She doesn't move.
Doesn't acknowledge I've spoken.
Just keeps muttering that same bloody litany she was reciting when I left—quiet, rhythmic, broken: "Yes, Sir. Yes, my King. Yours, my King. I belong to my King."
Over and over and over, like a skipping record stuck on the same line.
I stop at the edge of the bed, arms crossed, starin' down at her with a mixture of disbelief and annoyance that's rapidlytipping toward genuine concern because… this isn't normal. This isn't evenabnormalin the way most people use the word. This is somethin' else entirely.
"Emmaleen."
Nothing.
"Emmaleen, what the fuck are you doin'?"
Still nothing.
She doesn't even flinch.
I raise my voice, lettin' command slip into the tone—not because I want to, but because it's the only language she seems to understand right now. "Look at me."
Her body snaps up with a jerky movement, sudden and disjointed, like she's been startled out of sleep or yanked back from somewhere very far away.
Her pupils are black and so wide, they almost swallow the green whole.
She looks unstable—physically swaying where she sits, off-balance in a way that has nothin' to do with her position on the bed and everythin' to do with whatever's happenin' inside her head.
"What's the matter with ya?"
She says nothing. Just stares at me with those wide, glassy eyes, breathin' shallow and fast.
I sigh—loud, exaggerated, scrubbin' a hand down my face. "Grand," I mutter under my breath. "Just grand. Here I am, babysittin' a grown woman who can't even breathe without a man's permission. Brilliant use of my evenin', this."
I glance back at her, and the look on her face—vulnerable, desperate, waiting—makes somethin' twist uncomfortably in my chest.
"Right," I say, sharper now. "Go on then. You've got permission to speak. Use your words like a good little puppet."
Her eyes fill with tears immediately.
Not slow, gradual tears—instant, like I've flipped a switch.
"I need my King," she whispers, voice raw and trembling.
I freeze.
"I want my King," she continues, the words spillin' out now, faster. "I need—I need to be fed. I need his fingers in my mouth while I sit at his knee. I need him placing food on my tongue. I need—" She chokes on the words, tears spillin' down her cheeks. "I need Jino. I need his direction," she's sayin', voice breakin'. "I need his crop. His training. I need?—"
"Wait." I hold up a hand, cuttin' her off mid-sentence. "Stop. Go back. What did you just say?"
She blinks at me, confused, tears still streamin'.
"Jino," I repeat slowly. "You needJino?"
She nods, frantic now. "Yes. I need Master. I need my King. I need?—"
"Hold the fuckon." Confusion spikes into disbelief. "Giovanni's sharin' you with Jino Moretti?"
She doesn't answer.
