Chapter 19
I watch Emmaleen process my words—the threat, the promise, the absolute certainty that I will kill my own cousin if she walks away.
Her pupils dilate. Her breathing shifts from controlled to erratic. Her fingers dig into my shoulders hard enough that I'll have crescent-shaped marks tomorrow.
Good.
She should understand exactly what kind of man she's dealing with.
What kind of cage I'm offering her.
"Stand up." My voice comes out rougher than intended, but Emmaleen doesn’t notice. She automatically rises up on shaking legs, stepping back from the throne.
Her skin is flushed from neck to navel. The candlelight catches on the sheen of sweat along her collarbone, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Realization dawns. She's terrified of you. What? Something stirs inside me along with the threat that still hangs in the air between us. Invisible, but present. Something I haven’t sensed in more than a decade.
The cold.
The night.
The frozen ground.
Lorcan.
The girl.
Stop.
Emmaleen is nothing like that girl.
She is exactly like that girl.
No.
Get out of my head, monster.
I slew that dragon many years ago now.
It’s dead.
“Pick up the collar and give it to me.”
Emmaleen does as she’s told without hesitation.
Two days. Not even two. One, basically. That’s all it took to get her compliant. To make her surrender. Willingly choose her own punishments.
"Lift your chin."
Again, Emmaleen obeys immediately. She tilts her head back to expose the long column of her throat. Her pulse hammers beneath her pale skin.
I place the collar around her neck with both hands, taking care to position it correctly. Not too high. Not pressing against her windpipe or the delicate cartilage of her larynx.
The buckle clicks into place.
I adjust the fit with clinical precision—tight enough that she'll feel it with every breath, every swallow, every turn of her head. A constant reminder of who owns her now.
But not so tight that it restricts airflow or causes damage.
My fingers linger at the nape of her neck, brushing against the soft baby hairs there.
I drop my hands from the collar and step back, giving her space.
The O-ring glints between her collarbones—a promise of attachment, of control, of what's coming next.
But first.
"We need to discuss your safe word."
Emmaleen's eyes widen slightly. Her fingers drift up toward the collar, then fall away before making contact.
"I..." She clears her throat. The leather shifts against her skin. "I didn't know I'd get one."
"You think I'm a fucking monster?" The words come out sharper than I intended. I force myself to exhale, to find the control that's been slipping through my fingers since the moment she walked into my life. "You think I'd do this without giving you a way out?"
"You just told me I can never leave this house."
"That's not the same thing." I move to the correction cabinet, selecting a lighter from the top drawer. Test the flame. Watch it dance. "The safe word stops a scene. It doesn't end the arrangement."
I turn back to face her.
"Say it and everything halts immediately. No questions. No consequences. No punishments for using it."
Emmaleen tilts her head, studying me with those pale green eyes that see too fucking much.
"What's the word?"
"You choose it."
"Me?"
"Your chains, your choice." I walk back over to the throne and set the lighter down beside the candles she selected. "Pick something you won't say accidentally during sex. Nothing that could be mistaken for encouragement or protest within the scene."
She's quiet for a long moment, her gaze drifting around the room—the throne, the mirror, the kneeling mat, the training platform. When she speaks, her voice is soft but steady. "Wisteria."
The word hits me like a gut punch. The poem I recited to her at Rico's party. The tunnel we walked through. My grandmother’s garden.
She chose something that connects to me. Not just a random word for safety—a word layered with meaning, and memory, and brief moments when I let her see past the armor.
I should tell her to pick something else.
Something clinical. Neutral.
Instead I nod once. "Wisteria stops everything. Understood?"
"Yes."
"Say it back to me. All of it."
Emmaleen straightens her spine, hands folding behind her back in Position One without me having to command it. Jino's training is already taking root.
"If I say wisteria, everything stops immediately. No questions, no consequences, no punishments."
"Good." I pick up the lighter again, turning it over in my hands. "But there's something else you need to understand."
Her breathing shifts. Faster. Shallower. She knows there's a catch. There's always a fucking catch.
"You can use your safe word tonight and I won't punish you for it. I won't add demerits. I won't withhold privileges, or deny you orgasms, or make Jino extend your training."
I step closer, until I'm invading her space again.
"But I will be disappointed."
The word hangs between us like smoke.
"You've been here two days, Emmaleen. Two days of Jino's training. A few hours of positions, and corrections, and learning to kneel properly."
I reach out and hook one finger through the O-ring on her collar. Not pulling. Just holding.
Claiming.
"If you tap out on your first real punishment, I'll know you're not ready for what comes next. That you chose those implements—" I gesture toward the candles, the clamps, the crop "—without understanding what you were agreeing to."
Her jaw tightens. "I know what I chose."
"Do you?"
I tug the O-ring just slightly, watching her throat work as she swallows.
"Have you had hot wax dripped on your nipples before? Not the massage candles that melt at body temperature—real wax that burns when it hits skin?"
"No."
"Have you worn clamps for longer than a few minutes? Long enough for the initial pain to fade, then return twice as intense when they come off?"
"No."
My eyes narrow, my chest filled with something I can’t quite describe. "Have you been cropped hard enough to leave marks that last for days?"
Her breath catches. "No."
"Then you don't know what you chose. You made an educated guess based on fantasy, and fiction, and whatever limited experience you had with your ex."
I release the O-ring, stepping back again to give her room to breathe.
"And that's fine. That's expected. You're learning." I move to the throne and sit, spreading my legs wide, settling into the posture of absolute authority. "But here's what I need you to understand, Little Miss Take."
She flinches at the nickname.
"If you use your safe word tonight, I'll respect it completely. We'll stop immediately. I'll remove the collar and the restraints and I'll hold you while you come down."
My cock throbs at the thought of her in my arms, vulnerable and shaking and trusting me to put her back together.
"But tomorrow morning when Jino comes down those stairs, I'll tell him you weren't ready. That we need to scale back the intensity. Start slower."
I lean forward, elbows on my knees.
"And he'll adjust your training accordingly. More time in basic positions. More repetition of simple tasks. Less challenge. Less reward."
Understanding blooms across her face. "You're manipulating me."
"I'm giving you information so you can make an informed choice."
"That's the same thing."
"No." I shake my head. "Manipulation would be punishing you for using your safe word despite promising I wouldn't. Or making you feel guilty about it. Or withdrawing affection."
I hold her gaze.
"I'm being completely transparent. Use the safe word if you need it—I mean that. But know that your choice tonight tells me how fast we can move. How much you can handle. How deep I can push."
Emmaleen's hands are trembling now.
Not from fear, I realize.
From rage.
"You're betting I won't use it just to prove something to you."
"I'm betting you'll make the choice that's right for you in the moment." I gesture toward the implements she selected. "Whether that's pushing through discomfort to discover what's on the other side, or recognizing your limits and protecting yourself."
"And you don't care which one I choose."
"I care that you choose honestly."
She barks out a laugh—short, sharp, edged with hysteria.
"Honest. That's rich coming from you."
"I've never lied to you, Emmaleen."
"You've never told me the whole truth either."
Fair point.
I rise from the throne and press up against her.
"Then let me be completely honest right now.
" I cup her face in both hands, forcing her to hold my gaze.
"I want to mark you. I want to hear you count every drop of wax, every adjustment of the clamps, every strike of the crop.
I want to watch you process pain and transform it into pleasure. "
My thumbs stroke along her cheekbones.
"But more than that, I want to know what you're truly capable of. And the only way to find that out is if you have complete control over when to stop."
"That's not fair."
"Nothing about this is fair, little one."
The endearment slips out before I can stop it.
Emmaleen's breath hitches. Her pupils dilate further.
She likes it.
Fuck.
I drop my hands and step back, reclaiming the distance I need to think clearly.
Christ. This game is going to destroy us both.
"The clamps," I say quietly. "Hand them to me."
She bends to retrieve them from the floor, and I watch the way her body moves—fluid despite the tremor in her hands, graceful despite the fear radiating off her in waves.
When she straightens and holds them out, our eyes meet.
Hers are glassy. On the edge of tears. I’m surprised she has any left after yesterday’s river.
I take the clamps. "These are adjustable," I tell her, examining the mechanism. "I'm going to put them on carefully. I need to find the right tension—enough that you feel it, but not so much that we cause actual injury."