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 control," Giovanni finishes.
"Yes."
His eyes search mine. "And what do you want from me?"
The question steals my breath.
Because the truth is too complicated, too messy, too goddamn raw to put into words. I want his darkness and his poetry. I want the monster and the man. I want him to break me, and hold me, and make me feel like I'm the only thing in his world that matters.
I want everything he won't give me.
And I want everything I already have.
"I put it all in a poem," I finally say. "Seventy-three pages about exactly what I want from you."
His thumb strokes along my jawline. "Read it to me."
My heart stutters. "My King?"
"You heard me, slave. Get on your knees. Crawl to that desk. And read me every single word you wrote about how complicated I am."
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
Because I didn't just write about our training sessions or the way he makes my body respond. I didn't hold back on the dark fantasies or the twisted desires or the absolutely unhinged things I imagine when I'm alone in this dungeon.
I wrote it all down.
Every. Single. Thing.
Including the parts where I admitted—in extremely explicit terza rima—exactly what I want him to do to me that he hasn't done yet.
"Now, Emmaleen."
I drop to my hands and knees. Crawl across the cold stone floor, feeling his gaze track every movement. When I reach the desk, I rise to my knees and take the notebook with trembling hands.
Giovanni settles into his throne, legs spread, one arm draped across the armrest in a pose of absolute authority.
Waiting.
I open to the first page. Clear my throat. And begin to read.
"The King descended to his dungeon throne
Where shadows danced like demons on the wall
And I, his subject, knelt before him, prone—"
"Louder," Giovanni commands.
I raise my voice, letting it echo through the chamber.
"—And I, his subject, knelt before him, prone
My naked body offered up as thrall
To serve whatever pleasure he would own."
My cheeks burn. But I keep going.
"He watched me with those eyes of verdant ice
That strip away pretense and leave me bare
No armor left against his cold device."
I risk a glance up. Giovanni's expression is intense, focused entirely on me.
"I thought I knew what men like him could share—
Control disguised as love, possession dressed
As care. But this? This is beyond compare."
My voice wavers. Because this is where the poem gets personal. Where I stop describing and start confessing.
"For he is not the monster I assessed
When first I met him in that hotel hall
All swagger, silence, danger in his chest."
Giovanni lets out a small breath.
"He is the poem I could not recall
The rhyme scheme that escaped me in the night
The words I needed when I felt most small."
I turn the page, my hands shaking.
"And yes, he terrifies me. Yes, the sight
Of him unleashed—that creature in his eyes—
Should send me running toward the safety light."
My throat tightens.
"But here's the truth beneath my survivor's lies:
I don't want safety. Don't want soft or kind
I want the man who sees through my disguise."
Giovanni leans forward slightly.
"I want the King who claimed me, body, mind
Who killed to keep me safe from greater harm
Who makes me feel like I am his to find."
The words are coming faster now, tumbling out in a rush of desperate honesty.
"And yes, I let his cousin work his charm
Let Jino touch me, teach me, guide my way
Through pleasure maps he draws with practiced arm."
I force myself to look up, to meet Giovanni's gaze directly.
"But it's your name I whisper when I pray
Your face I see when darkness pulls me down
Your voice that keeps the broken thoughts at bay."
I stop. "There's more. A lot more, obviously. But that's you, Giovanni. That's who you are to me. Your strength is my strength. Everything you are, you give to me. Whether you mean to or not, it happens. Like... osmosis. Like..."
My brain scrambles for the right comparison, something that will make this cosmic-level emotion fit into words that don't sound completely unhinged. But all I've got is unhinged, and somehow I doubt comparing my feelings to Stockholm Syndrome Greatest Hits is going to help my case.
"Like those parasitic fungi that take over ant brains and make them climb to high places before they die? Except less deadly and more...consensual."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Giovanni doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just stares at me with an expression I can't decipher.
Then, slowly, he stands.
Crosses the space between us.
Pulls me to my feet by my hair—not cruelly, but firmly enough that I gasp.
"Keep reading," he growls against my ear. "Every. Fucking. Page."
His free hand slides down my body, between my legs, finding me already wet.
"And don't you dare stop, slave. Not until you've read me every word about how I'm the only thing standing between you and the darkness."
Oh god.
His fingers push inside me, and I nearly drop the notebook.
"Read," he commands.