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)
Along one wall sits a cabinet with drawers, almost mundane—like office furniture that took a wrong turn and ended up in hell. I don't want to imagine what's inside.
The smell hits me next—a suffocating mixture of polished leather, candle wax, old wood, and something metallic underneath. Church, plus locker room, plus pawn shop. It carries meaning I can't—won't—name.
The emptiness around these objects makes them worse than if the room were cluttered. Each item stands isolated, deliberate, waiting for its purpose to be fulfilled.
"Nice ski mask," I blurt out, my voice shaky and thin. "Planning a bank heist after my spanking?"
The words dribble into silence.
What. The. Fuck, Emmaleen. What the fuck is wrong with you?
The man doesn't move. Doesn't answer. He only delivers the next slap of the crop against his palm, perfectly on time, as if my words are irrelevant background noise.
The fear of his silence gnaws at me worse than his presence. I've never been good with silence—it's always felt like drowning to me. I babble to keep afloat.
"Look, I know Giovanni put you up to this," I announce to the room, my voice echoing back at me like a mocking twin. "I'm not buying whatever this is. I'm going back upstairs right now—"
But the door is locked. I remember this suddenly, mid-threat, and my words falter.
The man shifts—not much, just leaning forward slightly in his throne so his masked stare angles down toward me. That single tilt of posture tells me everything I need to know. He’s marking my position. Cataloging me.
Like I’m something to be studied.
The crop keeps its perfect tempo. My pulse involuntarily syncs with it, beating faster with each CRACK. I grip my sleeves, then rub my sweaty palms across my thrift store skirt, desperately making small movements just to feel alive against his stillness.
I feel seen. Not seen as in "look at me in this ridiculous outfit," but X-ray seen. Measured. As if Giovanni's words—"your Master awaits"—took physical form on that chair.
And suddenly I realize this isn't the punchline to a prank. It's the beginning of something I cannot define yet.
Fury crashes against terror inside me—I'm angry that I'm scared, sarcasm bubbling up as half a defense. But beneath it all runs the rattled awareness that the man hasn't spoken. Doesn't need to.
The silence and the crop already hold me.
3
I let Emmaleen's tantrum fade behind me. The pitch of her voice still rings in my ears—indignation wrapped in fear, packaged as bravery. Entertaining, but ultimately irrelevant. What matters isn't her outburst but what follows it.
The moment when realization settles in.
When questions replace accusations.
When doubt replaces certainty.
That's the moment I'm waiting for.
The kitchen gleams under recessed lighting. Everything in its place. Countertops wiped clean. I don't tolerate disorder.
Coffee is a constant. I reach for the grinder without thinking. Twenty-seven grams. I measure them the same way every day. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow.
Water heats to precisely 202 degrees. I check the readout because trust is weakness. When the temperature peaks, I pour in a controlled spiral. The grounds bloom. Four minutes. Not a second more.
I push the plunger down. Grounds compress. Separate from liquid.
Order from disorder. Like everything else I do.
The silence catches my attention. Emmaleen's voice has disappeared. She's either regrouping or she's finally gone down the stairs. Either way, the real work is beginning.
She's been in the stairwell for seven minutes.
The cameras record everything, but a recording is like reading about sex—it's the live action that matters. I need to see this unfolding in real time. Need to watch the moment her defiance collapses into understanding.
That's the game.
I take my coffee and walk toward the security room at the end of the hall. The room is cool and dark, lit only by the glow of monitors. I've arranged them precisely—three rows of five. The basement cameras fill the bottom row. They capture everything in perfect clarity, regardless of light conditions.
The previous owners used the basement as a playroom of sorts. I found the reinforced doors, the installation points for restraints. Riverview pretends to be wholesome, but its history says otherwise. Old money built this town, and old money has particular appetites.
I've modified things to my requirements.
I settle into the chair, coffee steaming beside the keyboard. The monitor shows Emmaleen at the bottom of the stairs. Her hands splayed against the wall, feeling her way through darkness.
From her perspective: barely enough light to see shapes.
From mine: everything. The rapid rise and fall of her chest. The dilation of her pupils. The tremor in her hands.
High-end infrared. 4K clarity. Her panic is crisp and clean.
She turns in circles, trying to process her surroundings. Light flickers across her face from the single candle burning at the far end of the room. It casts more shadows than illumination—by design. The strobe effect transforms innocent objects into threats. The brain fills gaps with fears. Basic psychology.