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)
Maybe—
No.
No, I don't believe that.
I won't believe that.
"Emmaleen." I keep my voice level. Measured. "Giovanni is going to ruin you. Maybe even kill you. Eventually. If this continues—"
"Then you didn't do your job."
Her words stop me cold. "What?"
"If that happens." She shifts, sitting up fully now, facing me cross-legged on the narrow bed. The nightgown rides up, exposing more welts, more bruises. She doesn't seem to notice. Or care. "If Giovanni ruins me, kills me, destroys whatever's left of who I am—then it means you failed. You didn't protect me. You didn't teach me properly. You didn't make me strong enough to survive him."
I can't speak.
Can't process what she just said.
"That's your purpose, isn't it?" She tilts her head, studying me like I'm the one who needs understanding. "Giovanni breaks. You rebuild. Giovanni pushes. You stabilize. He's the chaos. You're the structure. That's how this works. That's how I survive."
"That's insane."
"Is it?" A small smile touches her lips. Sad. Knowing. "Or is it just the only way someone like me gets to keep someone like him?"
"Emmaleen—"
"You keep telling me I'm losing touch with reality. That I can't tell love from pain anymore. That I'm confusing Giovanni's violence with affection." She leans forward. Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in her green eyes. The freckles scattered across her cheeks. "So show me."
My breath catches. "Show you… what?"
"Show me what love is." Her hand moves. Slides up my chest, over my shoulder, into my hair. "The real thing. Whatever Giovanni's leaving out. Whatever piece I'm missing. Show me, Jino."
"Emmaleen—"
"But don't leave out the pain." Her voice drops lower. Rougher. "Because I need that too. I need to understand how they fit together. How to hold both at once. Teach me."
I should say no. Should pull away, stand up, walk out of this room and straight to my car. Drive back to my own life, my own contracts, my own carefully maintained boundaries.
But I don't.
"Right now?" The question comes out barely above a whisper.
"Right now." No hesitation. "Please."
She takes my hand. The one resting on my thigh, fingers curled into a loose fist.
She unfolds it. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then guides it between her legs.
The heat hits me first. Then the wetness—evidence of arousal despite everything, despite the pain and the bruises and the absolute wrongness of this situation.
Or maybe because of all that.
"Emmaleen—"
"Show me." Her eyes lock on mine. Pleading. Demanding. "Teach me the difference. Make me understand."
Giovanni isn't watching. He's sleeping off his mania. He's upstairs. Unconscious. Gone.
Which means this moment is just ours.
No audience. No performance. No third presence looming in the shadows, cataloging every touch for later use against us.
Just her and me.
And the choice I'm about to make.
I move my hand. Just slightly. Fingers sliding through slick heat, finding her clit, circling it with practiced precision.
She gasps. Head falling back. Mouth opening.
My fingers maintain their rhythm—steady, measured, deliberate. Everything Giovanni is not.
Her hips roll upward, chasing sensation. Seeking more contact. More pressure.
I adjust accordingly. Not pushing. Not demanding. Following her body's signals, interpreting its language. "This is love," I tell her quietly. "When it's given freely. When there's no demerit attached. No punishment waiting on the other side. Just pleasure for its own sake."
I stroke her slowly. Building sensation without rushing it. No agenda except making her feel good.
She's wet against my fingers. Impossibly so. Evidence of her body's will to survive despite everything—despite the marks on her skin, despite the threat of Giovanni upstairs, despite the wrongness of this moment.
Her thighs part wider. An invitation.
I accept it. Sliding one finger into her, then two. Feeling her body's resistance, then surrender. The way her inner muscles grip, adjust, welcome.
She whimpers. Hips rolling toward my touch. "Jino..."
My name is a breath. A plea. A confession.
I curl my fingers inside her, finding that spot that makes her shudder. Applying precise pressure. Not by accident. Not by luck. By knowledge. By design. By understanding the architecture of pleasure.
Her hand clutches my wrist, not to stop me, but to anchor herself.
Her response is wordless. A tremor running through her, building toward crescendo.
I watch her face. The flush spreading across her cheeks. The flutter of her eyelashes. The parting of her lips.
Beautiful.
Not because she's naked beneath this flimsy nightgown. Not because she's wet around my fingers. But because she's alive. Present. Here.
"Stay with me," I whisper as her eyes start to close. "Look at me, Emmaleen."
She does. Her gaze finding mine. Green meeting blue.
"This is different," I tell her. "Feel how it's different. When there's no demerit sheet. No riding crop waiting. No watching eye measuring your reaction against some imaginary standard."
Her breath quickens. Her body tightens around my fingers.
"No mask, either," she manages, the words breathless, strained. "Just... you."
Something shifts in my chest. A realignment. A recognition.
"Just me," I agree. "Just you."