Phei hadn't told her it was over yet.
Which meant it wasn't.
Eira watched her Master make love to his newest woman — because that's what this had become now, not mere fucking but something deeper, more intimate, his glowing hands still traveling across her freshly healed skin — and she prepared herself for the main event.
Jonathan thought the worst was behind him.
Jonathan was adorably, pathetically, hilariously wrong.
The physical torture had been the appetizer.
The psychological destruction had been the first course.
What Eira had planned next would be the main event.
And I am very, very good at main events.
The first thing Phei did—before he even pulled out of Roxanne, before the golden-green glow faded from his hands and the last delicious tremors of her orgasm finished rippling through her body—was give Eira her orders.
