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)
My cock throbs again, reminding me that time is running out. I need to decide. Give in and fuck her, risking the whole point of the game for temporary relief? Or humiliate her into leaving?
I wish it could be different, my little Word Collector. I wish I could punish you until you came on my cock. Until you screamed my name into the night.
But I can't.
You must be broken.
"Stop writing."
The command leaves my mouth, direct and crisp. Her pen freezes mid-letter. She obeys without question, her body responding before her mind can argue.
Good. It's the first sign of proper training taking hold.
She exhales, a long, controlled breath that tells me more than she intends. Relief mixed with apprehension. The universal sound of someone shedding one burden only to prepare for another.
"Bring me the journal."
She rises from the child's desk, her naked body unfolding with a grace that seems at odds with her exhaustion. Even after eleven hours of Jino's training, there's a precision to her movements, a careful control that suggests she's performing rather than surrendering. The distinction is important. Performance can be maintained indefinitely. Surrender cannot be faked for long.
She crosses the room, each step deliberate. Her eyes remain lowered, but not from submission—from calculation. She's buying time, processing what she's written, preparing for my reaction.
When she reaches me, the journal extends from her trembling hands. I take it, my fingers deliberately brushing against hers. Her skin is warm despite the basement's chill.
"Thank you, my King."
The words come with a bowed head, formal and practiced. But they hit me like a bullet.
King.
Something shifts inside me, tectonic plates realigning without warning. She's learned the title from the Doctrine, of course. It's the formal address. But hearing it from her lips changes everything.
I could be her King. I want to be her King.
The thought arrives fully formed, unwelcome and unavoidable. To possess her, and only her. To control every moment of her day. To orchestrate her pleasure, her pain, her growth.
To keep her safe...
But I can't keep her safe.
Not if she wants to live a normal life as a human being with agency instead of a slave in my sex dungeon. Locking her away like a tragic fairy-tale princess would be the only way to prevent my enemies from raping her, killing her, or worse. Because there are always worse things than rape and death. I've seen them. I've caused some of them.
Luca LaRiccia would not be satisfied with a quick execution. Not if he ever found out that this woman witnessed his son's murder. He'd want to make an example of her. He'd want to make me watch.
My jaw tightens. This train of thought is unproductive. Worse, it's dangerous. It suggests I'm considering options that don't exist.
"Kneel between my legs. Head on my thigh."
She complies, folding gracefully to the floor. Her chin presses against my erection, her breath hot through the fabric of my pants. My cock responds instantly, hardening further. I feel her exhale, the warmth penetrating the expensive wool, teasing nerve endings already on high alert.
I open the journal, forcing my focus away from the physical sensations. My eyes scan the page, expecting confessions, justifications, perhaps even pleas.
Instead, I find verse.
A fucking poem.
The Word Collector has written her feelings—raw, authentic—but hidden them in the structure of poetry. Clever girl. Always finding ways to comply while maintaining distance. Always finding loopholes in my directives.
The words are arranged in tercets, each stanza linking to the next through a chain of repeated end-words. Terza rima, like Dante's Divine Comedy, places our game firmly inside some circle of hell.
Through the painful hours my body bent to will,
Not yours, my King, but his—a stranger's hand
That shaped me like the potter shapes his till.
I learned submission's weight, the harsh command
That echoes not with love but duty's call.
Three postures taught, each one precisely planned.
The words scrape against something inside me. She's revealing herself, but on her terms. Confessing without surrendering. Every verse is both honest and evasive—much like Emmaleen herself.
I should be angry at this technical compliance that sidesteps true submission. Instead, I'm... impressed. Fascinated. Aroused not just by her body kneeling before me, but by her mind's refusal to break even as she follows orders.
Her breath continues to warm my thigh, each exhale a reminder of her presence, her vulnerability, her strength. I could reach down right now. Thread my fingers through her hair. Tilt her face up. See what truths lie in her eyes that didn't make it onto the page.
I don't move. Instead, I continue reading, looking for the crack in her armor, the weakness I can exploit to drive her away.
To save her life.
Even if it means destroying whatever this is between us.
His touch was clinical against my fall
Of hair, adjusting limbs with practiced ease.
I closed my eyes and thought of you, stood tall