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)
"It's driving me crazy," I admit. "And it will happen eventually. But… I'm going slow. Real slow. I don't want to make mistakes either, so I'm gonna train her properly first. I'm gonna let her get used to the way I like things done."
"Well," Lorcan says, and there's a hint of amusement creeping back into his tone. "Will you look at that. Giovanni Bavga actually has self-control."
"I'm trying," I mutter. "But it's… a struggle some days."
"I get it, brother. I do. But obviously, you've been into this lifestyle the whole time, haven't ya?" He exhales loudly. "Well, I had some things goin'. Some… interestin' times. But I'm not lyin' when I say I gave it up. I walked away clean a couple years ago. Which means I'm out of practice. I'm rusty as hell. I try not to think about it. Make myself not think about it. And now… you're tellin' me to think about it, ya know?"
"Just… keep your hands off her throat," I say, my voice hardening slightly. "That's all you gotta do. If I can keep my dick out of her mouth for six weeks surely you can handle not choking her for one."
"Right," he finally says, letting out a long breath. "Tell me exactly what you want me to do."
12
I'm lying on Lorcan's bedroom floor in the Display position—back slightly arched, legs spread wide balanced on my pointed toes, arms above my head—staring at his ceiling and wondering if this is how people lose their minds.
Welcome to "Whose Breakdown Is It Anyway?"—the show where the rules are made up and my sanity doesn't matter! Today's prize: uncontrollable crying and a pussy that won't stop throbbing!
I can hear Lorcan downstairs, his voice low and urgent as he talks to someone on the phone. Probably Giovanni. Definitely Giovanni. My entire body aches toward that voice even though I can't make out the words, every nerve ending screaming King King King like some deranged chant I can't turn off.
My thighs are trembling from holding this position. My core is screaming. But I can't move because the Doctrine says I hold Display until dismissed, and Lorcan told me to wait here, and my brain has apparently decided that "wait here" means "perform advanced yoga until your muscles give out."
I want to touch myself so badly I could cry.
Wait. I am crying.
Why am I crying?
No seriously, why are there tears running down my temples into my hair? Is this grief? Withdrawal? Am I having a nervous breakdown?
I force myself to stop. Just—stop.
Stop trembling. Stop crying. Stop performing the world's saddest interpretive dance routine on a stranger's floor.
I pull my arms down and close my legs, then roll onto my side and curl into a ball, pressing my cheek against the cold floor.
Breathe.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
The Navy SEAL technique I read about in some self-help article when I was trying to survive Tyler. Back when I thought breathing exercises could fix a man who threw you down the stairs.
In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight.
My heart rate slows. The white noise in my head starts to quiet.
OK.
I need to have an actual conversation with myself. A real one. Not the spiral-brain disaster movie I've been starring in for the past—Jesus, what time is it? How long have I been here?
I push myself up to sitting, cross my legs, and stare at the bedroom wall.
Fact: I am currently in Boston.
Fact: I got here by being kidnapped by a very attractive Irish mobster who thought he was rescuing me.
Fact: The moment he uncuffed me, I threw myself at him and begged for my "Master and King" like some sort of feral sex-cult escapee.
Fact: Then I arranged myself in a position specifically designed to make men want to fuck me.
I bring my hands up to my face.
What. The actual. Fuck. Am I doing?
Because here's the thing that's making my brain short-circuit. Lorcan didn't kidnap me because he's a predator. He kidnapped me because he saw a naked woman wearing a collar, covered in bruises, emerging from a mobster's library on a Sunday night.
He saw evidence of abuse.
He made a decision to intervene.
My heroic kidnapper.
And my response to being rescued was to beg to go back.
I stand up. Pace the length of Lorcan's bedroom.
"OK, Emmaleen. Focus. Be cool. Let's get that big brain of yours warmed up because we've got—"
"There ya are."
I turn, startled. Lorcan is standing in the bedroom doorway. "I didn't hear you come up." I say this as a way to explain away the fact that I was talking to myself, but also because he's staring at me and it's… weird.
"Are ya feelin' better then?"
"No," I whisper. "I'm not. I'm… I don't know."
"Were ya cryin'?"
My fingertips reach up, wiping away the tears. "Yes."
"Am I scarin' ya?"
I actually scoff. And it comes out filled with contempt and scorn. Which is such a relief because it feels like the first real sound I've made in... weeks. The kind of scoff Emmaleen pre-dark-mafia-romance would use on the regular.