Page 19 of Violent Hearts

"You're a smart girl," I say. "I'm sure you know what that means."

She shrugs. "Not entirely, to be honest. I do have a vague idea, but I don't know how close it comes to reality."

There’s that word again. "Why don't you share that vague idea with me, and I'll let you know how close it is to my reality?"

She sighs, coming dangerously close to rolling her eyes at me again, but she remembers the threatened repercussions just in time and refrains from doing it. Good girl.

"You're the paying client," she says. "Why don't you just tell me what you expect of me, and I'll tell you whether I'm in or not. I know what you're willing to pay, so I don't expect this to be easy, but there may be certain things I wouldn't-"

"I'd fuck you," I blurt out, interrupting her little monologue. "Let's just get that out of the way. I want to fuck you, hard. I want to do more than that to you, though. I want you to obey, to do what I tell you to do without talking back, and if you don't listen to me and do as I say, you'll get punished. You'll be spanked, tied up, choked, have your hair pulled-"

"Okay, okay," she interrupts, raising her hands up in a sign indicating for me to stop. "I get the idea."

She's trying to act all nonchalant, completely unfazed by my words, my promises, my threats.

But I can tell what it does to her.

The color of her cheeks has changed again, her breathing accelerated, her dainty fingers are shaking when she lowers her hands, and for the first time ever, she's evading eye contact.

It's just a tiny crack, but she's already breaking before my eyes. She's shivering, but glowing with the heat of anticipation.

"You'd love it, wouldn't you?"

Her eyes dart up to mine, the question lingering between us. She's not going to reply because she doesn't want to admit it. She can't say yes, but she also refuses to lie to me.

"What would that look like?" she asks, batting her eyelashes nervously, as if she could chase the excitement away like that. "In everyday life, I mean. I would have to live with you, right? For more than a year. What would my life look like? Would I have to give up my free will completely, not be able to make a single decision for myself?"

"You're not going to be my house slave," I say. "And I have no interest in having you at my feet all day, every day. You'll get your free time, and I don't care what you do in that time, as long as it doesn't hurt my agenda. But yes, you would have to let go of most of your freedom. And your job."

Her eyes widen and she takes a deep breath in shock. "I wouldn't be allowed to write?"

"Obviously, no. You'd have to sign a non-disclosure agreement, and that agreement would also forbid you from publishing any articles while you're living with me."

"Even if I'm not writing about you?"

"Even then. You're no longer a reporter while living under my roof."

She bites her lower lip as she looks at me, and I can tell she’s contemplating whether she should withdraw from the whole thing. Is this a deal breaker for her? Or did she think she could be my personal campaign reporter?

"You said I can't publish," she says after a while, lowering her eyes solemnly before she looks back up to face me. "But can I write?"

Her question confuses me. Until now, I made no distinction between the two.

"I don't fucking care what you do in your spare time," I tell her. "I just don't want anything out there. You can't be a journalist while we’re together."

"You mentioned that," she retorts, obviously annoyed. "You said I'm no longer a reporter. So what will I be?"

She locks me down with her bright eyes, intelligence sparkling behind the color of the ocean that's distinct to her. She knows the answer to my question, but she wants me to say it out loud. She wants me to seal the deal by giving voice to something we both know already.

So I do.

"It's simple, Miss Ann Porter. You'll be mine."

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