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)
And she'll beg.
Please, Sir. Please.
But I won't give in. Not yet. I'll make her wait. Make her crave it. Make her understand that pleasure is a privilege I grant, not a right she's entitled to.
"Fuck," I hiss through clenched teeth as the first spurt of come hits the shower wall. My cock pulses again, another jet following the first. I stroke through it, milking every last drop, my breath coming in harsh pants.
When it's over, I stand there under the spray, breathing heavy as the water washes away the evidence of my weakness.
The monster in my head remains quiet for once.
Sated, perhaps.
Or planning.
Or maybe just… indifferent.
Because it knows me.
It knows that’s not how this ends.
How does it end?
The question enters my mind in my own voice. Innocent. The voice of a boy I left behind twenty-four years ago.
I scoff. We all know how this ends.
Dead? The boy inside me asks. He’s broken. Starving. Tired.
But not beaten.
Does it end with her dead, Giovanni?
It ends with… Suddenly words invade my mind. Her words, written in the journal I gave her. The poem that cut off just as it was getting interesting.
I wanted it to be you who—
Destroys her, the monster adds quickly. Awake and present as ever. That’s what she wants, Giovanni. She wants you to destroy her. To ruin her body and mind. To take what you want and throw the rest away.
Will you do it? the boy asks.
No. I’m not destroying her. I’m giving her structure. Boundaries. A framework she can rely on when everything else in her life has been chaos and loss. She will understand exactly what's expected of her. She will understand exactly what happens when she fails.
The boy sighs.
The monster claps.
This setup is perfect for Emmaleen. She's in good hands. My hands. Jino's hands.
Between the two of us, she'll have everything she needs. I'll give her the intensity, the fire, the absolute certainty of my control. Jino will give her the precision, the methodology, the reassurance that her submission is valued, not exploited.
It's balanced. It's fair.
I'll let him stay for a few weeks. Long enough to help us settle into the routine. Long enough to make sure she understands the rules so thoroughly they become instinct. Then he can return to his life, his other clients, whatever the fuck else he does when he's not here.
Jino will counteract any mistakes I make.
The thought surfaces like a corpse floating to the top of a lake—cold, unwanted, impossible to ignore.
The monster inside me shifts. You don't make mistakes, Giovanni. In her mind, you're perfect. She counts your strikes like prayers. She takes your pain like communion. You don't need Jino to balance you. You need him gone before he convinces her otherwise.
The monster is half right. Jino's presence is a problem. Not now—not yet—but eventually. He's already overstepping. The bath. The aftercare. The way he looked at her when he thought I wasn't watching. He's supposed to be a contractor, a professional, a tool I'm using to shape her properly.
But he's becoming something else.
He's becoming a reference point. A comparison. A voice in her head that suggests maybe Giovanni Bavga isn't the only way to experience this.
And that's unacceptable.
She's mine. The bruises on her ass are mine. The tears she cried last night were mine. The way her voice breaks when she calls me "Sir" or "my King"—that's mine.
The fantasy lingers.
Emmaleen. Permanent. Mine.
No Jino.
No distractions.
No mistakes.
Jino needs to go.
Soon.
I find Jino in the living room.
Reading the newspaper.
Not scrolling through his phone. Not watching the monitors. Not downstairs with Emmaleen where he's supposed to be.
Reading. The Newspaper.
He's seated in the leather armchair near the window, legs crossed, one tattooed hand holding the fold of newsprint like he's a retiree on a Sunday morning. His face is bruised too—worse than mine, actually. His split lip is healing crooked. There's a purple shadow along his jaw where I landed a solid hit.
But he looks calm.
Serene, even.
I stop in the doorway, cataloging the scene. The coffee table has a mug on it—espresso, based on the size—and a small plate with crumbs. He's eaten. Made himself at home. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
"Where the hell did you get a newspaper?" I ask. My voice comes out flat. Cold. The kind of tone that makes people flinch.
Jino doesn’t flinch. He simply glances up, his ice-blue eyes meeting mine with that unreadable expression he's perfected over the years. "The coffee shop at the bottom of the hill."
"You went out?"
Jino pauses. Tilts his head. "Am I your prisoner or something? I wanted a fucking espresso and a paper. So fucking what?"
Is he angry? I step further into the room, hands sliding into my pockets. The fabric of my suit coat pulls across my shoulders. "Why aren't you downstairs?"
Jino folds the newspaper carefully, setting it on the armrest. He leans back, fingers laced over his stomach, studying me like I'm a problem he's still calculating the solution to.