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)
Master steps forward, his tattooed hands spread in a gesture that's somehow both placating and dismissive.
"Go," he says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "It's your right. Your choice. We're not keeping you prisoner here."
Giovanni looks... uncertain. The background check information is clearly filtering through his testosterone-fueled brain fog, softening the hard edges of his anger. I can practically see the realization dawning behind those green eyes.
I was a battered woman. The push-pull dominance games we're playing aren't just kinky fun for me—they're a potential minefield of triggers, a recreation of the worst chapter of my life.
Except Master doesn't notice this silent exchange. He's too busy launching into what sounds suspiciously like a sales pitch, complete with the enthusiasm of a QVC host showcasing the season's hottest kitchen gadget.
"You'd be walking away from an experience few women ever have," he says, voice dropping to that same hypnotic tone he used while bathing me. "Unlike this dick, I'm a professional. I understand the nuances of submission, the beauty of surrender."
He steps closer, and I can smell him—leather and sandalwood and something darker. "You felt it last night. That was just the beginning. I could train you to truly enjoy submission. To crave it. You'd go to bed satisfied, every night. Happy."
The way he emphasizes "happy" makes my stomach flutter traitorously. My body remembers his careful ministrations last night, the gentle way he washed every inch of me, how he made me feel both vulnerable and safe simultaneously.
Fuck.
I want to stay. That's the sick truth I can't escape. I want Giovanni. I want him to claim me as his—not as some disposable "Subject" in his twisted experiment, but as something he values and protects. Something he won't share or discard.
But last night, when I opened myself to him through my poem, he shoved me aside like garbage. The only genuine affection he's ever shown me was when I was unconscious in the hospital for six days. He sat by my bed, documented my every breath in those notebooks, worried over my recovery.
What kind of Stockholm syndrome bullshit is this? How did he manage to rewire my brain so completely in such a short time? I left one controlling man just to throw myself at the feet of another. The scenery's better and the thread count is higher, but the dynamic is just as toxic.
I cross my arms over my chest, partly defiant, partly to hide the way my nipples have hardened under the thin fabric of the nightgown. I look at Master, leaving deliberate space in the conversation for him to fill.
Giovanni steps up, his face a masterclass in contained fury. If anger were radiation, we'd all have cancer by now. Yet he's controlled, eerily so, like he's packaged all that rage into a neat box for later use.
"Miss Take," he says formally, "meet my cousin, Jino. Cousin Jino, Miss Take."
The introduction lands like an anvil in a cartoon, flattening whatever was left of this bizarre situation's normalcy.
"Jino," I repeat, the name connecting to a memory of our drive to Pittsburgh. "From the dog story."
Giovanni's eyes narrow slightly, but he gives a single, curt nod.
"Your behavior—" Giovanni starts, his voice measured, controlled, "—and your reactions to Jino's aftercare last night have forced a change in the rules."
He practically spits the word "aftercare" like it's coated in battery acid.
"You are responding to Jino's touch in a way that allows him to make a claim on you."
"Claim?" I repeat, my brain struggling to process this medieval terminology. "What is this, the bro-code version of calling dibs? I'm not a fucking parking spot."
Jino steps forward, his hand outstretched but stopping short of actually touching me. The sudden shift to requesting consent is jarring after yesterday's forced positioning and manhandling.
"Can I?" he asks, gesturing toward my body with those tattooed fingers.
I look to Giovanni, suspicion crystallizing in my chest. This doesn't track. Giovanni Bavga is not a man who shares. He's made that abundantly clear from the moment he pulled me into his lap at Rico's party and fucked me in front of everyone just to prove I was his property.
But Giovanni's face tells a different story now. His jaw is clenched so tight I can practically hear his molars cracking. Every muscle in his body seems coiled, ready to strike. He's a volcano pretending to be dormant while magma churns beneath the surface.
He's letting Jino ask, but every cell in his body is screaming against it.
Whatever this new development is, Giovanni isn't happy about it. But he's going to allow it to happen—if I give Jino permission.
Which means this isn't about Jino at all. This is another test. Another trap. Another way to make me choose the exact shape and texture of my own degradation.
I stand frozen between them, the key digging into my palm, a decision I can't yet articulate hanging in the balance just as Jino's request hangs in the air. My heart does a violent little tap dance under my ribs, like it's testing how badly I want to stay alive. The power to say yes or no should feel good—like agency, like control. But it's more like being asked which limb I'd prefer to lose.