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)
"Why do you keep touching me like that?" Emmaleen's question is dripping with want. Like she's about to come.
He starts washing her hair, smiling a little when he responds. "To make you love me. To confuse your brain so you see your Master as love, not pain."
Your Master as love?
No, Jino. No. Her King. Me! Me! I am her love! Not you!
"If you were my sub, I'd be fucking you slowly tonight. Telling you sweet things. I'd make you come many times to take away the sting of the day."
I miss what comes next—my mind shooting off into some alternate version of outer space where the vacuum is filled with rage. But then I hear my name again. "Giovanni is using it in all the wrong ways."
Nothing about my ways are wrong. That's the point of being the fucking King! I'm always right!
"Stand up." I glance at the screen again. Jino is helping Emmaleen out of the tub. She takes his hand—is she… is she looking at him with… desire?
Holy fucking shit. My cousin is literally trying to steal my sub. And he knows this is all being recorded. The fucking audacity.
He's talking again. Admitting his treason outright when Emmaleen asks why the towel is so small. "So that I'm forced to touch every inch of your body. So that my touch will be the only thing you dream about tonight."
Then, he combs her hair.
My hair. That's my hair to comb not his.
He puts my sub to bed. Dropping the tiny cotton nightgown over her head and arranging it like she's a doll. Her hard nipples press against the translucent fabric as Jino leads her over to the bed and carefully helps her lie down.
My rage is racing down an endless highway on full throttle when Jino kisses her on the lips.
Kisses her.
Emmaleen then has the nerve to smile at him.
She fucking smiles at him.
I replay the footage. Freeze on her face. The soft curve of her lips. The relaxation in her features. The trust.
I replay it again. And again. And again. Each viewing carving the betrayal deeper.
Every touch was a theft. Every word an undermining of my authority. Every moment a reminder that Jino sees himself not as my instrument, but as a replacement.
The earlier calm evaporates, replaced by a rage so cold it burns.
The rules are simple: what's mine is mine. Jino serves at my pleasure. Emmaleen belongs to me.
These boundaries aren't suggestions—they're law.
Laws that have been broken.
In my house.
Under my roof.
On my fucking cameras.
I sit perfectly still, my breathing measured.
The smile lingers on her lips as the screen flickers.
It’s the last smile she’ll ever give another man under my roof.
Jino has crossed the line into treason.
And treason has only one sentence.
I stand in the corner of the control room wearing nothing but black boxer briefs. The cool air prickles my skin, but I barely register it. My body is a live wire—every muscle coiled, ready to discharge. This isn't about releasing anger. This is surgery. Precise. Calculated. A cancer needs to be cut out.
The betrayal loops on endless repeat in my mind. Jino's hands on Emmaleen's body. His fingers between her legs. Her smile. The fucking smile.
The slam of a car door outside. Boots on gravel. The front door opens, closes. He travels the hallway and all the anger inside me bubbles up. His footsteps are unhurried. Casual. The sound of a man who believes his day will unfold according to plan.
I flex my fingers. He opens the door, carrying a bag over his shoulder. Same all-black outfit. Same fucking arrogance.
He doesn't see me until I'm already moving.
I explode from the shadows, driving my shoulder into his ribs with every ounce of my weight behind it. The impact slams him against the wall with a satisfying crack. His breath rushes out in a sharp gasp. His bag hits the floor.
Good. Feel what the sting of betrayal is like.
His recovery is too quick, but I’m ready. I launch a barrage of short, hard punches aimed at his torso—liver, ribs, solar plexus. The kind of shots that fold a man regardless of his pain tolerance.
But Jino turns his hip, creating space. His blocks are tight, practiced. The counter elbow across my jaw comes out of nowhere.
Crack.
My head snaps sideways. Teeth click together. Copper floods my mouth.
He just hit me in the face. My fucking face.
The fight spills across the control room. The bank of monitors showing the rear of the house flicker as we crash into them. Glass cracks. An alarm beeps pathetically.
I grab Jino by the throat, driving him backward until his spine connects with the brick column running through the center of the room. His windpipe compresses under my thumbs.
He twists violently, fabric tearing as his shirt comes away in my hands. A feint, a hook, and suddenly my ankle is swept out from under me. The floor rises up to meet us both.