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)
The silence between us stretches so long I swear I can hear my own cells dividing. Giovanni's gaze has transformed me into a science experiment—a specimen pinned to a board, helplessly waiting to be dissected.
"What did he do to you last night?" Giovanni finally asks, his voice glacial as he points one long, elegant finger at Master.
I glance at Master, who seems about as concerned as someone checking the weather forecast for next Tuesday. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his tattooed chest, blood drying on his split lip like he's posing for the cover of Sociopaths Monthly. The casual indifference in his posture tells me everything I need to know about where I stand in this little power triangle.
Of course.
They fought it out like animals upstairs, came to some kind of blood-soaked gentleman's agreement, and now I'm the sacrificial lamb. Whatever happened in that silence after the fighting stopped, whatever words were exchanged—they've reached their male consensus. And I'm just the chess piece they're moving around the board.
"He—I mean, I—" My tongue feels swollen, uncooperative. "I didn't bathe like you said to. That was my fault. I fell asleep instead, and then he came in and said I should have followed instructions and—"
The words tumble out of me like I'm reading from a bad script I've performed too many times before. The rhythm is familiar—minimize his actions, maximize my faults, preempt the anger before it escalates. Create a narrative where I deserve whatever's coming.
Wait.
Holy shit.
This is exactly what I did with my ex. The verbal dance before the storm. The careful recitation of my sins to justify the bruises that would follow.
My stomach lurches violently, acid climbing my throat. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision like evil little paratroopers invading my consciousness. The concrete floor beneath my feet seems to ripple and shift.
No. No, no, no. I will not faint. I will not collapse in front of these men. God knows what they'd do to my unconscious body. What new lessons in submission they'd teach while I couldn't even scream—
And just like that, the fear crystallizes into something harder, colder.
Something with edges.
What the fuck am I doing?
What do I think they’ll do to me if I faint? Rape me?
Because if that’s what I truly think, this is gone way beyond crazy.
This has become…a cancer. Something that needs to be cut out of me. A disease I might never recover from.
I blink, and the room snaps back into focus. The dizziness recedes like a tide pulling back from shore.
What the actual fuck am I doing?
This isn't who I am. This isn't who I promised myself I'd become after I left Cleveland. After the hospital. After the months of looking over my shoulder and jumping at shadows.
My posture straightens. My chin lifts. The words that come out of my mouth now have weight, substance.
"You know what? I'm done." The declaration lands between us like a brick. "This whole thing—the demerits, the positions, the mind games—I'm out."
I move forward, no longer a trembling leaf but something with purpose. My shoulder brushes past Giovanni's, the contact sending electric currents through my skin that I refuse to acknowledge. I push past Master next, not looking at his face, not giving him the satisfaction of my fear or my desire or whatever fucked-up cocktail of emotions he stirs in me.
The dungeon opens before me, its medieval horror-show layout now just furniture I need to navigate to reach my exit. My eyes lock on the key hanging on its hook—that small piece of metal that represents the end of this psychological torture chamber.
Freedom isn't found in escape, I remind myself as I stride toward it. But in the deliberate choice of which chains to wear.
And I choose… not theirs.
I snatch the key from its hook and whirl around, clutching it against my chest like it's the One Ring and I'm surrounded by Nazgûl. Both men have followed me into the dungeon proper—Giovanni with his glacial rage, Master with his professionally composed face.
The key's teeth dig into my palm, grounding me in this absurd reality where I'm standing nearly naked between two bloodied men who've been literally fighting over my... what?
My obedience?
My body?
My submission?
"You did a background check on me," I say, my voice barely audible even to myself. The words hang between us, weighted with everything they imply.
Giovanni winces. It's subtle—a micro-expression that flashes across his face so quickly I'd have missed it if I weren't cataloging his every reaction like I'm studying for a final exam in Mob Boss Psychology 101.
He knows. That's the thing about Giovanni Bavga—he always fucking knows. He knows exactly who I am, what happened to me, what I'm running from. Maybe not the shape, but the outline, at least. The sudden disappearance from my perfectly curated bookish social media life might as well have been a Bat Signal in the sky, that's how fast he deciphered the meaning behind it.