That I want her.
That I've created an impossible situation.
And I still don't know how this ends.
Tonight, I'll lie in my bed and remember the taste of her mouth, the feel of her skin, the sound she made when I bit her neck.
Tonight, I'll admit to the darkness what I can't say in the light.
That Camilla is right.
I am a sick fuck.
And she has become mine in ways I never intended.
Chapter 15: Camilla
He doesn't come back for two days.
Two long days of being left alone with nothing but my thoughts and the memory of his hands on my skin. Two days of pacing this beautiful cage, replaying every moment of our training session, analyzing every crack I managed to put in his professional facade.
By the third morning, I'm ready to climb the walls.
When the lock finally clicks, I'm standing by the window in the cream silk robe from the armoire, having chosen my outfit—or lack thereof—very deliberately.
"Where have you been?" I ask without turning around. “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.”
"I had business to attend to. Important arrangements that couldn't wait."
"Arrangements for my sale?"
"Among other things."
I turn to face him, and the sight that greets me is almost worth the two-day wait. He looks like hell with circles under his eyes, tension in every line of his body, the kind of bone-tired exhaustion that comes from not sleeping.
I hope thinking about our last session kept him awake.
"You look tired, Renato. Trouble sleeping?"
"I sleep fine."
"Do you? Because you look like a man who's been fighting demons." I move away from the window, letting the silk robeshift and flow around my body. "What kind of demons keep a man like you awake at night?"
"We're not here to discuss my sleep patterns."
"No? Then what are we here to discuss?" I stop directly in front of him. "More training? Or are you finally going to admit that the last session affected you more than you let on?"
He reaches for a leather portfolio I hadn't noticed him carrying. "Today we discuss expectations. Specific requirements from potential buyers."
"How thrilling. Which buyer are we preparing for today?"
"All of them." He opens the portfolio and spreads several photographs on the writing desk. "Each man has different preferences. You need to understand what you're walking into."
I move to examine the photos, recognizing the faces from our previous conversations. Kozlov, Al-Rashid, Al-Mansouri. My potential futures laid out like a menu of horrors.
"And you've researched their preferences?"
"Extensively." His voice takes on that clinical tone, but I can hear the tension underneath. "Kozlov prefers psychological dominance. He enjoys the process of breaking resistance."
