Epilogue Emmaleen #3
Whatever darkness Giovanni keeps caged inside him, whatever monster prowls behind those vivid green eyes, I've already met it.
Multiple times in the schoolroom. I've felt its claws, tasted its hunger, endured its scrutiny.
And each time, I've survived. More than survived—I've discovered something twisted and true about myself in the process.
It's not scary anymore. Not really.
And Jino is always there. Always watching from whatever shadowy corner he's claimed as his vantage point in the dungeon.
His ice-blue eyes tracking every movement, every interaction, ready to intervene if Giovanni crosses some invisible line only he can see.
The silent guardian of my safety, even as he participates in my submission.
That knowledge steadies me. Grounds me. Makes the anticipation less terrifying and more...intoxicating.
"Rest up for the coming week, little one," he continues, his voice a caress against my skin. "You're going to need your strength."
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes, seeing the hunger there, the barely leashed violence. "Yes, my King," I whisper.
Giovanni reaches beside the throne for the tray I hadn't noticed until now. On it sits small pieces of perfectly cooked meat—steak, cut into bite-sized morsels.
He selects a piece with deliberate care, his movements unhurried, almost ceremonial.
The morsel hovers between us for a heartbeat before he brings it to my lips, his eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
I part my lips obediently, keeping my gaze lowered as I've been taught, waiting for him to grant me this small sustenance.
The meat touches my tongue first—warm, seasoned with just a hint of salt and pepper—and then his fingers follow.
They press past my lips, deeper than necessary, resting against my tongue as if testing my stillness, my control.
The intimacy of it floods through me, the way his skin tastes faintly of soap and smoke, the way he watches my reaction with that predatory focus.
The meat itself is rich and tender, cooked to absolute perfection like everything else in Giovanni's meticulously controlled world. Medium-rare, just the way he prefers it. Each bite he feeds me is a reminder of his attention to detail, his insistence on excellence in all things.
His fingers linger. And linger. Long past the point of necessity, pressing gently against my tongue as if measuring my obedience, testing whether I'll close my mouth around them or remain perfectly passive.
I stay still. Waiting. Letting him feel the warmth of my mouth, the soft compliance of my surrender.
As he does this, I can't help but think of his cock. The weight of it on my tongue. The taste of him. It's something he hasn't allowed yet—says I'm not ready—but I crave it with an intensity that surprises me.
Each time his fingers brush my lips, I fight the urge to suck them into my mouth, to show him what I could do if given the chance.
But I restrain myself.
I wait.
I obey.
Because that's what good girls do.
And I am, above all else, Giovanni Bavga's good girl.
I wake up on the concrete mattress from hell with the usual disorientation—that liminal moment where my brain does the whole "Am I in the women's shelter? My old apartment? The hospital?" routine before landing on the correct answer.
Giovanni Bavga's sex dungeon.
Home sweet home.
The darkness is absolute. Subterranean darkness.
The kind that makes you understand why people used to believe in hell.
No windows, no clock, no concept of time beyond the routines Jino and Giovanni establish.
My personal chronology now divided into Before Giovanni and After Giovanni, with days measured in orgasms and demerits.
I stretch, feeling the delicious ache between my thighs, the tender spots on my hips where Giovanni's fingers dug in. My body is a map of ownership now, every bruise and mark a territory claimed and reclaimed.
But the basement is empty.
Silent.
Which means they're not here, which means—Sunday dinner.
Right.
The weekly migration back to the mothership.
I slide off the mattress and stand, feeling my way around the darkness with practiced ease. My fingers find the small night light and click it on, casting the dungeon in a dim, ghostly glow. Enough to see by. Not enough to feel normal.
The expanse of the school room spreads before me, every implement and station precisely where it belongs.
I wander toward the cabinet, running my fingers over the polished wood. Inside are tools designed exclusively for my education. For my pleasure. For my pain. The thought sends a ripple of heat through me that has no business being there after the thorough fucking I've already received today.
What is wrong with me?
How many orgasms would it take to make this hunger stop?
This place is rewiring me. Each day, the circuit board of my brain gets another adjustment. Another crossed wire. Another burned-out resistor. And I'm helping them do it, eagerly soldering the connections myself.
It should terrify me. It doesn't.
My eyes drift to the far wall, landing on something I've somehow managed to overlook for days now.
The key.
The skeleton key that opens the dungeon door, still hanging there on its little hook, like a dare. Like a test.
How did I forget it existed? It's been there this entire time, offering freedom, and I just...stopped seeing it. Psychological blindness or selective attention or whatever fancy term you'd use for someone who could walk out but chooses a cage.
I stare at it now, and something rebellious flutters in my chest. Not the desire to escape—God, no. I'm exactly where I want to be, where I need to be. But perhaps...
The library. Upstairs. All those books. Giovanni's house has a massive library that I glimpsed briefly on my first day of work. Floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with stories I haven't read. Words I haven't collected.
The sudden craving for a book hits me with such force that my hand is reaching for the key before I've even decided to move. It's like a physical hunger—sharper and more insistent than the dinner I skipped.
I need a book. A story. Something that isn't just the Bavga Doctrine or my training journal.
I grab the key, feeling its cold weight in my palm.
This is against the rules.
A smile spreads across my face as I realize I don't care.
No—that's not quite right.
I do care.
I want the demerits.
I want Giovanni to discover my transgression and punish me for it.
I want to feel the riding crop against my skin, the clamps tightening on my nipples, the restraints holding me immobile while he whispers his disappointment in my ear.
When did I become this person?
When did pain transform from something I endured into something I crave?
Does it matter?
No.
I climb the stairs quietly, my bare feet making no sound on the stone steps.
A cool breeze flutters around my naked body as I slide the key into the lock and turn it with a satisfying click.
The heavy door swings open to reveal a dark hallway, lit only by ambient moonlight streaming through distant windows.
The mansion is silent, empty—a sleeping beast.
I pause, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.
There, on the floor by the wall, sits a stainless-steel case. My breath catches as I recognize it—the case Giovanni left at my hospital bedside. My reward money, my passport, my plane ticket. Still here. Still waiting. Still an option.
I walk past it without a second glance.
That's not what I came for.
The library is down the hall to the right, its double doors slightly ajar. I slip inside, and the smell hits me immediately—paper, leather, dust, the faintest hint of furniture polish. The smell of stories waiting to be discovered.
Moonlight filters through tall windows, casting silver stripes across the room. The shelves loom like sentinels, their contents barely visible in the low light. I trail my fingers along the spines, feeling the different textures—the ribbed leather, the smooth cloth, the rough paper.
I could stay here forever, soaking in the possibility of all these words. Each book a universe I could fall into. Each page a temporary escape from the beautiful prison I've chosen.
I pause at a shelf where the moonlight falls directly, illuminating the titles. My fingers stop on a slim volume bound in dark green leather. I pull it free, tracing the embossed title: "The Little Prince."
A small sound startles me—a creak, perhaps, or the settling of the old house. I freeze, breath caught in my throat.
Nothing follows, but suddenly the urge to return to my dungeon bedroom overwhelms me. I've taken too many risks already. Borrowed time and borrowed words.
I clutch the book to my chest and hurry from the library, key still in one hand, Little Prince in the other. Down the hall, around the corner—
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as I slam into something solid and warm. Strong hands grasp my upper arms, steadying me.
Human hands. Male hands.
Not Giovanni. Not Jino.
Someone else.
My eyes travel upward, meeting the face of a stranger—or what would be a face if it weren't covered by a black ski mask with only the eyes visible. Gray eyes, widened in surprise. We stare at each other, momentarily frozen in mutual shock.
"Who the fuck are ye?" The question comes in a deep voice laced with an Irish accent, rough but musical.
My mind spins wildly.
Who the fuck am I?
Who the fuck is he?
Why is there a masked man in Giovanni's house?
Is he here to kill us?
To steal something?
Before I can form a coherent response, the man yanks off his mask, revealing a shock of blond hair and the rest of his face—handsome in a rugged, lived-in way. His eyes scan my body, widening as they take in my nakedness, the visible bruises, the collar around my throat.
"Jesus Christ," he breathes, his accent thickening with emotion. "What has he done to ye? Are ye all right?"