his ass, her nails scratching his flesh. 
    He twisted, but he couldn’t move and spasms of pain rushed through his body.
    The Maîtresse released him and walked over to the wall with torture devices—thumbscrews, saws of different sizes, mallets, daggers, and branding irons. She ran her hand over each device until she came upon a stained mallet. 
    He sucked in his breath and couldn’t help but shake. He remembered the Capt’n’s mangled limbs.
    She lifted the mallet. “I thought about tying you to my bed, but I wanted you free to worship me.”
    His pounding heart sank so fast he had an urge to grab it. “Never,” he panted, his voice strained.
    “You lust for freedom.” She slowly flashed her gaze over him.
    He wanted a blanket to cover his nakedness. ’Twas as if he were a tool, not human. He lifted his head in defiance. With each breath, he vowed, “When I’m free, I’ll kill you.”
    “So brave, so stupide .” She swung the mallet and smashed it into his knee.
    He leaned his head back and screamed, losing his pride.
    “So sorry.”
    Her jesting tone flared his contempt. She was the one who wasn’t human.
    She swung the mallet into his side. Bones broke. Anguish gripped him. He fought to breathe.
    But she wasn’t done. She hung up the mallet and picked up the branding iron that had been in the fire pit. The letters SM glowed fiery red and orange. “I want everyone to know you belong to me—including you.” 
    As a slave, he’d never been branded. He’d escaped that fate. Terror pushed his heart to beat faster and faster, his blood rushing through him. This couldn’t be happening. He was a free man. A powerful man. A vampire. He struggled, pulling on the damn chains, but he was locked tight.
    She studied him as if she was looking where to humiliate him. An evil smile spread across her thin lips. A smile that froze his blood. She edged closer.
    “I’m going to brand you as mine. So every woman will know you belong to me.” She brought the iron close to his manhood, warming his inner thighs.
    Sweat poured down his back and he trembled. “No!”
    But he only received harsh laughter. She thrust the iron into his right inner thigh. Pain seared into him. He flung his head back and