Well. Away fromme.
Not that she needs to get away from me specifically.
I'm entirely capable of controllin' myself. Even around a woman like this.
A woman who's been systematically conditioned to kneel, and obey, and treat male authority figures like they're dispensin' both punishment and salvation from the same hands.
A woman sittin' naked in my cabin wearin' nothin' but a collar and the kind of trained compliance that makes my cock twitch against my zipper despite every intellectual and moral objection I should be havin' right now.
She shakes her head no to my question.
Grand.
This is grand.
The phone buzzes again.
Unknown number this time.
I silence it.
Emmaleen doesn't react. Doesn't ask who's callin'. Doesn't fidget or shift or do any of the normal human things a kidnapped woman should be doin' when her captor's phone blows up.
Just waits.
Patient. Silent. Perfect.
Like she's been trained.
Fuck.
I shift tactics.
Because here's the thing about rescue operations—sometimes, in certain scenarios such as this, the person you're rescuin' needs to understand exactly what they're bein' rescuedfrom.
"So, Emmaleen." I lean against the wall, cross my arms. "How well d'ya think ya know Giovanni Bavga? After five weeks of...active involvement?"
Her face does somethin' interestin'. Just a flicker—barely there—but I catch it. A slight tightening around her eyes. A micro-expression that suggests my question landed somewhere it shouldn't have.
Then she smooths it over with that trained-submissive calm.
"Well enough to know I love him."
I laugh.
Can't help it. The sound just erupts from my chest—a proper guffaw that echoes off the cabin walls and probably scares the wildlife outside.
"Oh, Christ. Oh, that'sbrilliant. Five weeks and you're in love with the man." I push off the wall, startin' to pace becausestandstill isn't an option when my brain's racin' like this. "Right, so let me paint you a picture of what five weeks with Giovanni Bavga actually buys you in terms of knowin' who and what he really is, yeah?"
The words start spillin' out faster than I can organize them—proper Lorcan spiral, full-throttle philosophical rant mode engaged.
"Giovanni Bavga is methodical. Obsessive. The kind of bloke who'll spend six hours organizin' his spice rack alphabetically in three different languages just because the asymmetry bothers him. He's got the emotional range of a teaspoon unless he's calculatin' how to manipulate yours. Brilliant strategist—I'll give him that—but absolutelyruthlessabout gettin' what he wants, and what he wants is usually power wrapped in the illusion of control disguised as affection."
I'm gesturin' now, hands movin' through the air like I'm conductin' an orchestra of accusations.
"He's got daddy issues the size of Pittsburgh. Mummy issues even bigger. His mother killed herself when he was twelve, but it got labeled a 'car accident'. His father, Salvatore, decided the best way to get Giovanni past this wasn'ttherapy, it was to teach his son that intimacy was poison. To never let anyone close enough to hurt you unless you own them completely first. He's charmin' when it serves him—proper Italian prince routine, all tailored suits and expensive wine—but underneath that he's a man who'll smile while he's destroyin' you because he's already three steps ahead plannin' how to rebuild you into whatever shape he needs."
I stop pacin'. Turn to look at her directly.
