It was one thing when she got sassy with him in private... but a whole other matter when she dared it in front of the gang. When she questioned him before all of them, wearing that sly little smile on her lips. The reason for her insolence was irrelevant. What mattered was simply that she had done it.

He ignored her soft sound of protest hours later when his hand closed firmly around her arm, pulling her to him. Silent. And anyone who knew Dutch Van der Linde understood: his silence was far more dangerous than his sermons or his lectures. He dragged her back to his tent, sat himself on the edge of his cot, and with one swift motion, had her laid out over his lap, belly down. One hand gripped the back of her neck, firm and unyielding, while the other pushed up the hem of her dress.

Still, not a word passed his lips. No explanation. Nothing but the icy weight of silence, as he tore down her undergarments and left her bare to the cool air creeping through the tent. His palm rested against her skin, hot under his touch, his fingers twitching ever so slightly with anticipation. Any remark she might have made was cut off instantly by the sharp crack of his hand striking her ass. The sharp hitch of her breath—oh, that was some satisfaction, small though it was, for what she had done earlier. But not nearly enough. His hand rose again, fell harder. The clap of flesh against flesh echoed, and he did not care who might hear it. A third. A fourth. Until he heard that soft, pitiful whimper.

His hand stilled, smoothing almost tenderly over the reddened flesh. "You will never humiliate me like that in front of my gang again." His hand circled slowly over her skin, voice low, deliberate, full of steel. "Otherwise..." His palm lifted once more, delivering another strike—not as harsh this time, but measured, controlled, like his words. No matter how his trousers strained against him. "Otherwise, next time I’ll use my belt. Do you understand me, darling?" Another slap. His voice dropped into a dangerous whisper. "Count."