Of myself, of her, of every word between us.
I'm satisfied now. Dominance restored. The room is quiet except for the hum of the surveillance equipment. My breathing has finally slowed.
I need sleep. The black leather couch across the room looks almost inviting. I’ve got about fifty minutes before Jino arrives to start day two of Emmaleen's training. Enough time to reset.
But as I start to get up, something catches my eye.
Little Miss Take is disobeying my direct orders.
Eat. Bathe. Dress. Sleep.Four simple commands that even a child could follow.
After eating the bread and sausage, she simply collapses onto the bed. No bath. No nightgown. Just straight to sleep like my instructions were optional suggestions.
Small defiance. Insignificant in the scope of things. Yet the sight of it crawls under my skin like a splinter.
And now it occurs to me—much too late to matter, that I failed her last night. I let emotion get the best of me, and in this weakness, I forgot that feeding, bathing, dressing, and putting her to bed weremyresponsibility.
A long sigh escapes. She frustrates me. And this frustration leads to mistakes.
See. This is why I can’t keep her. She unsettles my perfectly organized world. Rips it to shreds with a few well-chosen words. Flips the tables, scattering my thoughts and desires in all directions.
She’s not good for me.
And what’s not good for me is even worse for her.
She is, in fact, a fucking thorn in the side of our mutual long-term survival.
Adrenaline courses through my blood, the peace that was beginning to settle, once again scattered. There’s no rest now. Not with that poem running through my head. Not with my mistakes gnawing away at the edges of my confidence.
Have I royally fucked up?
Have I miscalculated so badly that this game will backfire?
Unknown. Yet. There’s still time. It was day one. We were finding our footing, that’s all. Today will be smoother and?—
On the monitor, Emmaleen sits up in bed.
I lean in. What the fuck? Did something wake her?
The bedroom door opens. It's Jino.
What the hell is he doing?
I increase the volume, catching his words mid-sentence: "—bathe. You didn't dress."
I watch with amusement as something snaps inside Emmaleen and suddenly, words are spewing out of her mouth like a scene fromThe Exorcist. She verbally berates Jino, calling him Master in a mocking way. Asserting her own self agency.
Jino barely contains his smile.
I don't even try. Classic Little Miss Take right here.
After a full minute of verbal vomiting, her little outburst has burned itself out. I expect shame, silence, obedience. Instead, I watch her retreat. She flinches when Jino takes her hand—tries to pull away—but he doesn’t let her. He grips her tight. Firm, measured, commanding. The kind of touch reserved for something you own.
“Come,” I hear him say, pulling her across the room.
I narrow my eyes. What’s happening?
“Relax,” he murmurs, softer now. He's filling the bath. The camera angle doesn’t miss a thing: the water turning on, steam curling into the air, his hand gesturing toward the tub as if it were his right to order her body anywhere. She hesitates, then obeys. Steps in. She’s shivering, shaking, exposed, but when he lays a hand on her arm—gentle, deliberate—her shoulders drop.