Chapter 38

The bell rang.

“Hold that thought,” Simon said, expertly lifting each cookie from the tray and scooping out the last batch. He flipped on the timer again and turned to deal with me, pulling something from our kitchen junk drawer that I couldn’t see. Then, softly, he said, “Grit your teeth, Dana, this is going to hurt.”

I did what he said. Simon never lies to me.

The sting of the unknown implement startled me. I’d been expecting the paddled feeling of the cutting board, or the smarting smack of the wooden spoon. Instead, it felt as if he’d used a crop on me. I tried to turn my head, but he placed one hand on the back of my neck and pushed me down.

Next, the sting came on the backs of my thighs, a few smarting strokes in a row. I squirmed on the counter, writhing, begging through the cloth gag to know what it was he was using.

“What is it? Simon, please.” Somehow, I thought that seeing it would comfort me.

“A wooden chopstick,” he said, dropping the