Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102375 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
The mansion is silent, empty—a sleeping beast.
I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.
There, on the floor by the wall, sits a stainless-steel case. My breath catches as I recognize it—the case Giovanni left at my hospital bedside. My reward money, my passport, my plane ticket. Still here. Still waiting. Still an option.
I walk past it without a second glance.
That's not what I came for.
The library is down the hall to the right, its double doors slightly ajar. I slip inside, and the smell hits me immediately—paper, leather, dust, the faintest hint of furniture polish. The smell of stories waiting to be discovered.
Moonlight filters through tall windows, casting silver stripes across the room. The shelves loom like sentinels, their contents barely visible in the low light. I trail my fingers along the spines, feeling the different textures—the ribbed leather, the smooth cloth, the rough paper.
I could stay here forever, soaking in the possibility of all these words. Each book a universe I could fall into. Each page a temporary escape from the beautiful prison I've chosen.
I pause at a shelf where the moonlight falls directly, illuminating the titles. My fingers stop on a slim volume bound in dark green leather. I pull it free, tracing the embossed title: "The Little Prince."
A small sound startles me—a creak, perhaps, or the settling of the old house. I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
Nothing follows, but suddenly the urge to return to my dungeon bedroom overwhelms me. I've taken too many risks already. Borrowed time and borrowed words.
I clutch the book to my chest and hurry from the library, key still in one hand, Little Prince in the other. Down the hall, around the corner—
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as I slam into something solid and warm. Strong hands grasp my upper arms, steadying me.
Human hands. Male hands.
Not Giovanni. Not Jino.
Someone else.
My eyes travel upward, meeting the face of a stranger—or what would be a face if it weren't covered by a black ski mask with only the eyes visible. Gray eyes, widened in surprise. We stare at each other, momentarily frozen in mutual shock.
"Who the fuck are ye?" The question comes in a deep voice laced with an Irish accent, rough but musical.
My mind spins wildly.
Who the fuck am I?
Who the fuck is he?
Why is there a masked man in Giovanni's house?
Is he here to kill us?
To steal something?
Before I can form a coherent response, the man yanks off his mask, revealing a shock of blond hair and the rest of his face—handsome in a rugged, lived-in way. His eyes scan my body, widening as they take in my nakedness, the visible bruises, the collar around my throat.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his accent thickening with emotion. "What has he done to ye? Are ye all right?"
I open my mouth to explain that I'm fine, that this is consensual, that I'm exactly where I want to be—but he's already moving, pulling off his black shirt to reveal a torso marked with Celtic tattoos, dark lines against pale skin.
"Here," he says, trying to pull the shirt over my head. "Put this on."
"What? No—" I protest, stepping back. "I don't need—"
"Shh," he cuts me off, pressing the fabric firmly into my palms, his grip insistent and unrelenting, as if the shirt itself could undo whatever horrors he imagines I've endured. His eyes lock onto mine with a fierce, protective determination that brooks no argument. "I'm gettin’ ye outta here. Right now. Before he comes back."
I fight him, trying to push the shirt away, but he's stronger, more determined. He backs me against the wall, his body blocking any escape route, and manages to pull the shirt over my head despite my struggles.
"Stop—" I try again. "You don't understand. I'm supposed to be here. I—"
"It's okay," he says, his voice gentle now, as if talking to a frightened animal. "Yer safe now. I won't let him hurt ye again."
His hand closes around my wrist, warm and unyielding. The book and key clatter to the floor as he pulls me down the hallway, moving with purpose toward what I assume is the front door.
"No!" I yell, trying to dig in my heels. "Let go of me!"
His hand claps over my mouth with the precision of someone who's done this before, cutting off my protests mid-syllable. My scream collapses into the warm flesh of his palm.
"Stop fightin’," he hisses, his accent thickening with each word. "I'm tryin’ to save your fuckin’ life."
I thrash against him—or I try to. His other hand finds my throat, fingers pressing into the soft hollow beneath my jaw, pushing me back against the wall with alarming efficiency. My head connects with the plaster, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stun.
And that's when it happens. The thing I can't explain. The thing I'll hate myself for later.