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)
Her pupils dilate. Her breathing shifts from controlled to erratic. Her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough that I'll have crescent-shaped marks tomorrow.
Good.
She should understand exactly what kind of man she's dealing with.
What kind of cage I'm offering her.
"Stand up." My voice comes out rougher than intended, but Emmaleen doesn’t notice. She automatically rises up on shaking legs, stepping back from the throne.
Her skin is flushed from neck to navel. The candlelight catches on the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Realization dawns. She's terrified of you. What? Something stirs inside me along with the threat that still hangs in the air between us. Invisible, but present. Something I haven’t sensed in more than a decade.
The cold.
The night.
The frozen ground.
Lorcan.
The girl.
Stop.
Emmaleen is nothing like that girl.
She is exactly like that girl.
No.
Get out of my head, monster.
I slew that dragon many years ago now.
It’s dead.
“Pick up the collar and give it to me.”
Emmaleen does as she’s told without hesitation.
Two days. Not even two. One, basically. That’s all it took to get her compliant. To make her surrender. Willingly choose her own punishments.
"Lift your chin."
Again, Emmaleen obeys immediately. She tilts her head back to expose the long column of her throat. Her pulse hammers beneath her pale skin.
I place the collar around her neck with both hands, taking care to position it correctly. Not too high. Not pressing against her windpipe or the delicate cartilage of her larynx.
The buckle clicks into place.
I adjust the fit with clinical precision—tight enough that she'll feel it with every breath, every swallow, every turn of her head. A constant reminder of who owns her now.
But not so tight that it restricts airflow or causes damage.
My fingers linger at the nape of her neck, brushing against the soft baby hairs there.
I drop my hands from the collar and step back, giving her space.
The O-ring glints between her collarbones—a promise of attachment, of control, of what's coming next.
But first.
"We need to discuss your safe word."
Emmaleen's eyes widen slightly. Her fingers drift up toward the collar, then fall away before making contact.
"I..." She clears her throat. The leather shifts against her skin. "I didn't know I'd get one."
"You think I'm a fucking monster?" The words come out sharper than I intended. I force myself to exhale, to find the control that's been slipping through my fingers since the moment she walked into my life. "You think I'd do this without giving you a way out?"
"You just told me I can never leave this house."
"That's not the same thing." I move to the correction cabinet, selecting a lighter from the top drawer. Test the flame. Watch it dance. "The safe word stops a scene. It doesn't end the arrangement."
I turn back to face her.
"Say it and everything halts immediately. No questions. No consequences. No punishments for using it."
Emmaleen tilts her head, studying me with those pale green eyes that see too fucking much.
"What's the word?"
"You choose it."
"Me?"
"Your chains, your choice." I walk back over to the throne and set the lighter down beside the candles she selected. "Pick something you won't say accidentally during sex. Nothing that could be mistaken for encouragement or protest within the scene."
She's quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting around the room—the throne, the mirror, the kneeling mat, the training platform. When she speaks, her voice is soft but steady. "Wisteria."
The word hits me like a gut punch. The poem I recited to her at Rico's party. The tunnel we walked through. My grandmother’s garden.
She chose something that connects to me. Not just a random word for safety—a word layered with meaning, and memory, and brief moments when I let her see past the armor.
I should tell her to pick something else.
Something clinical. Neutral.
Instead I nod once. "Wisteria stops everything. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Say it back to me. All of it."
Emmaleen straightens her spine, hands folding behind her back in Position One without me having to command it. Jino's training is already taking root.
"If I say wisteria, everything stops immediately. No questions, no consequences, no punishments."
"Good." I pick up the lighter again, turning it over in my hands. "But there's something else you need to understand."
Her breathing shifts. Faster. Shallower. She knows there's a catch. There's always a fucking catch.
"You can use your safe word tonight and I won't punish you for it. I won't add demerits. I won't withhold privileges, or deny you orgasms, or make Jino extend your training."
I step closer, until I'm invading her space again.
"But I will be disappointed."
The word hangs between us like smoke.
"You've been here two days, Emmaleen. Two days of Jino's training. A few hours of positions, and corrections, and learning to kneel properly."
I reach out and hook one finger through the O-ring on her collar. Not pulling. Just holding.
Claiming.
"If you tap out on your first real punishment, I'll know you're not ready for what comes next. That you chose those implements—" I gesture toward the candles, the clamps, the crop "—without understanding what you were agreeing to."