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)
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?"