He may temporarily, possibly, legally be my husband, but he’s not really. He may have temporarily confused my sexuality even more than he usually does, but I’m still straight. I have to be straight.
This whole situation is a horrible mess that’s going to end, and I’m going to work extremely hard on forgetting it ever happened. After making absolutely certain that Ginni never talks about it to anyone.
I swallow again, my throat suddenly dry. He’s clearly unhinged. Surely nobody would believe his version of events? Maybe I won’t have to hurt him to keep him quiet? Because despite everything he’s done, the thought of actually harming Ginni makes me feel physically sick.
He’s a little psychopath, yes, but somewhere underneath all that madness, he’s just a lost, vulnerable twenty-one-year-old who’s been failed by everyone who was supposed to protect him.
The squeak of wheels rouses me from my increasingly dark thoughts. A computer desk on casters, loaded with two large monitors and equipment I don’t recognize, rolls into the room. Ginni emerges behind it, pushing it with obvious effort while grinning happily.
The setup is impressive and clearly expensive. Multiple monitors, professional lighting equipment, a camera that looks extremely high end.
He positions everything carefully at the foot of the bed, then gets to work running extension cords across the floor and plugging various components into a power strip that looks like it was designed for a recording studio.
When he presses a button, the entire setup comes to life with a symphony of whirring fans and electronic chirps. The keyboard illuminates in rainbow colors, cycling through patterns that are actually quite mesmerizing.
I don’t know much about computer equipment, but this looks professional grade. It seems the Torrini family is only stingy when it comes to affection and acceptance. Money, apparently, they’re happy to throw around.
Ginni steps back, places his hands on his hips, and admires his handiwork with the satisfaction of an artist viewing a completed masterpiece. His pleased little smile is making my stomach do things that I refuse to acknowledge.
“How many followers do you have?” I ask uneasily, desperate to ground myself in reality rather than getting lost in admiring how pleased and proud he looks arranging his workspace.
He makes a dismissive gesture, like the number is barely worth mentioning. “Oh, not many. Just a few hundred thousand.”
A few hundred thousand? My stomach drops. That’s not “not many” by any reasonable standard. I have no idea if it’s a lot for whatever this platform is that he uses, but that’s a hell of a lot of people who might potentially see me.
“Time to get dressed for the show!” Ginni declares, practically bouncing with excitement as he skips out of the room again.
He leaves me staring warily at his flashing, whirring, blinking setup. If there’s a camera pointed this way, I’m probably positioned too low to be visible. The lens would be angled toward the wall above my head, not down at the bed.
I slide down slightly, just to be absolutely certain I’m out of frame. Now I’m lying completely flat, definitely below the camera’s line of sight. But I still can’t help glaring at the machine like it might suddenly develop the ability to see me.
Where exactly is Ginni planning to sit? He hasn’t brought a chair in. Although he did mention sitting on my lap while he streams. Surely he didn’t mean that literally?
Ginni glides back into the room, and my heart immediately starts performing gymnastics in my chest. It beats fast and frantically enough to make me genuinely dizzy.
The little menace is wearing what can only be described as a fantasy designed by someone with a very specific fetish. The top is white cotton, cropped so short it doesn’t even fully cover his very pink nipples. The skirt is even worse, pleated and short enough that it’s basically a wide belt, paired with thigh-high white socks that emphasize every inch of the naked skin between them and the skirt’s hem.
Everything is pristine white, as if he’s clinging to the bridal theme from yesterday’s ceremony. The overall effect is simultaneously innocent and absolutely sinful.
“I knew you’d like it!” he says with obvious satisfaction, noting my stunned expression.
I tear my gaze away from all that exposed skin and focus on his face, only to be confronted with headphones. White and pink, over-ear headphones with cat ears protruding from the top, complete with pink interiors that match the blush spreading across my cheeks.
A sound somewhere between a groan and a whimper escapes my throat. How the hell are headphones sexy? How is that even physically possible? They’re just sitting there, nestled in his dark hair, the padded leather conforming to the shape of his skull, those ridiculous cat ears sticking up with their stupid pink interiors taunting me.
Ginni gives me a smile that a foolish person might mistake for angelic. But I know better now. I’ve learned the hard way that the only thing angelic about Giovanni is his appearance. Everything else about him is pure, concentrated danger.
He picks up a wrench from beside his computer setup and approaches the footboard of the bed with purposeful determination. For one wild, hopeful moment, I think he’s decided to free me.
Then reality reasserts itself, and I realize how ridiculous that thought is.
I watch in growing alarm as Ginni proceeds to remove the footboard with the efficiency of someone who’s done this before. Before I can fully process what’s happening, he’s attached the chains securing my ankles to the actual bed frame underneath the mattress, giving him much more room to maneuver.
He flashes me another one of those devastating smiles, grabs my legs with surprising strength, and yanks me down the bed until my ass is nearly hanging off the edge and I’m positioned exactly where he wants me.
I let out an undignified yelp of surprise. His strength is genuinely alarming for someone so delicate-looking. There’s clearly far more to Giovanni than his pretty exterior suggests.
He adjusts the chains connecting my wrists to the headboard with practiced precision, humming softly to himself like he’s arranging flowers rather than positioning a captive. When he’s satisfied with his work, he returns to the foot of the bed.
