Bound to the Don

Chapter 38

Armando's Pov

I watched her standing there, still as stone. 
Her mouth hung open just a little, like she couldn't believe what she'd just heard.

I asked her to be my "Plaything". More like told her.

The word wasn't soft nor was It wasn't wrapped in sugar.
It hit the air like cold steel.

She didn't react right away, she didn't move either.  I wasn't even sure if she was still breathing the way she just stood there in shock, as if processing it, like her brain was trying to make sense of something that shouldn't.

I wasn't surprised when she let out a shrill scream.

I didn't knew exactly how she would react. But I wasn't expecting less than this.

Why did I suddenly make that decision, for her to be my plaything? More like something I could control within the palm of my hand.

Yes, it was because of what occurred yesterday in the training room, it was the way she begged. Holding onto me like I was her savior, to show that man mercy.

It was the way her eyes looked when she held me tightly, pleading with everything in her body. Out of weakness, out of her selflessness, her humanity. Out of a type of fear that I had never witnessed before. Out of some strange, soft spot in her that most people never show.

Her reaction was different from the ones I was used to receiving, even though they were the same emotions.

With every other person, I could sense their desire, lust, greed, fear, those were boring and easy. They were loud. Familiar and predictable.

But her fear... her vulnerability... it was different. 
Pure. Real. And addicting in its own way.

I never saw it before. Not in Vittoria. Not in Those women that would throw themselves at me, wanting the danger I possessed. Not in anyone.

I watched her, and in that moment I felt something I didn't want to admit: I wanted it. 
Not love— never love. Not desire in that sense. 
I wanted control. 
I wanted her reactions. Her softness. Her obedience.

That tiny glimpse I saw that day... I needed more of it. 
I needed to understand it. To hold it. To control it.

And so, I told her.

I didn't want her body. I didn't want her to warm my bed. I had other people for that.
I wanted something else, that total submissiveness she didn't even realize she had.

Something breakable, something I could shape.

And now I watched her, frozen in place, eyes wide with disbelief.

"Salma," I said lightly, like I was explaining the weather. 
"I don't want you the way most men want a woman. I have women for that." 
My tone was calm, almost bored. But my mind was sharp, cold and clear.

She looked like she was about to explode.

Her hands shook, first barely, then it became more violent. 
The anger in her eyes was like fire beneath ice.

"Plaything?" she finally whispered, voice shaking with disbelief and horror.

"Yes," I said simply, watching her reaction like I was reading a book. "Not because I want you in that way. Not because I fancy you. I want control. I want your submissiveness, your vulnerability, your fear... I don't want you as a fuck toy, you've barely ripen. You couldn't even handle what I have even if you wanted to."

Her lips curled in disgust. 
Her breath came faster.

"No," she hissed.

"Never. I'd rather die than be... that. I am not your plaything!"