Chapter 17 #2
"Lorcan's style is very structured 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's terrible at 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's no way she 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's so fucking 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, training bro," 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 not here.
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 his wife and 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 was work.
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 to my specifications.
In a few days, all this LaRiccia shit will boil over and… "
He stops mid-sentence, shoulders rising in a casual shrug. Like he hasn't actually thought this particular scenario through to its logical conclusion. Like the grand strategy just… ends there, suspended in possibility.
But I have.
"And what?" I ask, my voice dropping into something darker, colder—the tone I use when I'm already three moves ahead and don't like where the board's leading. "What happens then, Jino? She comes home?" I let out a short, bitter laugh—more exhale than sound. "She's not coming back. She likes him."
"So?" he says, shrugging one shoulder. "She likes us too.
We all deliver different things, Giovanni.
And she's already made it clear that she loves you.
You're the one she wants. I'm the foundation.
I'm just someone the two of you need to make it work—the infrastructure that keeps the whole system running. "
He pauses, his ice-blue eyes shifting slightly, a flicker of something vulnerable breaking through the usual clinical detachment.
"And to be honest, I was kinda worried about that at first. One day—maybe six months from now, maybe a year—she'll be the perfect submissive.
You'll have total control of yourself, of her.
Complete synchronization. And then what?
What happens to me when the training's done?
When there's nothing left to correct, nothing left to drill, nothing left to supervise? "
So… he has thought about this. More than I realized.
"I'll be out. And I've gotta be honest here, G.
I like her. I think you know I like her.
She's fun, she tries hard, and I want to be useful to her.
I think I am, but I can do better. This?
" He points to the screens, his tattooed hand sweeping across the monitors displaying Lorcan's chapel setup.
"That shit Lorcan's doin'? Like I said, it's gonna take months to master this simple ritual.
Even if he doesn't have more positions, we can make more.
We can expand the liturgy, add new elements, new layers.
This fucking setup is evergreen. It's got built-in longevity.
I'm telling you, it's gonna keep us together for a long time. "
His voice carries a note of almost academic enthusiasm, like he's pitching a research project he genuinely believes in.
"Us?" I repeat, my tone flat.
Jino blows out a breath, his shoulders dropping slightly as if he's about to say something he knows I won't want to hear.
"Well," he starts, his voice slower now, more careful.
"You're already sharing her with me, right?
I mean, that's what we're doing here. You and me, we've got our lanes.
I handle the drills, the discipline, the structure—all that foundational shit that keeps her grounded.
You handle the punishment. So Lorcan's kinda perfect for this setup.
He's got... I don't know, man. He's romantic.
Poetic. All that sappy Irish bullshit with the candlelight, and the prayers, and the a stór nonsense. "
He waves a hand dismissively, but there's no real malice in it—just a kind of resigned acknowledgment.
"You and me?" Jino continues, his tone sharpening just a fraction.
"We don't have that kind of fuckin' game.
That's not what we bring to the table. I'm the guy who makes her kneel and hold a goddamn feather without flinching.
You're the guy who cancels demerits with crops, feeds her dinner like a pet, and puts her to bed like she's lucky to be here. "
He meets my eyes, his expression unreadable. But it's clear, he's proud of himself. He's all in.
I can barely contain my anger now. "Do you even hear yourself?"
Jino blinks. "What?"
"I'm the guy who cancels demerits with crops, feeds her dinner like a pet, and puts her to bed like she's lucky to be here?"
"What? That's what you do."
"That's what he does too, Jino. You fucking idiot! We're the same! We both give her the same fucking thing."
"No," Jino laughs. "No, G, ya don't. You're…" He exhales. "How do I put this?"