25. Adalina
Chapter 25
Adalina
T wenty-two glossy tiles adorn the bathroom floor, each one a perfect square of cool, smooth marble. As I lay on my stomach, my cheek pressed against the chilly surface, I count them over and over again. A dizzying hunger gnaws at my insides, possibly causing me to hallucinate. Is that a flicker of movement I see out of the corner of my eye? Or is it just a trick of the light? Perhaps it’s a bug scurrying across the floor in search of its own sustenance.
To combat my overwhelming boredom, I have resorted to sneaking books from Lucia Terlizzi’s secret stash of bodice rippers. Initially, I scoffed at the idea of reading Viking erotica, deeming myself too refined for such material. But as I delved into Surrendering to the Viking , I realized my mistake. While it may not be a literary masterpiece worthy of a Nobel, it is undoubtedly the most scorching piece of smut I’ve ever read. My father doesn’t allow these kinds of books in our house, so I devour Surrendering in less than a day to spite him. And because it’s so good.
Alas, my picture-perfect morning of stoically refusing to eat and pretending to be pathetic for Enzo’s benefit is cut short when Dante arrives to deliver my breakfast.
I hear him enter and call my name. A second later, there’s a knock on the bathroom door before he walks in to find me sprawled across the tiles. “Get up,” he says curtly.
I pull myself off the ground, my mind sluggish and my limbs heavy. “I’m not hungry.”
He escorts me to the bed. Next to it is a clunky briefcase that begs me to ask questions. “I didn’t ask if you were hungry.” His tone sets the course for our exchange. It’s clear that he doesn’t plan to entertain me.
I sink into the plush pillows at the head of the bed, eagerly reaching for a new book from the neatly stacked pile on my side table. “Then I’m going to read. Your sister has exquisite taste in literature. Her books are riveting.”
With a soft click, Dante opens the suitcase and pulls a thin leather strap wrapped around something I can’t make out. Without arguing, without threatening, Dante reaches over and plucks the book from my hands. “Rivet on your own time. You’re on my time now.”
“What is time?” I wax poetically. “Is it real or simply a concept? Or is it—hey!” He leans forward to wrap the leather around my throat. “What are you doing?”
I don’t know what the leather is connected to, but it’s cold against my skin. With a steady hand, he secures the clasp of the necklace at the nape of my neck, his gaze stern and demanding. “I’ve given you too much freedom. For a captive, you’ve been allowed free rein, so to speak, and you’ve taken it for granted. You harassed my staff, you stopped eating, and you think you run the show. But you don’t, not anymore. So get off the bed, get down on your hands and knees, and crawl to the fireplace.”
I pause momentarily because I’m not sure I hear him correctly. “Wh-what?”
Dante’s fingers trail across my new accessory, his eyes filled with a dark and lustful hunger as he studies it from every angle. Then he says, “When this collar is around your neck, you do as I say, or you get punished. Are we clear?” He pauses momentarily, but he must expect resistance. “As much as I want to spread your legs and see how much you beg and plead when I flick my riding crop against your clit, I’d rather you do as I tell you first.”
A wild, primal urge grips me from the inside out, igniting every nerve in my body with carnal desire. My inner goddess wants me to scream and rage in Dante’s face until he realizes he can’t tame me, but my pussy would rather have him buried inside me to the hilt or be subjected to that riding crop fantasy he just made up. “Okay,” I respond with the only word I can manage to find.
“You say ‘yes, sir’ , or you don’t say anything at all.”
A lump forms in my throat, a tangible representation of the conflicting emotions swirling inside me. Intense lust and fear vie for dominance as I stand before Dante, my body responding to his commanding presence. My father ruled my life with an iron fist for twenty-one years, but Dante holds a different kind of power over me—one that reaches deep into my soul with just a glance. “Yes, sir.”
A moment of hesitation passes as he releases my collar, inviting me to either comply or defy. My mind races with conflicting thoughts before I give in to the overwhelming pull of submission, sinking to my knees before him.
“That’s a good girl,” he reassures me. “Come to Daddy.” Slowly, Dante backs away, step by step, until he’s standing next to the tray of food in front of the fireplace. He waits until I’m a few feet away before sitting down. “I’m going to feed you breakfast,” he says.
My brain screams that it’s not a true hunger strike if I eat, but Dante seems unfazed by my internal struggle. He removes the lid to reveal a feast—fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon strips, and perfectly buttered toast on the side. The aroma alone is enough to make my stomach growl with anticipation. After a day and a half of starving myself, I’d eat the bug I hallucinated on the bathroom floor.
As I go to stand up and sit in the chair next to him, Dante tuts. “Stay on your knees,” he orders.
A sharp twinge of discomfort prickles through my kneecaps as I obediently remain kneeling. I eye the scrambled egg he picks up between his thumb and forefinger, watching intently as he brings it to my lips. “If you bite me, I will make you regret it.”
The mere thought of my father uttering those words would send shivers down my spine, but with Dante, it’s different. Though I may seem foolish for thinking it, I trust him in a way I have never trusted anyone before. We have an unspoken bond.
“Open.”
I obey without question, eagerly sucking the scrambled egg off his fingers. My stomach grumbles in protest, longing for more sustenance to appease the insatiable hunger I’ve been suppressing for the past day and a half. I’m like a starved dog, almost biting Dante’s hand, not out of disobedience but because I can’t eat quickly enough. It is demeaning to be fed, collared, and forced to kneel before Dante, but it is easily forgotten in the wake of satiation.
When I’ve eaten all there is, I ask for more. But instead, Dante serves me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and tells me he’ll be back at lunch.
“If you eat all your meals today and be a good girl, maybe you’ll get a present tomorrow,” he teases. “And by the way, the collar can’t be removed. So don’t try.”
With a swift and purposeful stride, he leaves the room, tray in one hand and briefcase in the other. As the door closes behind him, I wait for a moment to let the tension of his presence dissipate. Slowly, I rise from my position and gently massage my knees, feeling a tingling sensation as blood rushes back into my lower legs. I ignore the throbbing and head to the bathroom.
Dante is right. The metal collar is unyielding, refusing to come off no matter how much I fiddle with it. My fingers prod and poke at the edges, searching for a clasp or hidden mechanism, but to no avail.
The leather is like butter, soft and supple beneath my fingers. The band has a width that matches the boldness of the words emblazoned across the front of my throat. And even though they’re reflected backward in the mirror, I can still read what it says: CUMSLUT.
It angers me, and it turns me on.
It’s a good thing there aren’t any scissors in the room… or else I’d cut off this collar just to see what Dante does next.