They left me down here. Alone, no commands. Nothing to work on.
So what else was I supposed to do? Cry? Wait like a good little victim?
Nope. I wrote it all down. Every thought since I met this beautiful disaster of a man. Every desire, every want, every need, every moment I should have run but didn't.
And then—because that only took me like fifteen minutes and I've been down here all damn day with nothing but my thoughts and a growing collection of bruises—I wrote him a poem.
Well.Apoem is an understatement.
It's more like a never-ending epic metered out in terza rima. Longer than Dante'sInferno, dirtier than the comment section on a spicy BookTok rec, and significantly more unhinged.
"Get over here, slave." Giovanni's voice cuts through the room like a blade. "Present yourself to your King."
I set the pen down with deliberate care. Slide off the chair. Sink to my hands and knees. Crawl across the cold stone floor, feeling the weight of his gaze on every inch of my naked body.
When I reach him, I settle into first position—knees together, back straight, hands on thighs, chin down, eyes lowered.
A good little slave.
Jino would be so proud.
"Did you think I wouldn't find out?"
I don't answer. A slave does not speak unless given explicit permission, even when asked a direct question.
The silence stretches. My pulse hammers against my ribs.
"Answer me!"
His roar makes me flinch, but I force my spine straight before I open my mouth. "No, my King. I knew you'd see us. I wanted you to see?—"
Before I can finish the sentence, he's behind me. One hand wrapped around my throat, the other fisting my hair. He wrenches my head back so far, my spine screams, my neck stretched taut, until I'm staring up into his eyes.
Not Giovanni's eyes.
The monster's.
"You wanted me to watch another man finger you into orgasm?"
I try to swallow. Can't. The skin across my throat is pulled too tight, my windpipe flattening under the pressure of his palm.
My vision blurs at the edges.
But I don't struggle. Don't fight.
Because some fucked-up part of me wants this. Wants him to see exactly what he does to me. Wants him to know that even when he's choking me, even when he's furious, even when he's the monster?—
I'm still here.
Still his.
His grip tightens. My lungs burn.
Then, abruptly, "What were you writing?"
The question catches me off guard. My brain scrambles for an answer, but all I can manage is a choked sound that's half-gasp, half-whimper.
He releases my throat but keeps his hand fisted in my hair, holding me in place. "I asked you a question, slave."