"You know what? I'm done." The declaration lands between us like a brick. "This whole thing—the demerits, the positions, the mind games—I'm out."
I move forward, no longer a trembling leaf but something with purpose. My shoulder brushes past Giovanni's, the contact sending electric currents through my skin that I refuse to acknowledge. I push past Master next, not looking at his face, not giving him the satisfaction of my fear or my desire or whatever fucked-up cocktail of emotions he stirs in me.
The dungeon opens before me, its medieval horror-show layout now just furniture I need to navigate to reach my exit. My eyes lock on the key hanging on its hook—that small piece of metal that represents the end of this psychological torture chamber.
Freedom isn't found in escape, I remind myself as I stride toward it. But in the deliberate choice of which chains to wear.
And I choose…not theirs.
I snatch the key from its hook and whirl around, clutching it against my chest like it's the One Ring and I'm surrounded by Nazgûl. Both men have followed me into the dungeon proper—Giovanni with his glacial rage, Master with his professionally composed face.
The key's teeth dig into my palm, grounding me in this absurd reality where I'm standing nearly naked between two bloodied men who've been literally fighting over my... what?
My obedience?
My body?
My submission?
"You did a background check on me," I say, my voice barely audible even to myself. The words hang between us, weighted with everything they imply.
Giovanni winces. It's subtle—a micro-expression that flashes across his face so quickly I'd have missed it if I weren't cataloging his every reaction like I'm studying for a final exam in Mob Boss Psychology 101.
He knows. That's the thing about Giovanni Bavga—he always fucking knows. He knows exactly who I am, what happened to me, what I'm running from. Maybe not the shape, but the outline, at least. The sudden disappearance from my perfectly curated bookish social media life might as well have been a Bat Signal in the sky, that's how fast he deciphered the meaning behind it.
Master steps forward, his tattooed hands spread in a gesture that's somehow both placating and dismissive.
"Go," he says, his voice unexpectedly gentle. "It's your right. Your choice. We're not keeping you prisoner here."
Giovanni looks... uncertain. The background check information is clearly filtering through his testosterone-fueled brain fog, softening the hard edges of his anger. I can practically see the realization dawning behind those green eyes.
I was a battered woman. The push-pull dominance games we're playing aren't just kinky fun for me—they're a potential minefield of triggers, a recreation of the worst chapter of my life.
Except Master doesn't notice this silent exchange. He's too busy launching into what sounds suspiciously like a sales pitch, complete with the enthusiasm of a QVC host showcasing the season's hottest kitchen gadget.
"You'd be walking away from an experience few women ever have," he says, voice dropping to that same hypnotic tone he used while bathing me. "Unlike this dick, I'm a professional. I understand the nuances of submission, the beauty of surrender."
He steps closer, and I can smell him—leather and sandalwood and something darker. "You felt it last night. That was just the beginning. I could train you to truly enjoy submission. To crave it. You'd go to bed satisfied, every night. Happy."
The way he emphasizes "happy" makes my stomach flutter traitorously. My body remembers his careful ministrations last night, the gentle way he washed every inch of me, how he made me feel both vulnerable and safe simultaneously.
Fuck.
I want to stay. That's the sick truth I can't escape. I want Giovanni. I want him to claim me as his—not as some disposable "Subject" in his twisted experiment, but as something he values and protects. Something he won't share or discard.
But last night, when I opened myself to him through my poem, he shoved me aside like garbage. The only genuine affection he's ever shown me was when I was unconscious in thehospital for six days. He sat by my bed, documented my every breath in those notebooks, worried over my recovery.
What kind of Stockholm syndrome bullshit is this? How did he manage to rewire my brain so completely in such a short time? I left one controlling man just to throw myself at the feet of another. The scenery's better and the thread count is higher, but the dynamic is just as toxic.
I cross my arms over my chest, partly defiant, partly to hide the way my nipples have hardened under the thin fabric of the nightgown. I look at Master, leaving deliberate space in the conversation for him to fill.
Giovanni steps up, his face a masterclass in contained fury. If anger were radiation, we'd all have cancer by now. Yet he's controlled, eerily so, like he's packaged all that rage into a neat box for later use.
"Miss Take," he says formally, "meet my cousin, Jino. Cousin Jino, Miss Take."
The introduction lands like an anvil in a cartoon, flattening whatever was left of this bizarre situation's normalcy.
"Jino," I repeat, the name connecting to a memory of our drive to Pittsburgh. "From the dog story."