A smile spreads across my face as I realize I don't care.
No—that's not quite right.
Idocare.
Iwantthe demerits.
I want Giovanni to discover my transgression and punish me for it.
I want to feel the riding crop against my skin, the clamps tightening on my nipples, the restraints holding me immobile while he whispers his disappointment in my ear.
When did I become this person?
When did pain transform from something I endured into something I crave?
Does it matter?
No.
I climb the stairs quietly, my bare feet making no sound on the stone steps. A cool breeze flutters around my naked body as I slide the key into the lock and turn it with a satisfying click. The heavy door swings open to reveal a dark hallway, lit only by ambient moonlight streaming through distant windows.
The mansion is silent, empty—a sleeping beast.
I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.
There, on the floor by the wall, sits a stainless-steel case. My breath catches as I recognize it—the case Giovanni left at my hospital bedside. My reward money, my passport, my plane ticket. Still here. Still waiting. Still an option.
I walk past it without a second glance.
That's not what I came for.
The library is down the hall to the right, its double doors slightly ajar. I slip inside, and the smell hits me immediately—paper, leather, dust, the faintest hint of furniture polish. The smell of stories waiting to be discovered.
Moonlight filters through tall windows, casting silver stripes across the room. The shelves loom like sentinels, their contents barely visible in the low light. I trail my fingers along the spines, feeling the different textures—the ribbed leather, the smooth cloth, the rough paper.
I could stay here forever, soaking in the possibility of all these words. Each book a universe I could fall into. Each page a temporary escape from the beautiful prison I've chosen.
I pause at a shelf where the moonlight falls directly, illuminating the titles. My fingers stop on a slim volume bound in dark green leather. I pull it free, tracing the embossed title: "The Little Prince."
A small sound startles me—a creak, perhaps, or the settling of the old house. I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
Nothing follows, but suddenly the urge to return to my dungeon bedroom overwhelms me. I've taken too many risks already. Borrowed time and borrowed words.
I clutch the book to my chest and hurry from the library, key still in one hand, Little Prince in the other. Down the hall, around the corner?—
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as I slam into something solid and warm. Strong hands grasp my upper arms, steadying me.
Human hands. Male hands.
Not Giovanni. Not Jino.
Someone else.
My eyes travel upward, meeting the face of a stranger—or what would be a face if it weren't covered by a black ski mask with only the eyes visible. Gray eyes, widened in surprise. We stare at each other, momentarily frozen in mutual shock.
"Who the fuck are ye?" The question comes in a deep voice laced with an Irish accent, rough but musical.
My mind spins wildly.