Chapter 7
I understand now.
What did Emmaleen mean by that?
It's cryptic, almost innocent, but there's something in her tone. Something in the change of her voice. In the way she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.
It's… defiance.
I lean forward in my chair, eyes narrowing at the monitor. My fingers tap a restless rhythm against the desk as I press the call button—again.
Jino doesn't even flinch. Like he didn't even hear it.
Instead of coming back upstairs to get guidance about Emmaleen’s instruction—as was agreed upon beforehand—he tells her that her excessive accumulation of demerits before the first lesson even started has erased her right to a uniform today. She will do all her lessons naked.
Then he immediately begins instructing her on how to stand again, touching her body wherever he pleases with that crop of his.
I scoff. The nerve. The absolute fucking audacity.
He wants her naked. He wants her naked.
Does he think I chose a uniform for no reason?
Does he think he can just alter my plans without consultation?
Ignore my summons? Repeatedly?
Jino is starting to feel like a mistake. Especially with that little monologue he performed. And Rico. Emmaleen didn’t correct him when he blamed her for Rico’s attack. At least one person in that dungeon understands when to shut up.
I lean in, watching Jino as he works. After several minutes of tapping her with the crop—even twice using the leather tab at the end to caress her nipple—he stands back, admiring his work.
My jaw tightens involuntarily at the sight.
Jino's always been thorough in his training methods, but the way his eyes linger on her body is. .. professionally unnecessary.
"You're terrible at this,” he tells Emmaleen. “Someone's parents failed to teach them the particulars of good posture."
I wait for Emmaleen's outburst. Insulting one's dead parents is a tried-and-true provocation—one that should ignite that sharp tongue of hers instantly.
But she doesn't even flinch. If anything, she holds herself higher.
What’s she doing?
I understand now.
And suddenly, so do I. A cold smile plays at the corner of my mouth. Does she think she can win this game by sheer will? By perfect compliance? She's mistaken. She has no idea how seriously Jino takes his role as Dom. She will never meet his standards—nor mine.
It's not even a possibility.
And even if it were, I would simply raise my expectations.
The game isn't designed to be won. That's the point she's missing.
I press the summons again, harder this time, though that has no effect whatsoever. I can't quite hear it through the security footage—it's nothing more than a subtle vibration. So tiny a sound, you’d need to be listening for it.
But again, Jino ignores me. Instead, he directs Emmaleen to raise her chin with the encouragement of the crop. He levels it out so she’s looking neither up nor down. Jino taps her—on the shoulder, on the back of the neck, on the cheek, on the breast.
Her nipples are peaked tight. And for a moment, I catch Jino staring at them.
He looks away quickly, like he knows I caught it.
Something hot and dark coils in my chest. Not jealousy—I don't do jealousy. It's... territorial. Emmaleen is my project. My problem to solve. The fact that even Jino seems affected by her is another complication I don't need.
"Hold there,” he commands. “I'll be watching you. Any failure on your part will earn demerits. I think you’re under the assumption that Giovanni will play Dom with you tonight—perhaps some erotic spanking?
A blindfold? Some cuffs while he teases you.
Let me be very clear—that's not how it works. You will be punished."
With that, he turns toward the door that leads up here and disappears.
I listen to his approaching footsteps climbing the back stairs as I watch Emmaleen, waiting for her snarky tirade or rebellious lapse in position.
But she doesn't move. Not a muscle. Not a twitch. Her stillness is almost… perfect. Like she's embracing the discipline rather than fighting it.
Jino bursts in. Pulling up the ski mask to reveal his sweaty hair. "What the fuck do you want?"
"I want to comment, of course." I lean back in my chair, gesturing to the monitor where Emmaleen remains perfectly still. "What is she doing?"
"What does it look like she's doing?" Jino is beyond annoyed. "She’s fucking complying, that's what she's doing."
"That's my point. Emmaleen Rourke doesn't comply. She snarks. She snipes. She walks through life like it's The Emmaleen Show, a constant internal monologue doing a quirky Wonder Years voiceover."
Jino blinks at me. "What?"
What the fuck is wrong with me? Wonder Years voiceover? I recalibrate. "She's playing you. And by you, I mean me."
"Playing me?" Jino yanks the ski mask completely off and throws it on my desk. "Look at Little Miss Perfect down there. She's not playing anything except right into your control-freak fantasy."
"Control-freak fantasy? That’s rich coming from the man who invests in sex clubs the way most people invest in the stock market. At least I don't dominate women for the structure. You wish you had my imagination for control-freak fantasies."
"Funny." Jino glances at the screen. "You know what's really funny? How you suddenly developed standards. This one's got a brain and a backbone, unlike the parade of Instagram models you usually throw away after a weekend."
"At least I don't need to pay for mine by the hour." I tap my pen against the desk. "How is Candy, by the way? Still 'working her way through college'? She must be approaching retirement age by now."
"Her name is Cassie, and she owns the club now. And unlike you, I'm not afraid of women who can actually match me." He nods toward the screen. "Speaking of which—your little rebel down there is making you nervous. That's new."
"I'm not nervous. I'm suspicious."
"Of what? That she might actually be good at this? That she might last longer than the three days you've given every woman who's ever gotten close?"
"Two weeks." I correct him automatically. "And she's not getting close. She's getting gone."
"Right." Jino leans over the desk, pointing at Emmaleen's face on the monitor. "That's why you planned this whole game? To get rid of her?” Jino laughs. “Giovanni, when a man like you wants to get rid of someone, they have their goons throw them in a trunk and dump their body in the river. This is not getting rid of her. This is you challenging her to meet your unreasonable standards. And look at her?” He points to the monitor again. “She’s doing it. She’s fucking perfect.”
"Are you fantasizing about my sex slave? And while we’re on the subject, your dick is hard, asshole. There’s no excuse for that. You told me you were a professional, yet you get off on a little nipple flicking with a crop?”
He points to my dick. “The same could be said of you, cuz.”
“You’re missing the point. She’s mine. Her only purpose is to get me off. You’re here to intimidate her into standing up straight.”
"It's called training." He gives a thin, cold smile. "And if you'd ever actually done it yourself instead of hiding up here behind your cameras, you'd know the difference."
"I know the difference between training and the way you were eyeing her like she's the last steak at Delmonico's."
"She's got better marbling." Jino shrugs.
"And you're one to talk. I've never seen you lose your shit over a woman before. The great Giovanni Bavga, brought to his knees by a homeless girl with a smart mouth. I don’t even know why you’re pretending not to care.
She's built like every wet dream you've never admitted to. "
I glare at him. "I didn’t summon you so we could banter about standards. My slave seems to be wriggling her way past your defenses with her intelligent defiance and perky tits. It stops now. You’ve been crossing lines down there, Jino."
"Which one? The one where we pretend this is actually about business? Or the one where we pretend you're not terrified she might actually win this little game?"
"There's no winning. That's the point."
"No, the point is you're making up new rules as you go." He nods at the screen. "Look at her. Perfect form. She's not breaking. And it's driving you crazy."
I stare at the monitor, where Emmaleen hasn't moved a millimeter. "What’s driving me crazy, aside from your dick bulging inside your pants, is the fact that she’s trying too hard.”
“Too hard?” Jino blinks at me.
“Yes. She’s playing us, Jino. Trust me, I know this girl. Her obedience is her defiance.”
“That makes no sense. If she submits, she is obedient.”
“No. It’s the intention underneath. And clearly—” I point to the monitor. The perfectly still and rigid body of Emmaleen Rourke as she continues to hold her position, “—she has no intention of submitting. She’s trying to infuriate me with her fake compliance.”
“You’re paranoid.”
“Give her the Banana-Split Treatment."
Jino laughs. "What the fuck is—" then stops, remembering. A small smile turns into a big smile and suddenly he's shaking his head, laughing. "You're joking, right? You want me to banana split this girl?"
"Do I stutter?"
“That’s not even a real position.”
“It is,” I counter.
“Not for subs, Giovanni. That’s a degradation ritual for—”
“I know what it is, Jino. Now go back down there and put her in it.”
Jino blows out a breath, grabs his mask from the desk, and pulls it back on as he turns his back to me and opens the door to the basement. "I hope you know what you're doing."
And then he's gone.
I lean back in my chair, watching the monitor as Jino thumps down the stairs. "Let's see how long you last now, Miss Take."
Jino appears on screen again. He circles Emmaleen, snapping the crop on his gloved hand. Evaluating. Assessing. And… recalibrating. I know this because he finds a camera and looks at me. Under the ski mask, I detect his eyebrow going up.