“It’s not denial.”
His soft lips lift up into what might be a pout. “We’ll see about that. A little conversion therapy shouldn’t hurt too much.”
“I’m not...” I try again, but he cuts me off with a finger pressed to my lips.
“Don’t,” he says softly. “Don’t lie to me. Not here. Not now. I know how you look at me. I know how your pulse jumps when I’m in the room. I know you want me just as much as I want you.”
His finger traces the shape of my mouth, and I have to fight not to part my lips, not to let him in. “The only difference is that I’m brave enough to do something about it.”
“This isn’t brave. This is insane.”
“Sometimes there’s no difference.” His hand moves to cup my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone with a gentleness that’s somehow more terrifying than violence would be. “You’re so beautiful when you’re scared, do you know that? So much more honest than when you’re pretending to be the big bad mafia man.”
“I am the big bad mafia man,” I snarl, pulling against the restraints hard enough to make the metal bite into my wrists. “I’ve killed men for less than this. I’ve made grown men beg for death rather than face me.”
“I know,” Ginni says, and his voice is full of something that might be admiration. “It’s one of the things I love about you. All that power, all that control, all that carefully contained violence.” His smile turns sharp. “And now it’s all mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice makes something dark and twisted unfurl in my chest. This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong. But some part of me, some sick part that I’ve spent years trying to bury, finds the idea of being owned by this beautiful, dangerous boy absolutely intoxicating.
“I’m going to make you breakfast,” Ginni announces suddenly.
He stands up and smooths down his ridiculous excuse for shorts, giving me a view of his legs that does absolutely nothing for my blood pressure or my ability to maintain righteous indignation.
“French toast, I think. With that expensive maple syrup you like from Canada.”
Of course he knows about the maple syrup. Of course he’s been cataloguing my preferences like some kind of deranged stalker.
“I don’t want French toast. I want you to unlock these handcuffs and let me go.”
“But if I did that, you’d leave,” Ginni points out reasonably. “You’d go back to your old life and your reputation and pretend this never happened. And we can’t have that, can we?”
He moves toward the door, then pauses and looks back at me with those impossible blue eyes.
“Oh, and Carlo?” His voice is sweet as honey. “Don’t bother trying to escape while I’m gone. The handcuffs are top quality, the bed is bolted to the floor, and this room is completely soundproof.” His smile turns predatory. “But even if you did manage to get free...”
He reaches up to the top of the doorframe and produces a knife. Not a kitchen knife, but a proper blade, the kind meant for killing. He keeps weapons hidden around his flat?
But I’m not too surprised, because that’s Ginni. Beautiful and deadly, sweet and psychotic, all wrapped up in a package that looks like it should be raking it in on OnlyFans instead of planning kidnappings and making threats with knives.
He smiles sweetly. “Well, let’s just say I’d be very disappointed. And you know what happens to people who disappoint me.”
The threat hangs in the air between us, delivered with the same casual tone he might use to discuss the weather. Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with the sound of my own ragged breathing and the increasingly uncomfortable realization that I might not survive this intact.
Not physically. Ginni would never actually hurt me, not in any permanent way. But mentally, emotionally, the person I am now might not exist by the time he’s done with me.
And the most terrifying part? Some dark, twisted part of me is curious to find out what he plans to put in my place.
I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, humming something cheerful while he makes breakfast like this is all perfectly normal. Like drugging someone and chaining them to your bed is just another Tuesday morning. The domesticity of it is somehow more unsettling than the threats.
What the fuck does he think is going to happen? Does he really believe he can keep me here until I, what… fall in love with him? Develop Stockholm syndrome? Forget who I am and what I’m supposed to be?
The smell of cooking food starts to drift into the bedroom, rich and sweet and perfect. Of course it’s perfect. Everything Ginni does is perfect, even when it’s completely insane.
Especially when it’s completely insane.
And as I lie here, naked and chained to his bed while he hums and cooks in the next room like this is all perfectly normal, I realize I’m nowhere near as enraged as I should be.
I’m fond of Ginni, of course I am, but that doesn’t mean I should tolerate being abducted by the feral little twink.
