In the following days, Isabella's life was divided into two completely different worlds - half prisoner, half honored guest. During the day, she was a ghost in Alessandro's enormous study. It was a place that made her soul tremble, with bookshelves two stories high reaching up to carved ceilings, housing collections ranging from medieval parchment manuscripts to Victorian first-edition novels, the air permeated with the intoxicating mixture of ancient paper, leather, and cedar wood. She could wander freely here, undisturbed, with only silent maids regularly bringing meals and drinks. She was like a parched sponge, madly absorbing these springs of knowledge, her fingertips sliding across those rare ancient books, feeling as if she were conversing with the great souls of the past.

And when night fell, as the manor was wrapped in the profound darkness, Alessandro would return from his world of blood and power games. He would take off his suit that smelled of gunpowder, change into a comfortable black shirt, then come to her room and look at her with eyes that brooked no objection. He didn't need to speak; Isabella would follow him as if pulled by invisible strings, through the long, dim corridors, toward the room he called the "game room."


When that heavy door closed behind her, the daylight world completely disappeared. Here, she was Alessandro's only subject, his only student, his only possession. Their exploration became increasingly deeper, far beyond the constraints of mere flesh. Alessandro, like a masterful artist, used rules, commands, and precise control to peel away the layers of her soul's shell, reaching directly to the core that even she herself had never touched before.

Earlier today, a panic of being imprisoned struck her again, driving Isabella to make a futile attempt. She discovered a small door leading to the garden that wasn't locked, and as if possessed, she slipped out, only to be expressionlessly "escorted" back by two black-suited bodyguards who emerged from the shadows of the trees before she could run fifty meters.

At this moment, she was kneeling on the soft black carpet in the center of the "game room," wearing only a gossamer-thin lace nightgown. Alessandro sat in the armchair before her, legs crossed, toying with a smooth black riding crop in his hands. He hadn't touched her, but his gaze was almost tangible as it traveled from the top of her head downward, examining every curve of her body. That gaze carried a sense of judgment, causing waves of trembling flush to spread across every inch of her skin.


"Tell me, Isabella," his voice was deep and steady, like the resonance of a cello, "why didn't you obey today?"

"I... I wanted to breathe fresh air," her voice was as faint as a mosquito's buzz, her heart beating wildly in her chest.


"Lies." He used the handle of his short whip to gently lift her chin, forcing her to look directly into his eyes. Those deep eyes held no anger, only a disconcerting disappointment. "You attempted to escape. You challenged the boundaries I set for you."

"I was wrong." Isabella's eyes grew moist, not from fear, but from a strange mixture of grievance and excitement. Being gazed upon so completely by him, being judged by him, she felt like the center of the universe.

"Of course you were wrong." Alessandro's voice carried an undeniable severity, "Rules exist to protect you, and also to give you freedom. Break the rules, and you must accept punishment. Do you understand?"

"I understand." She obediently lowered her gaze, her voice trembling slightly from excitement.

He stood up and walked behind her. The cold handle of the whip slowly slid down along her spine, sending a series of electric currents wherever it touched. The sensation was not pain, but rather an extreme form of teasing, a spiritual ceremony of submission. She felt like an instrument, and he was tuning each of her strings with the most precise technique.

"Extend your hands," he commanded.

Isabella obediently extended both hands, palms up. Alessandro gripped her wrists and placed her palms on his thighs. His pants were made of expensive fine wool. Through the fabric, she could clearly feel the solid contours of his leg muscles and their surprising heat.

"During the day, you're like an untamed little wildcat, always wanting to show your claws." He used the other end of his riding crop, the soft leather tip, tapping lightly and rhythmically against her palm. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was crisp, yet not painful. Each tap was like the toll of a bell, striking her nerve endings, causing the tide of desire within her to rise inch by inch.

"Do you feel humiliated?" He leaned down to her ear, his warm breath falling on her earlobe.

She trembled violently, honestly shook her head, and then answered in a voice almost like sleep-talking: "No... I feel... seen."

This answer seemed to please him. He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her palm that was pressed against his leg. He tossed aside the riding crop and cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs gently caressing her cheeks that had flushed with excitement.

"Very good," he said, his voice shedding the stern mentor role and taking on a note of approval. He pulled her up from the floor and seated her across his lap, holding her tightly against him. The lace nightgown was so thin it barely existed, allowing her to clearly feel the heat of his body and the steady, strong heartbeat through his shirt.

"Your body is honest, Isa-Bella," he took her earlobe between his lips, his tongue tracing its sensitive contours, "but your mind, it seems, is even more interesting."

His hand slid to the nape of her neck, skillfully untying the strings of her nightgown. The silky fabric slipped from her body, revealing her naked form unreservedly before him. He did not rush to possess her, but instead held her tighter, pressing her full breasts against his solid chest.

"What were you reading in the study today?" his voice whispered in her ear, like the most deadly enchantment.

"It was... Shakespeare's sonnets," she answered breathlessly, as his hands began to wander along her smooth back, igniting small fires wherever they touched.

"Oh?" he paused momentarily, seemingly genuinely interested, "Recite one for me."

Isabella was stunned. In this moment filled with desire and on the verge of passion, he was asking her to recite poetry? This strange intertwining of intellectual and physical intimacy made her feel more dizzy than any direct advance could have.

She steadied herself and chose a poem she knew best. Her voice carried a slight trembling, softly echoing in this private room with only the two of them:
“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate…”
(Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate...)

As she recited, she could feel the changes in his body. He no longer made any teasing movements, just quietly held her, listening attentively. His gaze was as deep as the sea, as if it would draw her soul in. When she recited "So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee," he suddenly lowered his head and sealed her lips with his.

This kiss was different from any before. It was no longer merely plundering and possession, but rather carried an almost reverent exploration and communication. His tongue gently yet dominantly pried open her lips, dancing with hers, savoring the lingering aftertaste of poetry in her mouth. Isa-Bella felt herself melting, her mind going blank, only able to instinctively respond to him, her hands tightly clinging to his shoulders as if he were her only driftwood in an ocean of desire.

He lifted her up and walked toward the large bed in the depths of the room. Each step was steady and powerful. He gently placed her on the velvet bedspread, then leaned down over her.

"Your voice..." he began hoarsely, his forehead pressed against hers, "is more beautiful than any music I have ever heard."

He gave her no more chances to speak, expressing his most primitive admiration through action. Like the most insatiable connoisseur, he savored every inch of her skin. From her slender neck, to her delicate collarbone, to the two budding blossoms on her chest. His kisses were scorching and powerful; each lick of his tongue, each gentle bite of his teeth made her arch her body uncontrollably, releasing sweet moans.

By the time he finally reached the most secret wet garden between her legs, Isabella was completely lost. She could feel his warm breath brushing against that extremely sensitive skin, and then, his tongue. That nimble tongue, with endless skill, precisely found the pearl that contained ultimate pleasure, and began to lick and suck, sometimes gently, sometimes firmly, sometimes slowly, sometimes urgently.

"Ah... Alessandro..." She completely broke down, her hands frantically clutching at the sheets beneath her, her legs involuntarily wrapping around his head. An unprecedented flood-like wave of pleasure erupted from the deepest part of her body, sweeping through every cell. Before her eyes was a brilliant white light, her body convulsing violently, as if her very soul had been pushed outside her body by this ultimate pleasure.

While she was still recovering from the afterglow of her climax, he had already pressed himself back on top of her. He gripped her slender ankles, lifting her legs high and resting them on his shoulders, and with an unprecedented depth, he drove his desire—hard as iron—into her without hesitation, penetrating her completely in one motion.

"Ugh ah—!" Isabella let out a scream mixed with pain and satisfaction. He was too big, too full, making her feel as if she was being split open and then completely filled by his scorching hardness.

"Look at me, Isabella." He commanded breathlessly in her ear, then began a storm of thrusts.

Each deep penetration seemed to nail her soul to this bed; each withdrawal brought an unbearable emptiness. She was firmly controlled by him, only able to rise and fall with his rhythm, like a small boat tossing in turbulent waves. She looked at his sweat-dampened hair, at his tense jawline, at that bottomless ocean of desire burning with black flames in his eyes. There wasn't a trace of gentleness in him, only the most primitive, most savage possession.

"You are mine..." he growled, with each thrust accompanied by these words, "only mine..."

She didn't know how much time had passed, but when another wave of devastating pleasure swept through her body, she felt a hot torrent explode in her deepest depths. He buried himself inside her, letting out a satisfied, beast-like growl.

Exhausted, Isabella collapsed on the bed like a puddle, unable to move even a finger. She felt as if she had died and been reborn.

Alessandro moved away from her and lay beside her, pulling her sweat-drenched body into his arms. He twirled her damp curls around his fingers, his voice returning to its usual coolness, though with a hint of post-satisfaction huskiness.

"Starting tomorrow, you may freely move between the study and your room," he announced. "But for the other areas of the estate, you are not allowed to go without my permission."

This was both a reward and a new rule.

Isha-Bella curled up in his arms, like a cat that had finally found its owner. She knew she was falling, sinking deeper. She began to indulge in this dangerous double life: by day, she was a scholar navigating the ocean of knowledge; by night, she was the most favored subject at the tyrant's feet. Her world had never been so rich, so extreme, so full of vitality.

For the past twenty-six years, she had merely existed. But now, she felt as if she had just begun to "come alive." Even if this way of "living" came at the cost of freedom, like dancing on the edge of a knife, she was willing.

Luca's warning flashed through her mind—that hell of equal measure.

She closed her eyes and buried her face in Alessandro's solid chest, feeling his strong heartbeat. Perhaps the entrance to hell had always been right next door to heaven. And she had already, without hesitation, walked through that door.