Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Jino, Lorcan, and I all look at the same goal—be her Master, teach her how to obey, make her mine—and each of us sees three very different ways to get there.
Jino and his drills. His structure. His boundaries.
Lorcan and his reverence. His symbolism. His romanticism.
And me with my planning. My precision. My gravitas.
Emmaleen orbits me like a planet.
I am her sun.
But even planets drift. The orbit isn't a perfect circle, it's an ellipse.
And last night, Lorcan's gravity pulled harder than I expected.
When she lost count, he didn't let it slide. He reset to zero. Made her start over. No shortcuts, no mercy, just patient insistence that she could complete the task if she focused.
He didn't mock her for failing. Didn't add punishment for the failure.
He just… waited.
Grounded her with his hand on her hip. Reminded her of the prayer. Let her collect herself before continuing.
That's not amateur hour. That's a Dom who understands the difference between breaking someone and building endurance.
I would've added strikes for losing count. Made it twenty. Thirty. Pushed until she used her safe word just to prove the point that she couldn't handle what I required.
Lorcan gave her space to succeed.
Infuriating.
I can't even get properly mad about the choking—though we're absolutely having words about that breach—because watching the footage, Lorcan was completely in control.
His hand on her throat wasn't rage or hunger. It was precision.
He pulled out of the choke at the exact moment to make her explode. Not a second too long. Not tentative or hesitant.
Perfect.
The kind of perfect that only comes from years of practice despite his protests about being reformed.
And Emmaleen responded like he'd unlocked something I'd been fumbling with for weeks.
She came so hard she went nonverbal. Just gasping, shaking, completely undone.
Have I ever given her the chance to respond to me like that?
Then there was the book talk. Of course they bonded over some Dan Brown wannabe—Vatican conspiracies, Celtic artifacts, Indiana Jones if he was Irish. She was lighting up like a fucking megalopolis over plot holes in a thriller I've never read.
Because what kind of serious person reads fiction?
I thought I'd have ammunition. Lorcan crossed the line—no safe word, just raw intuition and arrogance. I was ready to shred him for it, prove he's reckless, prove she's safer with me.
But every time her breath hitched wrong, he paused. Every time her shoulders tensed beyond arousal into panic, he grounded her. He didn't ask permission—he just knew. Read her body like I read contracts, like I catalog exits in a room.
He didn't need her to say wisteria.
He knew before she did.
Lorcan's got the whole romantic production—castles in Galway, that fucking accent that makes everything sound like poetry, the chapel with its theatrical bullshit, the copper tub, the books.
All I've got is a monster in a dungeon.
Lorcan makes punishment feel like worship.
I just make it feel like punishment.
I didn't even try to jerk off in the shower this morning.
My brain's too busy circling the problem, searching for the angle I'm missing. The solution that doesn't exist.
Emmaleen doesn't need two monsters.
And Lorcan's version—the one wrapped in Irish castles and prayer rituals and copper bathtubs—is objectively more romantic than mine.
I dress with mechanical precision. Charcoal three-piece suit, Italian wool, tailored to eliminate even the suggestion of a wrinkle.
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 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."