Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Her pulse hammers at her throat—visible, quantifiable fear. Yet her eyes remain locked on mine. Fascinating. Infuriating.
“You’re a lamb in the wolf’s den, Emmaleen.” I trace one finger down her jaw, cataloging the minute tremors in her muscles. “You’re nothing but a meal.”
Rico collects weaknesses like trophies. He’ll spot hers in seconds. The vulnerability. The desperation. The pride she wears like armor over paper-thin defenses.
She shakes her head no. A small, tight movement.
Something snaps inside me—the last thread of control I’ve been clinging to since seeing Rico in my father’s driveway.
“Speak!” The word explodes from me, loud enough to make her flinch.
Good. She should be afraid. She should run while she still can. I don’t want to win this little game anymore. I’ve already won. The second she followed me into my restaurant, I won.
I want her to get out before she can’t. To walk away from this life before it swallows her the way it swallowed me. The way it’s been consuming me since I was born.
I never had a choice. This life was my inheritance. My birthright. My prison sentence.
But she does. She still has time to choose differently.
Tears well in her eyes, but she remains silent. Stubborn. Stupid.
“Last. Chance.” I growl the words between clenched teeth.
She shakes her head again. Defiant to the end. Like she’s proving something to herself.
“Fucking speak!” The words tear from my throat, raw and unfiltered. I never lose control like this. Never. “Say something or get the fuck out!”
“I’m yours,” she whispers, each word precise and deliberate, hanging in the charged air between us like a confession. Her voice trembles slightly, but her eyes remain steady, locked on mine with a determination that burns through her fear. “I will do everything you say, whatever you want, whenever you want it. I’m making this choice—me. Right here, right now.”
The words land like physical blows against my chest. There’s a surrender in them, yes, but also a strange power—as if by choosing submission, she’s found some kind of freedom I can’t comprehend.
Like there’s power in her surrender. A twisted kind of strength radiating from her willingness to bend rather than break. As if by offering herself up, she’s somehow claiming control over her own fate—redefining the very nature of submission into something almost... dignified.
She’s wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.
Power comes from conquering.
From domination.
From bending others to your will until they forget they ever had choices of their own.
It’s taking what you want and making others thank you for the privilege of giving it. It’s the boot on the neck, not the neck that yields to avoid breaking.
This truth is written in my blood, carved into my bones since childhood.
But it doesn’t matter anymore. Because she just gave me what I was looking for all along.
Permission.
Permission to control her completely.
Permission to dictate every aspect of her existence—when she sleeps, what she eats, who she speaks to.
Permission to dominate her in ways as yet unimaginable.
To bend her will until it matches the shape of my own desires.
Permission to do anything I want with her—to remake her into whatever image satisfies the hollow space inside me that’s been growing since I was eight years old and learned that control is the only currency that matters in this world.
She’s handed me the keys to her cage and stepped inside willingly, her pale green eyes watching me with that strange mixture of fear and determination that makes my blood run hot in my veins.
It’s a surrender more complete than anything I could have forced from her, and somehow more unsettling because of it.
I crash my mouth against hers, pinning her harder against the door until I feel the solid wood at her back, her body yielding between it and mine. No more words. No more negotiation. No more of this maddening dance where she keeps surprising me with moves I never anticipated.
My fingers dig into her hip, anchoring her in place as if she might suddenly change her mind and slip away like smoke through my fingers.
When she responds—when she actually kisses me back—something short-circuits in my brain. My hand shoves under her shirt, finding her breast, soft and perfect in my palm. Her nipple hardens against my touch.
Her arms wrap around my neck, pulling me closer instead of pushing me away. Not just accepting. Participating.
This isn’t in the script. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go.
I’m done with Emmaleen’s surprises. Every time I think I have her pinned down, categorized, she shifts. Defies expectation. It’s fucking exhausting.
“You want to be mine?” I growl against her mouth. “Then you’re going to take everything I give you.”
She makes a small sound—half whimper, half moan—that vibrates against my lips. It isn’t fear. It’s anticipation.
“I’m going to slide my fingers inside you.” My voice drops lower, rougher. “I’m going to feel how wet you are for me. And you’re going to be soaked, aren’t you? You’re going to be dripping down my hand while I work you open.”