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)
Hot. Sweaty. Shaking like a chihuahua in a thunderstorm. And crying. Because apparently my tear ducts have decided this is their moment to shine.
"Stand up."
Oh good. More commands. Because what this day really needed was another round of Simon Says: Dungeon Edition.
I try to push myself up from the mat, but my legs have apparently declared independence from my brain. They're cramping, protesting, staging their own little rebellion.
Master circles me like a predator evaluating its wounded prey. “Are you going to obey? Or should we get that demerit mark up one more tick to a solid thirty-four?”
I can’t believe he would give me a demerit for collapsing. Like I can control gravity when put through the Cirque du Soleil boot camp without the circus family background.
I sigh. Against the rules. But he doesn’t demerit me. Maybe he’s tired too? I mean, sitting on a throne making notes and circling a broken woman like a wolf—it’s exhausting just thinking about it.
“Get up, Emmaleen.”
You’ve come this far, my inner pep talk starts. Don’t be a stupid quitter now. Surely the first day is almost over? It’s hard to tell. I feel like I’ve been down in this dungeon for months.
I groan, crying—I’ve been crying for hours now. It’s just who I am, apparently—as I roll over one final time, get up on all fours, and force myself to stand up.
Once up on my feet, he doesn't praise me. Doesn't acknowledge that I've been leaking saltwater like a broken faucet for the last however-many circuits through Position Hell. Just flashes that crop in front of my face, barking commands. "Go sit at your school desk. Hands flat on the table. Look straight ahead. Best posture until your King arrives for consequences."
Your King. Like I'm living in some demented fairy tale where the prince is a sociopath and the castle is a basement torture chamber.
But bright side—consequences? Not only might it turn into an erotic spanking, it means the day really is over. Punishments comes at the end, right?
They do, I console myself, as I stumble over to the desk like someone who's been drinking for three days straight but the only thing I'm drunk on is humiliation and whatever hormone cocktail my brain keeps dumping into my bloodstream every time leather touches skin.
I practically collapse into the tiny chair, and for one blessed moment, the relief of sitting down almost makes me break again.
Jesus. Get it together, Rourke. You signed up for this. Literally. With a Mont Blanc pen and everything.
"Remember, slave. You're being watched every moment of the day."
Of course I am. Because privacy is apparently another luxury I forfeited along with my dignity and my ability to walk in a straight line.
A pathetic little hiccup of sound escapes me. It echoes in this stone chamber like an admission of defeat.
Master comes over, crouches down. “Look at me.” His eyes behind that ski mask are unreadable, but there's something almost... gentle? No. Not gentle. Professional. Like a doctor delivering a diagnosis. "The key to the door is hanging on the wall."
My eyes slide over to it. That brass skeleton key, hanging there like the world's most obvious metaphor. Door number one. Freedom. Dignity. The chance to walk away from this insanity before it swallows me whole.
"Your little case of money and freedom are still waiting for you on the other side."
Thirty-one thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars times two. A signing bonus, apparently. Double or nothing money, Giovanni’s version of me losing. A new passport. A fresh start. Everything I thought I wanted when I first walked into Giovanni's restaurant apartment and started this journey to sex-slave enlightenment with a pair of stolen So Kate’s.
"There is no shame in quitting, Emmaleen. Not everyone deserves a King."
And with that devastating little truth bomb, he leaves.
Not everyone deserves a King.
The words hang in the air like incense, heavy and suffocating. I sit in this ridiculous child's chair, hands flat on the desk like a good little soldier, and think about the key. My escape route. My get-out-of-jail-free card.
All I have to do is stand up. Walk over. Take it. Leave.
Simple.
So why does the thought of walking away feel like dying?
The tears continue. Big, fat drops that plop onto the desk like period marks at the end of sentences I never got to finish. Each one feels like a small surrender, and I hate myself for it.
Is this really all it takes? One day of naked Simon Says with a side of psychological warfare? Circuit training for masochists with the promise of... what exactly? Sex as a reward for good behavior? A gold star sticker that says "Congratulations, you've successfully debased yourself"?
Pathetic doesn't even begin to cover it.
The door opens above me, and I hear footsteps on the stone stairs. Heavy. Measured. Familiar.
My spine straightens automatically—muscle memory from hours of crop-assisted posture correction. Even my tear ducts seem to pause, waiting.