Casting my head down, I could hear her heavy breathing. Her breathing was shaky. She was terrified of me.

Terrified of the ugly beast.

Walking again, I slammed my eyes to hers as I rounded the corner of the cage. The female’s skin paled as she held my gaze. A stab of something strange and unknown sliced through my stomach as her lips parted and started trembling. But I sucked it up and braced myself against the front of the cage.

She didn’t say anything. For one so small, I was impressed at her silent strength. She didn’t cower or shrink away when she saw my face. Some of the biggest men I’d been forced to kill—slowly, very slowly—had cried and begged for their lives just at one glance at me. But this Georgian was silent, looking me straight in the eyes.

Twirling the metal picana in my hand, I pressed the button on the handle. The electric current sparked, the crackling sound booming in the silent room. She flinched, but she didn’t cry out.

Stepping closer to the bars, I stood erect and asked coldly in Georgian, “What’s your name?”

I studied every inch of her body, especially her face. She blinked a second too long, and swallowed deep, before whispering, “Elene.” My jaw tightened at the sound of her voice. Her accent was strong. Her repulsive Georgian accent.

But that was forgotten when I let her response sink in. She was brave to try to lie. Because she was lying. Whoever had trained her had trained her well. But she was exhausted—my doing—and she couldn’t control her body well enough to disguise the deception.

She was staring at me, masking her features, her lies. As I rolled my neck from side to side, it cracked. I pushed the button of the prod against the bar, the current sweeping through the cage. The female flinched and curled up in the center of the floor.

When the current faded, I slammed the handle of the prod against the cage and barked, “Tell me your name!”

She sucked in a sharp breath and whispered shakily, “Elene. Elene Melua.”

My body tensed. She had lied to me again. I stared at her. She stared right back. But she didn’t crack, not even under my rage-filled glare. Females especially hated my face—Mistress made sure of it. They caved as soon as they saw the scarred, ugly beast—but not this female.

It made me stop and watch her closer. Why wasn’t she disgusted? Why wasn’t she cowering back in fear?

Challenge, and a morbid hatred of my victim’s disobedience, surged through me. Flicking my chin, I ordered, “Get up!”

The female’s muscles tensed but for a second; then, pushing off the floor, she got to her feet. My nostrils flared as I drank in her naked body, her full tits and her nipples rock hard due to the cold. Her cheeks flushed red as I stared. She immediately tried to cover herself with her arms.

Slamming the handle against the bars, I ordered, “Keep your arms at your sides!”

She did as instructed. Her long wet hair hung in clumps over her chest, covering all but her tits. Discreetly slipping my thumb over the off button on the prod, I slowly, painstakingly, pushed the prod through the bars toward where she stood.

She stiffened as the tip of the prod hovered just an inch from her skin. Holding it exactly where it was and trying a new tactic, I repeated less harshly, “What is your name?”

She didn’t even pause for breath. “Elene Melua.”

Her soft voice was strong and steady. But she was lying. I could sense it. The little female was hiding who she was. My head tilted to the side in reflection. Who the hell was she? Why was she protecting my hit?

Her dark eyes tracked me. Suddenly I lunged the prod forward. Her eyes snapped shut as she braced for the shock. As the tip touched her skin, the expected shock didn’t come. She gasped and opened her eyes. She was breathing hard as the tip of the prod pressed against the bottom of her throat.

She never moved, her body as still as rock as I pushed the tip harder against her skin. She began breathing slowly through her nostrils as I started to drag the prod over her skin. I kept her focus, my hard stare coldly capturing hers, as I continued my journey with the metal tip.

I moved the prod slowly down her chest until it lay over her sternum. I applied a little pressure, the tip slightly pushing into her smooth skin, until a tiny spot of blood began to sprout underneath. The female’s face contorted into a pained expression. The ache of seeing her in such agony returned to my chest, but I forced it aside.

There was no room for sympathy in this chamber.

Just as I gauged the pressure was becoming too much, I eased off and dragged the tip over to her breast. She gasped as I ran it lightly over full flesh. Her cheeks, despite the cold, flushed bright red, her lips parting in shock when I gently circled the hard red nipple.

She watched me in fear. My eyes stayed locked on hers as I moved from that breast and traced along her tan skin, over her wet hair, to the other breast. The female’s white mists of breath increased in speed as I gave her right breast the same attention as the left. Her skin erupted with millions of tiny bumps. Yet she still didn’t break. Her body didn’t move even though I could shock her at any moment. And her strong gaze never swayed from mine.

Alight with challenge, I moved the prod to her sternum again. But this time, I began steering it south. I ran the prod down her torso, over her stomach, and stopped just above her pussy. Her hands flexed at her sides. Once more I cocked my head to the side in interest.

It was the first time she’d moved since I’d begun my exploration. Her steely dark eyes didn’t drop from mine, but they began to fill with water. Glancing down to where the picana had stopped, I forced myself to ignore the ache in my stomach as I looked at the short black hair on her pussy. Meeting her gaze again, I lowered the prod until the tip of metal ran through the top of her short hair. Her lips trembled. Then I knew. I read her perfectly: she had never been touched by a male.

Excitement surged through me—her weakness had been found.

Dipping the prod lower, I ran the metal over the apex of her thighs, and the bitch’s breathing changed. It was shaky, and her hands were fisted at her sides. I stopped moving the prod and demanded, “Your name. What is your name?”

She swallowed. She opened her mouth and tried to speak, but nothing came out. I moved the prod’s tip toward her folds and she cried out. She didn’t like it; that I could tell. Now she was scared. Fear was spreading all over her pretty Georgian face.

But then she shocked me again. “Elene Melua!” she managed to call out through a thick throat. Her voice was weak, yet determined not to give in.

But with that final lie, I broke.

Ripping the picana back, I pointed it to the left corner of the cage. “Stand against the bars.”

The female sucked in a breath and flicked her gaze behind her, then back on me. I tilted my head just daring her to defy me. Her self-preservation won out, and she scurried to the corner as ordered. I slammed the picana against the bars. The loud clang of metal on metal rung through the bars. I watched as the female braced for the expected electric shock. Her body froze, her muscles tensed, but the shock never came. When the sound calmed, I coldly smiled into her terrified eyes.

Pressing the button to ignite the picana’s current, I moved to send it through the bars but then at the last minute pulled it back. And I did it over and over and over again, over hours, toying with her mind. The female panted harshly as she braced each time for the pain. But it didn’t come; instead her exhaustion from the anticipation finally brought her to her knees.

“Get up!” I ordered. The female was panting on the floor, her skin paling, but she pushed herself to her feet. Her body was swaying from side to side with tiredness, but her sunken large eyes defiantly met mine.

The challenge was set.

Snapping the lock on the cage, I wrenched open the door. Fisting the picana at my side, I ordered, “Get out!”

The female dropped her head. Her shoulders sagged slightly, but she put one shaky foot in front of the other and stopped beside me. This close, I towered over her. She was smaller than Mistress, at least half her size. Her skin was dark against my pale form. It was soft against my ink and rough scars.

My jaw clenched as I fought the need to touch her. Fought against the urge to stop her pain. But I couldn’t; 152’s face in my mind forced me to keep going.