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)
Milk. Eggs. Bread. Butter. Coffee beans. Vegetables I'll probably forget to eat until they're wilted and sad-lookin' in the crisper drawer. A bottle of Jameson because I'm predictable like that.
When everything's sorted, I stand at the sink, hands braced against the edge of the counter, starin' out the window at the harbor lights blinkin' on as dusk settles over the water.
Right.
Can't avoid it forever.
I climb the stairs slowly, each step givin' me another second to prepare for whatever fresh hell awaits me. Maybe she's calmed down by now. Maybe she's worked through whatever spiral Giovanni programmed into her nervous system and she's just sittin' there waitin' for me to unlock the cuffs so we can have a rational conversation about what happens next.
I push open the bedroom door.
She's in the exact same position I left her.
Kneelin'. Forehead pressed to the mattress. Arse in the air like an offering. The curve of her spine is strained, unnatural—physically impossible to hold for this long without crampin' or collapsin', and yet there she is, perfectly still except for the faint tremor in her thighs that suggests every muscle in her body is screamin' at her to stop.
And… cherry on top… her pussy's wet.
Glistenin' in the dim light of the bedroom, slick trails runnin' down the inside of her thighs like evidence of somethin' I don't want to name. The sheen catches what little illumination filters through the window, and I have to look away for a second because the sight of it—the physical proof of her body's response to whatever psychological maze Giovanni's built inside her head—makes somethin' twist uncomfortably in my chest.
The position itself strikes me as obscene and devotional all at once—a contradiction that shouldn't exist but does anyway, written into the arch of her spine and the tilt of her hips. Like she's prayin' to a god who demands debasement as the price of salvation. Like submission and worship have become so tangled together in her nervous system that she can't separate one from the other anymore.
It's the kind of image that belongs in a cathedral and a brothel simultaneously, and neither place would know what to do with it.
Irritation rises in me immediately, sharp and hot. "Seriously?" I mutter, crossin' the room toward her. "You've been like this the whole time?"
She doesn't move.
Doesn't acknowledge I've spoken.
Just keeps muttering that same bloody litany she was reciting when I left—quiet, rhythmic, broken: "Yes, Sir. Yes, my King. Yours, my King. I belong to my King."
Over and over and over, like a skipping record stuck on the same line.
I stop at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, starin' down at her with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance that's rapidly tipping toward genuine concern because… this isn't normal. This isn't even abnormal in the way most people use the word. This is somethin' else entirely.
"Emmaleen."
Nothing.
"Emmaleen, what the fuck are you doin'?"
Still nothing.
She doesn't even flinch.
I raise my voice, lettin' command slip into the tone—not because I want to, but because it's the only language she seems to understand right now. "Look at me."
Her body snaps up with a jerky movement, sudden and disjointed, like she's been startled out of sleep or yanked back from somewhere very far away.
Her pupils are black and so wide, they almost swallow the green whole.
She looks unstable—physically swaying where she sits, off-balance in a way that has nothin' to do with her position on the bed and everythin' to do with whatever's happenin' inside her head.
"What's the matter with ya?"
She says nothing. Just stares at me with those wide, glassy eyes, breathin' shallow and fast.
I sigh—loud, exaggerated, scrubbin' a hand down my face. "Grand," I mutter under my breath. "Just grand. Here I am, babysittin' a grown woman who can't even breathe without a man's permission. Brilliant use of my evenin', this."
I glance back at her, and the look on her face—vulnerable, desperate, waiting—makes somethin' twist uncomfortably in my chest.
"Right," I say, sharper now. "Go on then. You've got permission to speak. Use your words like a good little puppet."
Her eyes fill with tears immediately.
Not slow, gradual tears—instant, like I've flipped a switch.
"I need my King," she whispers, voice raw and trembling.
I freeze.
"I want my King," she continues, the words spillin' out now, faster. "I need—I need to be fed. I need his fingers in my mouth while I sit at his knee. I need him placing food on my tongue. I need—" She chokes on the words, tears spillin' down her cheeks. "I need Jino. I need his direction," she's sayin', voice breakin'. "I need his crop. His training. I need—"
"Wait." I hold up a hand, cuttin' her off mid-sentence. "Stop. Go back. What did you just say?"
She blinks at me, confused, tears still streamin'.
"Jino," I repeat slowly. "You need Jino?"
She nods, frantic now. "Yes. I need Master. I need my King. I need—"