Yes. God, yes.
The word ricochets through my skull like a pinball, lighting up every nerve ending as it bounces. My body responds before my brain can catch up, a full-body flush that starts at my cheeks and slides down to places I shouldn't be thinking about with Jino's hand still on my jaw.
I want his tattooed fingers sliding up my ribcage. I want his mouth on my neck, teeth grazing that spot where my pulse hammers against my skin. I want his weight pressing me into the mattress, pinning my wrists above my head while he takes his time—unbearably slow—working his way down my body. I want him to use that riding crop on me, not for punishment but for pleasure, tapping each sensitive spot until I'm writhing. I want those lips whispering degradations against my ear while he slides inside me. I want to be on my knees in front of him, looking up through my lashes as his hands tangle in my hair, guiding me toward his?—
I blink. Hard. Once, twice.
What the actual hell, Emmaleen? This is how people die in mob movies.
I'm not just playing with fire; I'm practically dousing myself in gasoline and handing these men a book of matches. They wouldn't just be breaking my heart—they could literally break my neck if this goes south.
I didn't catch every word of the testosterone-fueled shouting match outside, but I heard enough. "Family." "LaRiccias." "Rico." "Witness." The math isn't complicated. I'm the living, breathing evidence of a murder that threatens to ignite a mob war. In any rational criminal enterprise, I'd already be wearing cement shoes at the bottom of the Allegheny River.
But they don't want to kill me. That's the mind-bending part of this whole situation. Theyshouldwant me dead, but instead, they're... competing over who gets to control me? There'ssomething profoundly fucked up about being relieved that your options are sexual servitude or death, and I'm choosing to focus on the "not dying" part of that equation.
This is Jino offering me a life raft disguised as handcuffs.
My chains, my choice—except it's not really a choice at all.
I take a breath, steadying myself. If I'm going to do this—and apparently I am—I need to understand what I'm signing up for.
"I think I could say yes," I say, my voice calmer than the hurricane inside me. "But I need you to explain what this actually means. What you're offering. What I'd be agreeing to." My heart thunders against my ribs like it's trying to escape, and there's a heat building low in my belly that I'm desperately trying to ignore. "I've spent my whole life fighting what I want, pretending I don't... respond... to certain things. But I need to understand it before I accept it."
Jino's hand slides from my jaw down my neck, his thumb tracing my collarbone with deliberate pressure. "You're a submissive," he says, the word landing like a diagnosis I've been waiting for. "It's not a flaw or weakness—it's your nature. Just as being dominant is mine."
His hand continues its journey, skimming over the thin fabric of my nightgown, brushing the side of my breast. I inhale sharply.
"A submissive," he continues, voice steady while his fingers create chaos, "finds fulfillment in yielding control to a trusted dominant. You crave structure, boundaries, direction. Your body responds to firm handling." His palm flattens against my stomach, pressing slightly. "A dominant, or top, provides that structure. Creates the safe space where you can surrender without fear."
His other hand slides up my back, finding the nape of my neck beneath my hair. "I've lived this lifestyle for fifteen years. I've trained women who thought they wanted gentle lovers, onlyto discover they craved firm hands and clear rules. I've watched them bloom under discipline, finding peace in positions and protocols."
Positions. Protocols.The words shouldn't sound like poetry, but they do. Like incantations promising order in my chaotic world.
"I once had a submissive who was a high-powered attorney," Jino continues, fingers drawing patterns on my skin. "Twelve hours a day making life-or-death decisions. But in my basement, she found relief kneeling at my feet, following simple commands, earning praise for perfect obedience."
His hand slides higher, cupping my breast through the thin fabric. My nipple hardens instantly against his palm.
"To be owned," he says, voice dropping lower, "means having someone who sees your needs before you recognize them yourself. It means safety within clear boundaries. It means consequences when you fail, rewards when you excel."
A whimper escapes me, unbidden. My body arches into his touch.
"I want—" I bite my lip, trying to hold back the flood of desires. "I want your mouth on me. I want—" The confession breaks free despite my efforts. "I want to feel your weight on top of me, I want you to hold me down while you?—"
Jino's hand moves lightning-fast, tangling in my hair and pulling—not roughly, but with enough force to tilt my head back, exposing my throat. His eyes lock with mine, pupils dilated with interest.
"No," he says quietly. "My job is to deny you."
The word shoots straight through me, a delicious frustration that makes me want to scream.
"Do you know why, little one?" His grip tightens fractionally.
I swallow, the movement visible against the stretch of my neck. The truth rises to my lips, no longer a shameful secret but an identity I'm claiming.
"Because you're my Master," I whisper, the words both surrender and liberation. "And you're going to show me how to be owned."
16
I press my back against the cold stone wall outside Emmaleen's room, listening. The surveillance feed runs constantly, but there's something more visceral about hearing their voices firsthand—the subtle inflections, the breathing patterns, the moments of silence that cameras miss. Every sound filters through the heavy door, precise and unforgiving.