Chapter 9

“Five,” Clark said, clearly if a little too loudly. The drill sergeant who lived in Clark’s head rallied to the goal, demanded that Clark take it no matter what, and Clark straightened in sheer lunatic determination. “I want five more, please, Sir.”

“Brave, beloved, Clark,” Daniel’s lips brushed Clark’s hair. “God, I love you, your courage and will. You do amaze me, every time. All right, let’s do this.”

“Sir, yes, Sir,” Clark gritted. Behind Clark, Daniel took his position again, got that fierce look of concentration, shook out the coils of the whip, drew back, and let it fly.

“One,” Clark barked, hands in fists and jaw aching from tension. Another flick, another whiplash sting, and Clark refused to flinch. “Two.” Clark focused on Daniel in the mirror. He watched Daniel’s fluid grace and thinned lips, and the next strike was lower. “Three!” Clark bellowed, blood singing in feverish exaltation. He could do this, was doing it, and he—