Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
But I don't stay to witness the eruption.
I turn and walk out.
Behind me, something crashes against the wall—porcelain, maybe glass—shattering into a thousand pieces that scatter across the hardwood floor like shrapnel.
I just keep walking.
10
The sound that drags me up from the depths is a vibratin' buzz somewhere downstairs—insistent, repetitive, the kind of noise that crawls under your skin like midges on a hot day.
My phone.
Course it is. Probably been going off for the last hour while I was dead to the world.
I lie there in that gray space between sleepin' and wakin', brain still foggy, thoughts driftin' like smoke.
Humanity's fucked, isn't it? Whole species glued to the black mirror, scrollin' through other people's curated misery while our own piles up behind us like dirty dishes. We're all just moths battering ourselves against the screen's glow, pretendin' we're not slowly going blind.
The buzzing stops.
Thank Christ.
Another sound invades the quiet. Something breathier. Rhythmic.
Heavy breathin'?
I open my eyes, stare at the ceiling for a long moment. Black paint. Bold choice for a ceiling, that—dramatic, a bit oppressive if I'm bein' honest. The kind of design decision you make when you're tryna project mystery, or darkness, or some other shite that probably reads better in a catalogue than it does when you're lyin' under it.
What time is it? Afternoon, if the slant of light through the curtains is tellin' me anythin'.
Not breathing.
Moaning.
I turn my head.
"Ah, fuck." The words come out in a rush of Irish curses—"Jaysis Christ, what in the name of—" I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, remembering exactly what the fuck happened over the last twenty-four hours.
Lorcan, mah boy, Father Patrick's voice drifts through my skull, thick with that familiar County Clare disapproval, only you could kidnap a woman and wake up more confused than when ya started.
Uncle Fearghus. The LaRiccia family's request for intel. Giovanni's estate. The security system I had my team install six months back. The girl—naked, collared, emergin' from the library like some Gothic nightmare made flesh.
The girl who's currently handcuffed to my headboard.
And she's naked again.
Which is somethin', considerin' she was wearin' my clothes when I fell asleep. The henley's pushed all the way up her arm, bunched at her wrist where the leather cuff circles. Sweatpants gone entirely—probably kicked off sometime during the night.
And she's kneeling.
Not sitting. Not lying down like a normal person who's been cuffed to a bed.
Kneeling.
Forehead pressed to the mattress, arse in the air, arms stretched out in front of her like she's reachin' for somethin' that isn't there. The position looks obscene and devotional all at once, her spine curved in a way that can't possibly be comfortable.
My irritation spikes—sharp and immediate.
"What the fuck," I snap, sitting up too fast. My head pounds in protest. "Are ya—are ya a freak? Why are ya doin' this?" I gesture at her, at the whole fucked-up tableau. "Just act normal, would ya?"
I'm still tired. Got maybe four hours of sleep after drivin' through the night with a kidnapped woman in my passenger seat. My head's throbbing like someone's taken a mallet to it, and I don't want to deal with this fuckin' woman and whatever psycho-sexual conditionin' Giovanni's shoved into her brain.
I want to take her back.
I want to explain this shit to Giovanni—figure out what the hell I was thinkin' breaking into his house, what possessed me to shove her in my trunk like some sort of deranged savior.
But I've got to play this careful now.
Can't just roll up to Giovanni's estate and say, "Sorry mate, had a moment of temporary insanity, here's your slave back."
Not when Uncle Fearghus is waitin' for my report. Not when the LaRiccias are circlin' like sharks who've caught the scent of blood in the water.
The girl doesn't move.
Just stays in her position, and now she's muttering—low, rhythmic, like a prayer or an incantation.
"Yes, Sir. Yes, my King. Yours, my King. All yours."
Over and over. The words tumbling out in a breathless loop.
"Jesus Christ." I swing my legs out of bed, standin' up too quickly. The room tilts. "Would ya stop that? Ya sound like a mental patient."
She doesn't react. Doesn't lift her head, doesn't pause in her muttering.
"Yes, Sir. Yours, my King. How can I serve you, my King?"
"I'm not your fuckin' King," I say, louder this time, sharper. "I'm not Giovanni. Ya don't have to do this performance for me, because I don't care."
Nothing. Just that same position, same muttered litany, like I haven't spoken at all.
The phone downstairs starts buzzing again.
"Fuck." I scrub my hands through my hair, stalking toward the door. "Stay there. Don't—just don't do anything fuckin' weird while I'm gone."
As if she could do anything else, cuffed to the bed and lost inside whatever psychological programmin' Giovanni's installed.
I take the stairs two at a time, bare feet cold against the hardwood. The buzzing gets louder as I descend. My phone is on the foyer table where I dropped it when I emptied my pockets last night on habit.