The armor I wear because looking perfect is the only control I have left.
I descend the stairs, adjusting my cufflinks for the third time. As I pass the control room on my way to the kitchen, movement catches my eye.
Jino's hunched over the command center, scribbling furiously in a notebook.
I enter. "What are you doing?"
He springs up like I've caught him committing a crime, notebook outstretched. "The chapel scene—last night—did you see the way he structured the cognitive load? The prayer combined with the count, it's?—"
"I've seen the footage," I cut him off, irritation sharpening my voice. "I don't need a play-by-play."
Jino puts up a hand, pointing to the screens. "Wait. Just—look."
"I don't need to look?—"
"Lorcan's style isverystructured ritual," Jino interrupts, his voice taking on that clinical tone he uses when he's analyzing technique. "Each position—the prima, the secunda, the prayers—they're all very specific. Choreographed. He's building a liturgical framework."
"Congratulations," I snap. "You've discovered Catholic BDSM. Can we move on?"
"No." Jino flips the notebook around, showing me pages of handwritten notes. "Because while you were busy watching him choke her, I was cataloging her mistakes."
I stare at him. "What?"
"Emmaleen broke dozens of protocols last night." Jino taps the first page with the tip of his pen, his tone matter-of-fact, almost detached. "She looked up without permission—twice. Direct eye contact during prayer, both times unprompted. She spoke before being addressed. Multiple times. Initiated conversation, asked questions, made commentary—all without clearance."
He flips to the next page. "She shifted her weight during prayer. Adjusted her posture at least four times while reciting his name. Fidgeted. Lost stillness. Broke position without verbal permission—three separate instances. Failed to maintain vocal cadence. Touched herself—hand to throat, fingers to collarbone, smoothing her hair—six times. All unprompted physical contact."
The list continues.
Jino starts laughing. He's practically giddy.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I snarl.
"Demerits, Giovanni!Demerits!" His voice climbs with barely-contained enthusiasm as he brandishes the notebook like it's holy scripture. "And—look at this—she'sterribleat it! She's failing at every turn!" He's almost breathless now, words tumbling over each other.
"This whole setup, this ritual Lorcan's got her locked into—it's brilliant. It's submission wrapped up in impossible standards. Layer after layer of expectations she can't possibly meet, all disguised as devotional practice."
He pauses, catching his breath, and I watch his eyes gleam with that particular intensity he gets when he's dissecting a system down to its skeleton. "It's like he handed us a masterclass in behavioral conditioning on a silver fucking platter. And the beauty of it?" He taps the notebook against his palm for emphasis. "There'sno wayshe masters this anytime soon. The difficulty curve is deliberately unsustainable. She'll keep stumbling, keep accumulating infractions, keep giving us material to work with."
His grin widens, sharp and analytical. "It's an absolute goldmine for systematic training. Trust me on this—this thing is going to keep generating opportunities for correction, reinforcement, and restructuring. It'ssofucking ideal for what we need."
"What the hell are you talking about?" I snap.
The enthusiasm drains from Jino's face like someone pulled a plug, replaced by something harder. Irritation flickers across his features—the kind of look he gets when he thinks I'm being deliberately obtuse.
"Bro,trainingbro," he says, the repetition making it sound like he's explaining basic arithmetic to a child. "Do you even realize the level of granular, precise, methodical control I can exert over her within a structure like this?" He waves the notebook between us. "The kind of systematic behavioral modification that becomes possible when you've got documentation this detailed?"
I scoff, the sound sharp and dismissive. "In case you haven't noticed, Jino, she's nothere. Whatever systematic behavioral modification you're fantasizing about—it's not happening. Not with you, anyway. So you won't be exerting any of that granular, precise, methodical control you're creaming your pants over.He will."
But Jino is already shaking his head before I've finished, that irritating certainty settling back over his features like armor. "Nah, bro. Lorcan's a performative bastard, sure, but he's not actually running a protocol. He didn't wake her up this morning. Didn't put her through positions, didn't drill compliance, didn't enforce shit. Just left her in bed like she's hiswifeand he's some working-class hero heading off to the docks."
He gestures with the notebook, dismissive. "There's no training happening over there. No real structure. He's not looking for perfection—he's looking for… passable. Domesticated. He just wants her to pray to his almighty cock while he chokes her into oblivion during his twisted little chapel sessions. That's it. That's all he's got."
I'm gritting my teeth at this point, jaw tight enough it's starting to ache. "Why the fuck are you telling me this?"
"Because… that's where I step in. I'm her trainer." He waves the notebook again. "And trust me when I say this, that bastard is getting fucking notes by noon. Detailed ones. Behavioral observations, posture corrections, compliance metrics—everything he needs to maintain what we've built."
His jaw sets, determination hardening his features. "I spent the last five weeks sculpting her mind and conditioning her muscles, Giovanni. Every position, every response, every fucking breath—that waswork. Real work. I'm not gonna let him fuck it up just because we're not physically there to supervise. He wants to play priest in his little chapel? Fine. But he's gonna do it according tomyspecifications. In a few days, all this LaRiccia shit will boil over and…"
