Page 24 of Ruthless Sinner
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.
Chapter 26
Dante
Adalina eats better when she’s cared for. In the meals that follow, I realize where I fell short. I was sending Enzo upstairs to serve her food and leave her alone, but Adalina thrives under my attention. She is like a flower getting sun and light for the first time, ready to enter her spring bloom.
She’s quicker on her feet when she has food in her system, but she’s also more willing to open up.
“What do you do for fun?” I pluck a plump, juicy grape from the stem and gently place it between her parted lips. The soft skin of her bottom lip brushes against my thumb for what feels like the fiftieth time this evening. I can’t help but imagine shoving my digit into her mouth and telling her to suck on it, a desire that has crossed my mind with every bite I’ve fed her tonight.
Adalina sits in a resting position, still kneeling but seated on her calves. “What do you think goes on in the Martinelli household?” She pertly replies. “I don’t get to go to Hobby Lobby every other weekend to pick up a new puzzle or some flowers to make wreaths. If I showed an interest in making soap, do you know what my father would do?” She makes direct eye contact with me when she says, “He’d wait until I presented him with the finished product before shoving the bar of soap down my throat and washing my mouth out.”
Tommaso’s actions disgust me to the core. He is the embodiment of toxic masculinity, deriving his power from belittling and demeaning others. He makes me sick. “Would you want to make soap if he wasn’t in the picture?”
Adalina’s brow furrows in concentration, her posture stiffening as she takes a moment to think. “I don’t know. Probably not. Candles, maybe?” Adalina shrugs. “I’ve never given it much thought.”
I pull another grape from the vine and pop it in her mouth. The thought that crosses my mind is a filthy one, but I focus on the simple pleasure of the moment instead of pursuing it. “You had friends when I saw you at the bar the other night. You must get together with them often.”