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)
He scrubs a hand down his face. Drags it through his hair. The blond strands stick up at odd angles.
"Right," he says finally. His accent thickens when he's stressed, I'm noticing. "So… that was... comprehensive."
I wrap my arms around myself. Suddenly very aware that I'm still naked. That I've been standing here naked this entire time having a complete breakdown while he just... listened.
"Well, if it makes ya feel any better, Emmaleen, yer not the only crazy person in the room."
I… don't think that does make me feel better, actually.
Lorcan laughs, like he's reading my mind. "Nah," he says. "Bad example. The point is, you're… not that far off normal."
"Not that far off normal? What kind of support is that?" My voice climbs higher with every word. "It's OK, Emmaleen. You crave demerits like they're cocaine and pedagogical instruction on how to spread your legs for display like it's this week's yoga pose, but don't worry. Forty-seven percent of crazy people cite sexual frustration for their spiraling, so you're actually, basically in the majority if you just ignore all normal people who've ever existed and concentrate exclusively on the deranged. Oh, and also, you've developed a documented Pavlovian response to punishment notebooks. So really, you're doing great. Totally fine. Not concerning at all."
I'm pacing again. Gesturing wildly. I turn on my heel and stop. Lorcan is smiling at me. "What? What the fuck is that smile? Why are you smiling? This isn't funny."
"No," he agrees. Except he's still smiling. "It's not funny, haha. But… you know. It… you… you are kinda funny."
I point at him. "I feel like this is a completely inappropriate time to make Goodfellas jokes. Apropos to… well, everything."
Again, he smiles. "Would ya like to put your clothes back on, Emmaleen?"
"What?" I look down at myself. Then sigh, because again, I'd forgotten to be ashamed of my nakedness. "No. Actually, I don't. I like this." I point to my body. "I like walking around naked in a perpetual state of readiness for when my master or my monster comes home. But… thank you for the check in."
The smile is gone. Lorcan actually shakes his head at this revelation. Like comparing spankings to heroin and demerits to cocaine isn't the shocking thing here. The shocking thing is my method of display.
"You call him that like it's a good thing."
My eyebrows furrow. "What?"
"Monster." The word comes out of his mouth with a bad taste. "Yer monster. Do ya have any idea at all what you're talkin' about? Because I know that monster too, Emmaleen. He's nothin' to be proud of."
Something in my chest cracks.
Not breaks. Not shatters. Just—cracks. Like ice on a windshield that spreads in fractals you can't stop watching.
"You don't—" My voice comes out wrong. Too high. Too thin. "You don't know him like I do."
"Don't I?" Lorcan takes a step into the room. "We were roommates at St. Augustine's for five years, Emmaleen. I've seen what Giovanni does when he thinks no one's watchin'. I've seen what he's capable of."
"Stop." My hands come up. Defensive. "Just—stop."
But he doesn't stop.
"I've seen him dissect people like they're fuckin' lab specimens. Break them down into pieces he can catalog and control. And you're standin' here callin' him your monster like it's a term of fuckin' endearment—"
"It is." The words rip out of me. Desperate. "It is because he told me about the monster. He showed me. He didn't hide it. He didn't pretend. He said 'this is what I am' and I—I chose to stay anyway."
"Because he gave ya the illusion of choice—"
"No." I'm shaking my head. Backing up. "No, you don't understand. Tyler never gave me choices. Tyler made me feel crazy for even wanting choices. Giovanni gave me a key. An actual fucking key on the wall. Cash. A passport. A plane ticket. He gave me everything I needed to leave and I stayed. That's different. That has to be different."
"Is it?" Lorcan's voice is quiet now. Gentle. Which is somehow worse. "Does it? Or did he just make the cage pretty enough that ya wanted to stay inside it?"
The crack spreads. "You don't—" My breath catches. "You don't get it."
"Then help me get it, a stór. Make me understand."
And that's when it happens.
That's when the past twenty-four hours hit me all at once like a train I didn't see coming.
Giovanni's face when I told him I loved him. The notebook filled with seventy-three pages of poetry. The throne. His cock inside me. Yours, my King. All yours. Jino's hands on my body. The riding crop. The feather. Position Three until my thighs screamed. The key on the wall that I stopped seeing. The library. Colliding with Lorcan. His hand on my throat. The trunk. The cabin. The car ride. This room. These handcuffs. The Display position. Begging for my King. Begging for my Master.