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)
My body goes liquid. Compliant. A flush of heat blooms between my thighs, and my nipples harden against his borrowed shirt. Some broken, fucked-up part of my brain has been rewired to translate threat into arousal, danger into desire. My eyelids flutter, and a small sound escapes—not a protest this time.
The stranger's eyes widen. He sees it. Recognizes it.
"Christ," he mutters, disgust and pity warring in his expression. "What did they do ta ye?"
I should be fighting. Screaming. Clawing. Instead, I'm melting into his grip like I was made for it.
He's not my Master.
He's not my King.
He shouldn't have this power over me.
But he does.
"He's done it again," he growls, adjusting his hold to pin both my wrists in one large hand. "We need ta go. Now."
He drags me through the hallway, my bare feet stumbling on the hardwood. I try to plant myself, to resist, but my body won't cooperate. It's like I've forgotten how to fight back—or worse, like I don't want to.
"He'll find me," I say, voice thin and desperate. "He always finds me."
"Not this time."
The night air hits my legs like a slap as he pulls me outside. The massive shadow of his car waits in the driveway—some sleek European thing with tinted windows. He pops the trunk with a remote, the lid rising with hydraulic precision.
"No—" I finally manage to struggle again, panic breaking through the haze. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." He lifts me easily, depositing me into the trunk like I weigh nothing. "He's lost his mind. Complete fuckin’ psychopath now. I won't let him kill another woman."
Another woman?
The stranger's face hovers above me, moonlight catching the planes of his cheekbones, the storm-gray of his eyes. He looks genuinely concerned, genuinely heroic in his misplaced rescue mission.
"It's okay," he says, softer now. "I'm Lorcan. And I'm gonna get you out of here. If it's the last thing I do, I’ll protect you..."
The trunk slams shut with brutal finality, plunging me into darkness. The engine growls to life, and the car lurches forward, carrying me away from the only place I've ever felt like I belonged.
I press my cheek against the cold metal of the trunk, feeling each vibration through my bones as the car speeds away. My mind should be racing with escape plans. I should be panicking, clawing at the trunk release, screaming until my voice gives out.
Instead, my thighs press together, seeking friction.
The stranger's grip on my throat replays in my mind, and my pulse quickens. The way he overpowered me, the effortless control, the certainty in his voice. My body responds to the memory like Pavlov's most fucked-up dog, trained to salivate at the sound of any bell, not just my Master's or my King's.
I don't fight the arousal. What's the point?
Instead, I surrender to it, the way I've been taught.
The way that makes everything quiet and simple.
They've trained me so perfectly—drilled it into my bones, my breath, my body's first instinct—that I'll spread my legs for anyone who can make me feel owned.
Anyone who wraps their hand around my throat with that same confident pressure.
Anyone whose voice carries that edge of absolute certainty.
So congratulations, Lorcan the Heroic Kidnapper—you gallant son of a bitch with your storm-gray eyes, and your careful touches, and your low, rumbling voice that wraps around my bones like gravity itself.
You just rescued me from one cage and walked me straight into another.
The only difference is…
You don't even know you're holding the fucking key.
Welcome to the End of Book Shit. This is the part of the book where I get to say anything I want about what you just read. It’s not edited, excuse the typos.
I wrote this book a year ago, almost exactly. Things were much different. The world was different, my life was different, my future looked different.
It wasn’t so much that I felt stuck last year, though I did. It was one of those times when you know… this shit is not working anymore. It’s when you find yourself on a path that looks familiar, but isn’t.
I feel like Emmaleen is in this predicament in book two. Much more so than in book one because in book one, she can kinda pretend like it’s not her fault, not her choice. Life is just ‘happening’ to her. She’s along for the ride.
It’s not an illegitimate way to go through life by any means. I’d say 90% of people do this. They fall into a routine, they allow things to happen around them, to them, about them. And it just becomes familiar.
But it isn’t.
It’s something you fell in to.
And it’s a hole now. And you’re at the bottom. And that climb… it’s not nothing. Maybe it’s long, maybe it’s not. But it’s not nothing.
It’s effort.
It’s confrontation.
It’s a stack of decisions to get out.
Very purposeful decisions.
Some people will read this book and see… whatever they want to see. They will see an abusive man. They will see a victimized woman. And by anyone’s definition, they’re not wrong.