Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
She's not pretending.
This isn't Stockholm syndrome cosplaying as devotion.
She genuinely wants this. Needs it. Craves the structure, and the discipline, and the certainty that comes from having every decision stripped away.
And as long as she stays perfect—stays obedient, stays silent, stays hidden in my house where no one can ask her questions—she's safe.
Not because I'll hurt her. I'm never going to hurt her. Why would I hurt her? Even the monster inside me has given in on this point. It hides when she's around. The evil thing inside me shudders at the longing I have for this woman.
Not that I trust myself to handle it all alone, because I don't.
The monster hides from Jino too. It knows he's watching. It understands the rules. It's not fully controlled, but it's weakening.
Day by day, week by week, it shrinks inside me.
The Aventador's headlights cut through the darkness as I accelerate toward Riverview, toward the mansion on the hill, toward the woman waiting for me in the dungeon.
Waiting for me to clear her imaginary demerits.
Waiting for me to deliver the punishment she craves.
She'll count every spank, her voice breaking around number six, her pussy dripping and swollen with want and desire.
And when I finally fuck her—when I bury myself inside her and feel her clench around my cock—she'll whisper the words she's been trained to say.
Yours, my King.
All yours.
Because she is.
All. Mine.
2
Question for ya, Father Patrick… How many Hail Marys for kidnappin' your best friend's naked woman?
Lorcan, mah boy, how do ya always find yerself in such situations?
How, Father?
The answer's simple enough, isn't it? Irish mob, that's how.
And here I am, thirty-one years old, runnin' a criminal empire from the Boston docks, and drivin' a stolen '70s Buick LeSabre that smells like cigarettes and gasoline.
The woman in the trunk is naked.
My best friend's woman.
Who I just kidnapped.
From his basement dungeon.
Which—when you state the circumstances in order like that—doesn't sound nearly as brill as it did an hour ago.
The family business has a way of puttin' ya in positions that'd make the saints weep and the sinners laugh. Situations where the line between right and wrong gets blurred beyond all recognition.
But this might be a new low even for me.
Or a new high, dependin' on your perspective.
Moral relativity's a proper bitch that way.
The dashboard clock blinks 8:54 in green digital numbers that flicker every third second like they're considerin' givin' up entirely. I don't blame them. I'm considerin' the same thing.
I'm not in a good place mentally.
Right. Understatement of the year, that. I've had better days—I've had worse ones too. The kind with gunfire, and blood, and people actively tryna end me.
But at least those made sense. You get shot at, you shoot back, everyone knows the rules.
This is somethin' else entirely.
Not exactly a moral high ground situation, is it?
And…
And… the naked-woman-in-the-boot hasn't made a sound in over two hours.
Not since I shoved her in there in Giovanni's driveway and peeled out like the hounds of hell were nippin' at my heels.
Not one word since then.
Not one scream. Not one demand, or threat, or promise of revenge.
Just... nothin'. Dead quiet. The kind of silence that feels unnatural. Too still for somethin' that should be fightin' back.
And Christ, that's a poor choice of words, isn't it?
Dead quiet.
What do I do if she's dead?
The question surfaces before I can stop it, risin' up from the depths of my mind like somethin' dragged from dark water, and immediately my brain starts doin' what it does best—calculatin', analyzin', buildin' models of scenarios I don't want to be thinkin' about. Runnin' through possibilities like some kind of twisted mental exercise I never asked for, but can't seem to stop.
Could she suffocate back there? The boot's not airtight, but it's not exactly well-ventilated either. This whole car carries the scent of gasoline fumes. What if it's carbon monoxide and she asphyxiated herself, minus the sexual satisfaction?
How would I explain that to Giovanni?
Sorry, mate, meant to rescue your woman but accidentally gassed her instead. Technical difficulties. My bad.
Christ.
Not exactly the redemption arc I was hopin' for.
And what would I even do with the body? Can't exactly leave her on the side of the road. Can't drive her back to Boston—Uncle Fearghus would lose his entire fuckin' mind. Can't bury her without equipment. Not gonna find me pickaxin' in a dark forest tonight, Satan. Not tonight.
This is why I don't do spontaneous.
This right here.
Pattern-seekers need plans.
I listen—really listen—strainin' to hear somethin' over the engine's rumble. Anythin'. A shift of movement. A cough. A whimper. The sound of someone very much alive and very much angry about bein' locked in a boot against her will.
Nothin'.
I should pull over.
The thought hits me at mile marker forty-three, and I actually lift my foot off the accelerator before talkin' myself out of it. I can't stop here—not on the highway.