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)
I let out a long breath, sliding my hands up and down my face. What the fuck is this shit? What am I actually doing here?
Then Jino threatens to walk out.
I actually scoff. So much for Mr. I-Care. That's emotional blackmail. Surely, Emmaleen will see right—
She reaches for him. "Don't leave now. Not yet. I'm…" I sigh. "I need you, Jino. I need you to be you so that I can be me."
You've got to be kidding. She fell for it. He's blackmailing her and—
"I need freedom to do whatever I want with your body and mind. Complete control. No restrictions. No boundaries according to Giovanni Bavga’s rules," Jino responds.
The absolute fucking audacity.
"Convince him, and you get what you want. Fail, and you'll never see the inside of my school room again."
He seals it with a kiss and walks out.
The rage surges.
Not just at Emmaleen.
But at Jino too.
He wants permission to fuck her.
He wants to put his cock inside her. Take her. Use her the way I've been denying myself since the moment I brought her into this house.
My hand slams down on the console, killing the feed.
Then I turn toward the dungeon door.
My slave is down there.
And we're going to have a conversation.
23
The door slams above me. Footsteps hammer down the stairs—heavy, deliberate, each one a countdown to impact.
I don’t stop writing.
The dungeon door crashes open, slamming against stone with enough force to rattle the mirror. I can hear his fury in the way he breathes—sharp inhales through the nose, exhales that sound like contained violence.
My hand trembles. The pen scratches a jagged line across the page.
Then I breathe out, forcing the fear down where it belongs. Locked away. Controlled.
I did this. I made him angry. I begged Jino to touch me, and when he did, I made sure Giovanni knew exactly how good it felt.
I acted like I wanted it.
Because I did.
I knew he'd see the footage—but honestly? Even if the cameras weren't there, I wouldn't have kept it a secret. Secrets are what Tyler demanded. Giovanni gets the truth, whether he likes it or not.
He's my King.
He is entitled to every ugly, desperate, humiliating truth now.
The fountain pen keeps moving across the page. I found the notebook on the floor near the throne where he threw me off his lap and stormed out two nights ago.
They left me down here. Alone, no commands. Nothing to work on.
So what else was I supposed to do? Cry? Wait like a good little victim?
Nope. I wrote it all down. Every thought since I met this beautiful disaster of a man. Every desire, every want, every need, every moment I should have run but didn't.
And then—because that only took me like fifteen minutes and I've been down here all damn day with nothing but my thoughts and a growing collection of bruises—I wrote him a poem.
Well. A poem is an understatement.
It's more like a never-ending epic metered out in terza rima. Longer than Dante's Inferno, dirtier than the comment section on a spicy BookTok rec, and significantly more unhinged.
"Get over here, slave." Giovanni's voice cuts through the room like a blade. "Present yourself to your King."
I set the pen down with deliberate care. Slide off the chair. Sink to my hands and knees. Crawl across the cold stone floor, feeling the weight of his gaze on every inch of my naked body.
When I reach him, I settle into first position—knees together, back straight, hands on thighs, chin down, eyes lowered.
A good little slave.
Jino would be so proud.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
I don't answer. A slave does not speak unless given explicit permission, even when asked a direct question.
The silence stretches. My pulse hammers against my ribs.
"Answer me!"
His roar makes me flinch, but I force my spine straight before I open my mouth. "No, my King. I knew you'd see us. I wanted you to see—"
Before I can finish the sentence, he's behind me. One hand wrapped around my throat, the other fisting my hair. He wrenches my head back so far, my spine screams, my neck stretched taut, until I'm staring up into his eyes.
Not Giovanni's eyes.
The monster's.
"You wanted me to watch another man finger you into orgasm?"
I try to swallow. Can't. The skin across my throat is pulled too tight, my windpipe flattening under the pressure of his palm.
My vision blurs at the edges.
But I don't struggle. Don't fight.
Because some fucked-up part of me wants this. Wants him to see exactly what he does to me. Wants him to know that even when he's choking me, even when he's furious, even when he's the monster—
I'm still here.
Still his.
His grip tightens. My lungs burn.
Then, abruptly, "What were you writing?"
The question catches me off guard. My brain scrambles for an answer, but all I can manage is a choked sound that's half-gasp, half-whimper.