Still collared.
I haven't taken it off. Can't take it off.
Not without permission.
I don't want Position Tertia on Lorcan's altar.
I want Position One in Giovanni's dungeon.
Kneeling.
Waiting.
Belonging.
I'm still pressed against the window, forehead to the glass like I'm trying to absorb the city through osmosis, when I hear the door open behind me.
Lorcan's back.
His footsteps are different from last night—heavier, slower. The kind of gait that sayswe need to talkin every language including body.
Well, he's not wrong.
"I have something to say first," I announce to my reflection in the glass.
Behind me, Lorcan goes still. I can feel his attention lock onto me like a target acquisition system.
"I'm listenin'," he says quietly, and there's something in his voice—something gentle and careful, like he's talking to a spooked animal that might bolt if he moves too fast.
I turn to face him, and the words start spilling before I can architect them into anything resembling coherence.
"You're a lock," I tell him. "Giovanni's a key."
Lorcan blinks. "I'm... what now?"
"A lock. You know—the thing that holds everything in place, keeps it safe, contained, structured. You build these beautiful systems with positions, and prayers, and aftercare protocols, and they'relocks. They keep everything organized and secure and they make sure nothing falls apart."
I'm gesturing now, hands drawing shapes in the air like I'm conducting an invisible orchestra of my own mental breakdown.
"Giovanni's the key. He doesn't hold anything—heunlocksit. Shoves himself into all the broken tumblers inside you and just—" I twist my hands violently. "—forces everything open. All the chaos you've been keeping locked down? He turns one click and it all comes spilling out. Your damage, your anger, your desperate need to beseeneven when you're a complete fucking disaster."
Lorcan's watching me with this expression I can't quite parse. Concern? Recognition? The look you give someone actively having a psychotic break in your living room?
"Locks are good," I continue, pacing now because standing still feels like death. "Locks arehealthy. They protect things. Keep them from getting stolen, or violated, or destroyed. You're offering me a lock, Lorcan. A really, really good lock. Top-of-the-line security system with biometric access and—I don't know—laser grids or whatever shit fancy locks have."
I spin to face him again.
"But I'm not a jewelry box that needs protecting. I'm a goddamnPandora situation. And Giovanni figured that outin about forty-five seconds. He saw me kneeling in broken champagne glass at that hotel gala, bleeding and expressionless, and thought—oh good, someone who's already open. Someone whose lock is already broken. I can just walk right in and rearrange the furniture."
"Em—" Lorcan starts.
"Wait, I'm not done spiraling yet."
I press my palms against my temples like I can physically hold my brain together.
"Actually, no—scrap the lock metaphor. Different one. You're like... you're like one of those Marie Kondo organizers who shows up and teaches you how to fold your emotional trauma into neat little rectangles so it fits perfectly in the drawer. And Giovanni's the fucking—theTasmanian Devilfrom Looney Tunes who just spins through your house destroying everything while you watch and then somehow you'regratefulbecause at least now you know where all the broken pieces are."
Lorcan opens his mouth.
