Who the fuck am I?
Who the fuck ishe?
Why is there a masked man in Giovanni's house?
Is he here to kill us?
To steal something?
Before I can form a coherent response, the man yanks off his mask, revealing a shock of blond hair and the rest of his face—handsome in a rugged, lived-in way. His eyes scan my body, widening as they take in my nakedness, the visible bruises, the collar around my throat.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his accent thickening with emotion. "What has he done to ye? Are ye all right?"
I open my mouth to explain that I'm fine, that this is consensual, that I'm exactly where I want to be—but he's already moving, pulling off his black shirt to reveal a torso marked with Celtic tattoos, dark lines against pale skin.
"Here," he says, trying to pull the shirt over my head. "Put this on."
"What? No—" I protest, stepping back. "I don't need?—"
"Shh," he cuts me off, pressing the fabric firmly into my palms, his grip insistent and unrelenting, as if the shirt itself could undo whatever horrors he imagines I've endured. His eyes lock onto mine with a fierce, protective determination that brooks no argument. "I'm gettin’ ye outta here. Right now. Before he comes back."
I fight him, trying to push the shirt away, but he's stronger, more determined. He backs me against the wall, his body blocking any escape route, and manages to pull the shirt over my head despite my struggles.
"Stop—" I try again. "You don't understand. I'm supposed to be here. I?—"
"It's okay," he says, his voice gentle now, as if talking to a frightened animal. "Yer safe now. I won't let him hurt ye again."
His hand closes around my wrist, warm and unyielding. The book and key clatter to the floor as he pulls me down the hallway, moving with purpose toward what I assume is the front door.
"No!" I yell, trying to dig in my heels. "Let go of me!"
His hand claps over my mouth with the precision of someone who's done this before, cutting off my protests mid-syllable. My scream collapses into the warm flesh of his palm.
"Stop fightin’," he hisses, his accent thickening with each word. "I'm tryin’ to save your fuckin’ life."
I thrash against him—or I try to. His other hand finds my throat, fingers pressing into the soft hollow beneath my jaw,pushing me back against the wall with alarming efficiency. My head connects with the plaster, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stun.
And that's when it happens. The thing I can't explain. The thing I'll hate myself for later.
My body goes liquid. Compliant. A flush of heat blooms between my thighs, and my nipples harden against his borrowed shirt. Some broken, fucked-up part of my brain has been rewired to translate threat into arousal, danger into desire. My eyelids flutter, and a small sound escapes—not a protest this time.
The stranger's eyes widen. He sees it. Recognizes it.
"Christ," he mutters, disgust and pity warring in his expression. "What did they do ta ye?"
I should be fighting. Screaming. Clawing. Instead, I'm melting into his grip like I was made for it.
He's not my Master.
He's not my King.
He shouldn't have this power over me.
But he does.
"He's done it again," he growls, adjusting his hold to pin both my wrists in one large hand. "We need ta go. Now."
He drags me through the hallway, my bare feet stumbling on the hardwood. I try to plant myself, to resist, but my body won't cooperate. It's like I've forgotten how to fight back—or worse, like I don't want to.