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 temperature drops as I go down. Stone walls on either side, holding cold like a promise.
At the bottom, I pause.
The main chamber stretches before me—throne, mirror, training platform, all the architecture of dominance. But it's the small door to the right that holds my attention. The bedroom where Emmaleen sleeps.
Or doesn't sleep. Hard to tell with someone that deep in subspace aftermath.
I cross the floor. My footsteps echo against stone, leather, silence.
At her door, I stop. Press my palm against the wood.
She didn't choose this. Not really. This is not consent. It's coercion wearing consent's clothes.
But she's here. And now, she's mine to guide.
Not to break. Not to destroy. Not to use as a repository for damage.
To rebuild.
If Giovanni is going to fracture her each night, then my job is to put her back together each morning. Piece by piece. Teaching her the difference between pain that serves and pain that only harms.
She needs to learn her body can experience pleasure without punishment attached. That submission doesn't require self-erasure. That choosing to kneel is different from being forced to the ground.
Giovanni won't teach her that. He doesn't know it himself.
But I do.
I push open the door.
The room is dark except for the faint glow from the dungeon's candlelight bleeding through. Emmaleen lies motionless on the vinyl mattress, the transparent nightgown riding up slightly, exposing the marks on her thighs—red welts from the riding crop, already purpling at the edges.
My chest tightens.
She is shaking from the cold, but doesn't stir as I approach. Deep sleep, then. Her body's way of protecting her mind from processing too much at once.
I kneel beside the bed. Not touching. Just observing.
Her face is tear-streaked, dried salt tracks visible even in low light. Her breathing is steady but shallow—each inhale careful, as if deeper breaths might wake the pain sleeping in her muscles.
The bruises will darken overnight. The welts will ache tomorrow. Sitting will hurt. Standing might hurt more.
But that's just the physical damage.
It's the psychological fractures that concern me. The way she's learning to accept violence as affection. The way Giovanni is teaching her that love looks like a riding crop and sounds like apologies whispered to someone too submerged to hear them.
I shouldn't.
Every professional instinct I have screams against it. Every boundary I've ever set, every rule I live by—all of it says don't.
But I climb into the narrow bed anyway.
The vinyl mattress protests under my weight, creaking in the silence. Emmaleen doesn't wake. Doesn't stir. She's that far under—body shut down, mind gone somewhere safe where tonight can't reach her.
I shift carefully, positioning myself behind her. My chest against her back. My arm sliding beneath her neck, the other draping over her waist.
I hold her shivering body.
Not claiming. Not taking. Just... holding.
Her body is warm despite the dungeon's chill. The transparent nightgown does nothing—I feel every curve, every line of her against me. The welts raised on her thighs press against my legs. Evidence of Giovanni's loss of control, written in her skin.
I pull her closer. Slowly. Gently.
She moves in her sleep.
A small shift at first—her shoulders drawing back, seeking more contact. Then her whole body turns, instinctive, unconscious. She burrows into my chest like she's searching for something. Safety, maybe. Or warmth. Or just the promise that someone will hold her without hurting her.
Her face presses against my throat. Her breath ghosts across my skin, soft and rhythmic.
I kiss the top of her head. Once. Twice. My lips barely touching her hair, careful not to wake her but unable to stop myself from offering this small comfort.
My hand moves of its own accord—palm sliding down her spine, over the curve of her lower back, then up again. Caressing. Soothing. The way you'd gentle a frightened animal.
She responds.
Even asleep, even deep in whatever protective fog her mind has wrapped around itself, she responds. Her body arches slightly into the touch. A soft sound escapes her throat—not quite a moan, not quite a sigh. Something between.
Her hand moves. Finds my chest. Fingers curling against my skin, tips digging into me like she's afraid I'll leave.
I won't.
Not yet.
I keep stroking her back, her shoulder, her arm. Slow, deliberate touches that say you're safe without words. That promise I won't hurt you even though we both know that's a lie I'll have to break eventually.
Because Giovanni will require it.
And she'll accept it because she thinks that's what love looks like.
"Emmaleen," I whisper against her hair.
She doesn't wake. Just makes that sound again, pressing closer.
"Emmaleen." A little louder. A little firmer.
Her breathing changes. The steady rhythm stuttering, catching. Rising toward consciousness.
I feel the exact moment she surfaces. Her body goes rigid in my arms. Muscles tensing, awareness flooding back.
"Shh." My hand on her back, grounding. "You're safe."
She doesn't pull away. Doesn't bolt. Just stays frozen, processing.
"Do you know who I am?" I ask quietly.