I hate how easily I gave in to it. Hate how my body betrayed every instinct I have left. And then he didn’t even come.
Again.
I pull away from him carefully, turning just enough to see his face. Without the perpetual scowl he wears when awake, he looks younger. Still dangerous, but less like a monster. More like a man who’s forgotten how to be one.
Then I notice the bandage on his arm. The gauze is stained through with blood, spreading like spilled red wine across a tablecloth.
He bled for me. No matter what else he did last night, he bled for me.
Of course, he’s the one who dragged me out in public and dangled me like bait, so he only has himself to blame in that sense. He said he wanted to show me off, but I didn’t get the impression he was enjoying himself.
I sigh out loud. He doesn’t stir.
I should be snooping around in his underwear drawer, maybe sneaking out to case a few more rooms so I can find something that will help me find a way to control him. I’m doing okay so far—slept in his bed last night, for example. If only I could make myself believe that attempted blow job was part of my ploy.
The red on the bandage looks bright, which means it’s fresh blood. I should wake him and tell him, but I don’t move. The guy is an asshole. A dangerous, disturbed, deviant asshole. I shouldprobably bebegginghim to put me back in that basement and just forget about me for the year.
I definitely shouldn’t be worried about his bandage.
I slide out from under his arm slowly, careful not to jostle him. My feet hit the floor and I scan the room for something to wear. I can hardly put my tux back on; it’s still covered in his blood. I spot his fluffy black robe draped over a chair in the corner and wrap myself up in it. It swallows me up and it smells like him, so that wearing it feels like being claimed all over again.
I have a flash of his fingers in my ass, his hand on my cock, and I give a full-body shiver of pleasure. It gives me pause, though. After last night…am I still a virgin? I don’t know what the rules on that are. And I don’t care, I remind myself. All I care about right now is doing whatever I need to do to control the dangerous animal currently passed out in bed.
He’s still bleeding. There’s more red on that bandage now than there was a minute ago.
I don’t know how to use all the intercoms and panels that seem to be everywhere in this house, so I guess that just means I’ll have to head out and find someone. I can figure out how to get back to the kitchen.
I’m pretty sure I can, anyway…
The hallway stretches before me like a horror movie cliche. To make myself feel less like I’m about to get a jump scare, I check every room that comes off the corridor. They all have the same feeling, the samelook. Every surface is polished to a mirrorshine. Everything is expensive, curated like a magazine shoot. But there are no family photos, no personal touches, just wealth displayed like…
Like armor.
My first impressions were right. This isn’t a home. It’s a fortress built by someone who trusts no one and loves nothing. Damiano Orsini is a tangled ball of obsession, vengeance, and hatred.
I come across a few locked doors, which are intriguing, and make a mental note to come back to them another time. But it’s actually pretty easy to find the kitchen; I just have to follow my nose. The scent carries me down and down—rosemary, garlic, and simmering tomato; sizzling bacon and the suggestion of creamy eggs; fresh-baked bread. It’s rich and warm and alive in a way the rest of this mausoleum isn’t.
My stomach cramps at the thought of food, too. A sign I should eat something sooner rather than later.
The kitchen feels like the complete opposite of the rest of the house. The steel shutters are still down over the windows, but the lighting is cheerful, warming wooden surfaces and gleaming copper pots. It’s lived-in, comfortable—the heart of something thatmightactually be called a home.
A huge pot simmers on the stove, thick red sauce bubbling softly. Steam curls from it, carrying memories of Sunday dinners and family gatherings.
For a moment, I feel almost normal. Like Ibelongsomewhere again. Like I’m more than just a prisoner playing house, trying to crack the code on my owner. Caught up in the feeling, I drift toward the stove, grab the large spoon set on the counter, and stir the sauce just to watch it swirl.
It smells divine.
I lift the spoon carefully out of the sauce, raise it to my mouth?—
Slap.
The spoon clatters to the floor, sauce splattering like blood.
“What are you doing in my kitchen?”
The old woman from last night—Rosa, Dami called her—stands there like an avenging angel in her robe and slippers. Her scowl could make even Damiano tremble.
“JesusChrist,” I breathe, hand pressed to my chest. “You scared me.”