Both options are equally disturbin'. And I'm standin' here shirtless, cataloguin' them like I'm writin' a dissertation on psycho-sexual warfare.
I should find her some clothes. Cover her up so I can think straight without her kneelin' there naked and obedient, with those really fuckin' very nice tits all perky and… andwrong.
Wrong, Lorcan.
This is Giovanni'sslave.
I don't know what to do with myself.
My brain's spinnin' through options like a fuckin' roulette wheel—each one landin' on somethin' worse than the last. Call Giovanni? Terrible idea. Drive her back? Even worse. Keep her here? Absolutely fuckin' mental.
Questions start spillin' out before I can stop them.
"What's yer name? How long have ya been with Giovanni? Did he hurt ya? Are ya here willingly? What's with the collar? Why did ya call me Saint? Do ya know who I am? Has he been?—"
I stop.
Because her face does somethin' strange. Just for a second, confusion flickers across those features—brow furrowin' slightly, lips partin' like she wants to answer but doesn't know which question to tackle first, eyes dartin' between mine like she's searchin' for permission to speak at all.
And then I remember.
Fuck.
Slaves need space to obey. They need clear commands, one at a time, with pauses built in for compliance. Ya can't just rapid-fire questions at them and expect coherent responses—their brains don't work that way anymore. They've been rewired to wait for instruction, to process commands in sequence, toask permissionbefore speakin' unless directly ordered otherwise.
I know this.
Iknowthis.
Because I've done it before.
3
The Aventador purrs beneath me as I take the final curve toward home, so ready to start punishing my little Word Collector.
I lift off the accelerator when the gates come into view. The car slowing as unease creeps into the space anticipation occupied three seconds ago.
The gates are open.
They should not be open.
They should be closed.
Always.
Automated security protocols are part of my personal Ten Commandments. Motion sensors, cameras, and backup systems layered like redundancies in a hostile takeover.
Nothing stays open at my house without permission.
Until now, apparently.
The mansion rises against the night sky, a Victorian Gothic silhouette in blood-red stone that usually greets me with uplighting on the arches and a soft glow from the foyer visible through leaded glass.
Tonight it's completely dark.
Every window, every external fixture—dead.
I park and kill the engine. Silence drops like a curtain.
