Page 104 of His Game His Rules
But Emmaleen's mornings are mine. That's been decided. Written in blood.
And right now, she needs someone who remembers what this lifestyle issupposedto be. Not a weapon. Not a vessel for unprocessed trauma. Not a mirror for self-hatred.
A dance between control and surrender that requires trust, communication, boundaries.
All the things Giovanni just shattered.
I stand. My body protests—bruised ribs, split knuckles, the ache in my jaw where Giovanni's fist connected. But I move anyway, exiting the control room, descending the narrow stairwell back into the dungeon.
The temperature drops as I go down. Stone walls on either side, holding cold like a promise.
At the bottom, I pause.
The main chamber stretches before me—throne, mirror, training platform, all the architecture of dominance. But it's the small door to the right that holds my attention. The bedroom where Emmaleen sleeps.
Or doesn't sleep. Hard to tell with someone that deep in subspace aftermath.
I cross the floor. My footsteps echo against stone, leather, silence.
At her door, I stop. Press my palm against the wood.
She didn't choose this. Not really. This is not consent. It's coercion wearing consent's clothes.
But she's here. And now, she's mine to guide.
Not to break. Not to destroy. Not to use as a repository for damage.
Torebuild.
If Giovanni is going to fracture her each night, then my job is to put her back together each morning. Piece by piece. Teachingher the difference between pain that serves and pain that only harms.
She needs to learn her body can experience pleasure without punishment attached. That submission doesn't require self-erasure. That choosing to kneel is different from being forced to the ground.
Giovanni won't teach her that. He doesn't know it himself.
But I do.
I push open the door.
The room is dark except for the faint glow from the dungeon's candlelight bleeding through. Emmaleen lies motionless on the vinyl mattress, the transparent nightgown riding up slightly, exposing the marks on her thighs—red welts from the riding crop, already purpling at the edges.
My chest tightens.
She is shaking from the cold, but doesn't stir as I approach. Deep sleep, then. Her body's way of protecting her mind from processing too much at once.
I kneel beside the bed. Not touching. Just observing.
Her face is tear-streaked, dried salt tracks visible even in low light. Her breathing is steady but shallow—each inhale careful, as if deeper breaths might wake the pain sleeping in her muscles.
The bruises will darken overnight. The welts will ache tomorrow. Sitting will hurt. Standing might hurt more.
But that's just the physical damage.
It's the psychological fractures that concern me. The way she's learning to accept violence as affection. The way Giovanni is teaching her that love looks like a riding crop and sounds like apologies whispered to someone too submerged to hear them.
I shouldn't.
Every professional instinct I have screams against it. Every boundary I've ever set, every rule I live by—all of it saysdon't.
