The only sound at the breakfast table is the screech of my father’s knife and fork against his plate as he cuts through his over-easy egg. He looks up at me under his heavy eyebrows, breath whistling through his nose before he sighs loudly and looks back down.

I shift in my chair, part of me wanting to just tell him I’m done pretending I care about his stupid rivalries. I want to scream that it doesn’t matter if he hates Angelo, that I don’t, and that their feud has nothing to do with me. I want to say so much, but I know all of it would only put both our families in more danger. There’s a fragile peace right now. As long as my father thinks Angelo is keeping his distance, it feels like everyone is content to go on with their lives.

Good for them.

They’d be happy to go on living so long as I’m locked up in my cage like a good girl. Not fucking the enemy. Like a good girl.

When I bite into my jelly-smeared toast, I can’t help but glaring over the crusted edge at my father. For the longest time, I resented the way he coddled me—even hated it, but I never hated him. Recently, I can’t help feeling like some kind of slow, powerful poison is eating away at my resentment for him until all that’s left is the kind of hatred that tastes like acid in my mouth. And I hate him for making me hate him, even though I know that hardly makes sense.

“Need anything?” he asks when he’s finished his breakfast. He looks up at me expectantly after I don’t immediately answer, wiping the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

“What more could a girl want?” I ask. “I have a nice cozy bed and food whenever I want it. We even get internet here in my prison. Nope. I think I’m doing just fine, daddy. I’m not sure what else I could possibly hope to have.”

He glowers. “Anabella. You know I’m only trying to protect you.”

“Why stop with this, then? If nothing is worth more than my safety, maybe you should buy me an underground bunker. Strap me to a bed so I don’t risk falling and hurting myself. Maybe just mix my food in a blender so there’s no risk of choking.” I hate this side of myself he’s bringing out of me as much as I hate him right now. I’m not the petulant, sarcastic daughter. I never have been, but I’ve been bottling up so much frustration that I can hardly open my mouth without poison leaving my lips.

His fingers tighten around his napkin, bunching it into a small ball.

I wait for the explosion of anger, but it doesn’t come, and somehow that’s worse. He relaxes his fingers, stands, knocking his chair back with a screech, and then points a meaty finger at me from across the table. Instead of shouting, he only turns and storms out of the room, snapping for Franco and Donnie to come in and keep an eye on me once he’s gone.

The two men slide into the dining room and take up positions on either side of the door.

“I have to go number two,” I say suddenly. It’s a lie, but I know it’ll buy me a few minutes alone in the bathroom.

Franco motions toward the bathroom nearest the dining room, but it’s not the one I plan on using, because it’s on the second floor.

“That one is out of toilet paper,” I say. “I’ll use the downstairs bathroom.” The one with the big window.

They glance at each other, and then Donnie shrugs before opening the door for me.

I rap my knuckles against the door of Angelo’s beach house. I had to take an Uber to get here and ended up walking half a mile because I didn’t remember exactly where along the beach his house was, even though he just took me here last night.

It looks even bigger now in the daylight. Windows upon windows and a seemingly endless expanse of walls and sharp, modern corners and lines make up his mansion. When the door opens, I feel my expression fall.

“Damn,” says Damian, who is standing there with a tropical style shirt unbuttoned to reveal a carved, muscular body sprinkled with tattoos. “I’m going to take that frown to mean you were expecting someone else.”

“Is-is Angelo here?” I ask.

Damian hesitates a second, like he’s trying to think of the right way to phrase what he’s about to say.

An unexpected burst of anger and alarm roars up in me. I push past him and march into the house, heading for the living room where I can now here the distinct sound of Angelo’s muffled voice and a lighter, feminine voice.

My anger burns even hotter.

When I turn the corner with Damian at my heels, I see Angelo standing there while a sleek, slender woman with perfect breasts and about five pounds of makeup on her face is reaching to touch Angelo’s arm with a seductive smile on her lips.

Angelo doesn’t notice me—and he’s lucky he doesn’t—because I have a chance to see him take a deliberate step back to avoid her touch and scowl.

“I won’t say it again,” he warns her. “It’s over, Corrine.”

She pouts, then her blue eyes take me in for the first time and a line of anger creases her smooth forehead. “Because of her?” she asks.

Angelo notices me then, and the annoyance melts from his face in an instant. “Ana…” he says. “How—”

“Excuse me,” snaps the woman. She sidesteps to place herself between Angelo and I, but it’s a futile effort because he’s tall enough to look straight over her head and his eyes never leave me. “You’re going to have to—”

“It’s time for you to leave,” he says to her, not even breaking eye contact with me.

“You think I’m going to just walk out of here so you can slobber all over her? Look at her.” The woman takes in my outfit and manages to make me feel small and boyish under her gaze, but I force myself to stand straight and glare right back at her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she got that top at Target,” she says, spitting the word out like it’s poison.

“Marshall’s, actually,” I say defiantly. “It was a great deal, too.”

“Damian,” says Angelo. “Mind dragging her out of here? Kicking and screaming is fine, if that’s how she chooses to go.”

Corrine yanks her arm away from Damian when he reaches for it and storms out on her own, expensive heels clicking until the large front door closes behind her.

“Sorry about that,” says Angelo as Damian comes back to join us in the living room. He lounges on one of the sofas and picks up a magazine from the coffee table about airplanes.

“It’s okay,” I say, feeling guilty for how I reacted when I heard her voice. “I have to admit, I think I was about to come in here and start throwing punches if she was flirting with you.”

Angelo barks a laugh. “Sorry, I don’t know if I can picture you throwing punches, Ana.” He lifts up one of my hands and swallows it up in his, curling my fingers so they make a fist that seems so small and so much like a toy inside his hand. He playfully drags my wrist forward and makes me punch him softly on the chest. “Still can’t picture it,” he muses.

“If you want to see it first hand, keep bringing pretty girls around your house.”

He grins. “Corrine’s brother is one of my men. I spent a little time with her. Years ago. Before all the surgeries and bad choices turned her into that. Now she’s what women think men want. She just looks like plastic to me. Fake and artificial. She’s not real like you. She’s nothing like you,” he says more softly, letting the hand that rested on my wrist move up my arm and then to my neck, where he brushes my jaw with his fingertips, eyes searching my face with interest.

Damian clears his throat. “If you guys are going to fuck on the kitchen counter or something, can I make a sandwich first? I’m starving.”

Angelo raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, are we?

I slap his chest and bite my lip, but shake my head at him. “Believe it or not,” I say. “Angelo and I do like to talk sometimes.”

“Oh, that’s good. Dirty talk can keep things interesting,” agrees Damian in an off-handed tone while he keeps flipping through the magazine.

I look incredulously at him. “I mean we like to talk. With our clothes on.”

“Foreplay is good, yeah,” he murmurs.

I look to Angelo, who just motions for me to come with him. I follow him, wondering if he plans to simply take me upstairs and sleep with me. As much as that idea appeals to some part of me, it doesn’t quite feel right. As if continuing to sneak away from my dad and fool around with Angelo would just be another distraction—something to take our eyes away from the growling lion at our backs for one more night.

“Angelo,” I say quietly once we’re out of earshot from Damian. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m taking you to the club. Third floor, tonight. You’ll love it.”

“Angelo,” I say again, pulling at his arm to stop him from leading me up the stairs and look in my eyes. “I mean about my father. It feels like we’re just ignoring it. We can’t just keep sneaking me out forever and, and,” I blow out a frustrated breath and groan in irritation at not being able to find the words. “We need to figure something out,” I say finally.

“Hey,” he says, pulling me into his chest gently and running his fingers through my hair.

There’s something in the softness of his voice, the warmth and hard muscle of his chest, and the protective wrap of his arms. It’s like a spell, like he could convince me my hair wasn’t on fire even if I could see the flames, with that soothing voice and his touch. I can’t let him wash away my worries this time, though. I put my hands against him and push back.

“Angelo, it’s not just some simple thing we can brush under the rug. What are we going to do. In detail,” I add. “I’m going to go crazy bit by bit over this, and if all I know is that you’re going to figure it out, I’m going to lose it.”

“I can’t give you anything too concrete yet, Ana. I have one idea, but it’s… extreme. I’m still working on something less permanent. I promise. When I’m not with you, the issue has my full attention. I will figure something out. There’s nothing more important to me. We’re going to be together.”

I swallow hard. Less permanent? “My father hasn’t been good to me. I know that. But I could never live with myself if I knew something happened to him because of me. Because of us.”

“Nothing is going to happen to him. I’m exploring other options.”

I study his face for some hint of his intentions but find no answers. “You promise he won’t get hurt? That no one will get hurt because of us?”

“I promise none of my plans involve hurting people. And I won’t consider any new ones that do.”

I let out a sigh of relief, feeling a burden lift from my shoulders. “Okay. Okay. And you’ll tell me what’s going on as soon as you can?”

“Yes, Ana,” he says, laughing a little, but the smile falls from his lips when he puts his hands around my face and bends to look me hard in the eyes. “You and this baby matter more to me than anything.”

He opens his mouth like he’s about to speak and then hesitates, which is something I don’t think I’ve ever seen him do. “What?” I ask.

He flashes a half-smile, almost like he’s embarrassed. He lets his hands fall from my face and studies the ground for a moment before looking back at me. “You changed me,” he says slowly, as if he’s thinking out loud or admitting something he didn’t want to. “I used to think I was broken somehow, that somewhere along the way I’d done something that made me incapable of…” he trails off, then chuckles at himself and shakes his head. “Nevermind. I’m not making any sense.”

“No,” I say. “Please. I want to know what you were going to say.”

He continues, reluctantly at first but with increasing confidence as he speaks. “I didn’t think I could feel anything real anymore. It always felt like I was faking it. Then as soon as I met you, it was different. I thought maybe it was just attraction, that I needed to fuck you out of my system or something. But it only got worse.”

“You make me sound like a disease,” I say with a small laugh, even though my heart is pounding and I feel like I’m about to break out in a sweat.

The shadow of a smile plays across his lips as he reaches to rub his thumb across my lip, eyes searching and thoughtful. “If you were a disease, then I’d be crazy, because I don’t want to get rid of you, even if it kills me.”

I smile, leaning my forehead against his chest. “I wasn’t planning on killing you, if that helps anything.”

“Then you had better indulge me and come to the club with me tonight.”

I pull my head back to grin at him. “Was this all just an elaborate ploy to get me to agree to go to the club?”

“I wish I was that clever. All I know is I need to make you cum again. I think I’m addicted to the sound you make when it hits you.”

I blush, wanting to cover my face with my hands but resisting. “I’m pretty sure I don’t make any particular sound.”

“Oh, you make a sound. It’s something between a gasp, a sigh, and a grunt. It’s sexy as hell, and you do it as soon as the orgasm hits you.”

“You’re lying,” I say, half statement and half question.

“That settles it. Come to the club tonight. I’ll prove it.”

I stand beside Angelo in the elevator of his club for the second time. I’m wearing a dress he had waiting for me at his house and, by his orders, no panties. He undressed me himself and slid this black, lace dress on over me while sneaking a few warm kisses, and knowing he dressed me himself makes me feel oddly sexy and owned. If Angelo always treated me like a possession, it might grate on me, but he has a way of only taking it to extreme lengths when he’s stepping into his role as a Dom. Piece by piece, I realize he’s training me to accept my own role in his world, or more accurately, my roles.

When he’s acting as my Dom, he is training me to be the perfect submissive for him. When we’re with his friends, he gently encourages me to be independent but never lets me forget that I’m still his. When we’re just talking, he listens and makes me feel like everything I have to say is extremely important, never letting his attention waver or letting signs of boredom show.

With him, there are no boundaries, and there’s a blissfully liberating freedom in that. Before I met Angelo, I was bait for my father. My mother hardly interacts with me anymore, or my father, for that matter. It must be her way of dealing with the guilt for how she allowed my father to raise me, to groom me to be nothing more than a shiny fishing lure to attract the right heir-to-be for my father’s empire. When I wasn’t trying to keep my father happy, I buried myself in books because it helped me cling to some distant, unlikely hope at a better future.

“The third floor is going to be a little interesting for you,” says Angelo when the elevator doors ding.”

“Okay…” I say slowly. “In what way, exactly?”

“You’re about to see some things in person you’ve probably never even seen in movies. Even if you watch smutty films in your spare time.”

I laugh nervously. “Yeah. I’m always watching smut in my downtime.”

He grins as we step out of the elevator and the doors swoosh closed behind us. “You joke, but it wouldn’t surprise me with that dirty mouth of yours.”

“Hey,” I laugh, trying to slap his arm, but he catches my wrist just before my hand reaches his shoulder.

“Wouldn’t want to provoke your Dom, remember?” he asks.

In an instant, that familiar iron edge is back in his voice and eyes, like he has moved the softer parts of himself into some compartment and sealed them away for now. I instinctively shrink into myself at the sight of that side of him, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. For my whole life, I’ve been forced to be submissive to my father’s wishes. With Angelo, it’s a kind of game. I get to choose to submit, that makes all the difference. It gives me control over the one thing I never had a choice in. As strange as it may be, choosing to submit to him feels like a release, like freedom.

I lower my eyes and relax my hand. “No, I wouldn’t want to provoke my Dom,” I agree meekly.

He tilts my chin up with his forefinger, then bends to kiss me softly. His lips are warm and soft against mine. “Good girl,” he breathes. “Come. The show should be starting any minute.”

The show?

I take in the third floor of his club for the first time since we stepped out of the elevator. It’s dark and lit mostly by candlelight. Silky black drapes and smooth, expensive looking leather furniture dominates the space, making me feel like I’m in some sort of ancient gothic cult headquarters. The men are dressed in suits with black ties like Angelo and the women wear black as well—mostly in tight fitting dresses that are far more revealing than mine.

I feel sexy in the dress Angelo picked for me, but it also doesn’t show off much of my cleavage or leave too much of my legs exposed. He wants me to feel sexy, but doesn’t want to give other men too much of me to lust over. Possessive. The thought makes my stomach flutter with warmth.

“How do people even find out about this place?” I ask.

He glares down at me like I’ve done something wrong.

I open my mouth to ask a question, but decide maybe that was my mistake.

“When we’re here, you let me guide your experience, little pet. That means you don’t need to ask questions. You don’t need to make suggestions. I expect total control. Total obedience. Give me that, and I’ll give you exactly what you need. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I say quietly.

“Say my name when you speak to me.”

“Yes, Angelo.”

He rewards me with the faintest movement of his lips—maybe a smile. “Now come. We’re going to miss the opening act.” He pauses just slightly before he says act, giving the word an odd significance that makes me wonder if he’s really talking about a play.

We follow the trickle of couples moving through the dark, curved hallway lined with doors. Some of the doors are open and others are closed, apparently at random. Angelo gestures for me to step inside one of the open doors and then closes it behind us. Inside, there is a plush leather couch, a recliner, a table similar to the one Angelo strapped me to on the second floor of his beach house, and leather restraints dangling from hooks at the ceiling and floor. The far wall of the room is a huge pane of glass giving us a view of a large, circular room surrounded by big square mirrors. A woman with a black mask over her head stands at the center, completely naked. Her arms are stretched overhead and held there by handcuffs attached to a hook in the ceiling.

“Wh—” I start, then catch myself and remember I’m not supposed to ask. Instead, I try to give Angelo a searching look, but he only sinks into the recliner and then motions for me to sit on his lap.

I gulp down a swallow, steal a glance at the naked woman one more time, and them cautiously move to sit on his lap.

He wraps his arms around me, holding me to his chest and roaming my leg with his other hand idly as we wait, watching the woman.

Confusion and jealousy ripple through me. I want to know if he really thinks my idea of a good time is sitting here with him while he gawks at some naked woman, but when I sneak a glance back at him, he’s not even watching her. His eyes are on my neck and leg where his fingers trace blazing trails across my skin.

If she’s not for him, then what does he think I’m going to get out of looking at some naked woman? And what would she think if she looked up and realized we were just watching her through this huge window like a couple creeps?

Two men emerge from doors hidden in the darkness between mirrors, huge and well-muscled. They’re topless, but wear black leather pants and masks over their faces.

My breath hitches. I itch to say something to Angelo. To protest. To ask what the hell is going on. To cover my eyes. Yet all I can think of is his command to let him have control. Absolute control. I try as hard as I can to trust his judgment, but it doesn’t quiet the ache to act out and fight back against whatever this is.

“You’re probably wondering what is going on,” he says, voice vibrating through his chest against my back. “And you’re probably hoping I’ll explain, but wondering is half the fun, little pet.”

I could slap him or kiss him, but right now slapping him sounds a little more satisfying. All I can do is sit there, feeling the pulsing heat of his erection against my ass while I sit on his lap and the rough tingle of his hands exploring me like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

The two men are running their hands over the woman now. One is sucking her nipples while the other is gripping her ass and… My cheeks flush when I see that he’s burying his face in her ass in a way that makes me think it’s not her pussy he’s licking.

One of the mirrors directly across from us suddenly turns into a window. It takes my eyes a second to register what’s happening. I see a man and woman sitting on a recliner like the one Angelo and I are on in a room that looks identical to ours.

“One-way mirrors,” explains Angelo. “Unless you press that button,” he says, pointing to a inconspicuous gray button on the wall. “Some couples prefer to participate in the show instead of remaining as spectators.”

“Is ours a mirror or a window to them?”

He gives me a stern look, reminding me that I wasn’t supposed to ask. I lower my eyes, sneaking a glance at the button, as if it will give me the answers he won’t. I self-consciously tug at my dress, making sure I’m not flashing anyone if our mirror is set to be see-through. He wouldn’t let me wear panties, after all. Still, it’s a ridiculous act of modesty, given the circumstances. The woman in the center of the room is moaning loudly now while each man has his head between her legs—one at her ass and one in front. Their large, veined hands reach up to grasp at her flesh hard enough to leave trailing red lines where their fingers go.

The woman in the room across from ours is riding the man she’s with already.

And here I am worried that I might be flashing someone.

A pressure builds up in my chest, like something fighting to escape, but I don’t know what will relieve the feeling, so I climb on top of Angelo and cup his face in my hands, letting the scruff of his beard tickle my fingers as I look down at his surprised eyes. “This…” I say quietly. “I don’t need all this. I don’t want it. I just want you, Angelo.”

His eyebrows knead together and for a moment, I think he’s about to scold me again, but instead, he takes a deep, measured breath through his nose and then seems to deflate a little.

“If it’s really important to you,” I say, “I could try to learn to like it. Maybe? But all the stuff with other people. It doesn’t feel right. I only want you.”

He slowly nods his head, then strokes my cheek and plants a gentle kiss on my lips. “That’s because you’re too fucking perfect for your own good, little pet.” Angelo scoops me up, standing and carrying me from the room and into the now-deserted hallway with ease. He takes me into the elevator, but instead of pressing the button to take us down, he presses the button for the seventh floor.

My heart starts to pound. I think he’s misunderstood somehow. If the third floor was already this far from my comfort zone, and each floor is a step up in intensity, I don’t even want to imagine what could be on the seventh. “Angelo,” I whisper.

“Just trust me.” He punctuates his words with another kiss, and I can’t help thinking how perfectly he kisses me, like an internal clock won’t let him go for more than a few minutes before he has to have his lips on me again. Like I’m irresistible.

When the doors open, I see a long hallway lined with doors, except this one is perfectly straight, unlike the hallway on the third floor. A single door, more ornate than the rest, stands at the end of the hallway, and something tells me that’s the door Angelo is taking us toward. He fishes a key from his pocket and slides it into the lock, twisting until it makes a satisfying metallic click and creaks open.

To my surprise, the only thing in the room is a huge four-poster bed. There are no tools on the wall. No straps and restraints. No one-way mirrors lining the ceilings or walls. It’s just a room and a bed.

He sets me down then and gestures toward the bed. “After you.”