The monster claps.
This setup isperfectfor Emmaleen. She's in good hands. My hands. Jino's hands.
Between the two of us, she'll have everything she needs. I'll give her the intensity, the fire, the absolute certainty of my control. Jino will give her the precision, the methodology, the reassurance that her submission is valued, not exploited.
It's balanced. It's fair.
I'll let him stay for a few weeks. Long enough to help us settle into the routine. Long enough to make sure she understands the rules so thoroughly they become instinct. Then he can return to his life, his other clients, whatever the fuck else he does when he's not here.
Jino will counteract any mistakes I make.
The thought surfaces like a corpse floating to the top of a lake—cold, unwanted, impossible to ignore.
The monster inside me shifts.You don't make mistakes, Giovanni. In her mind, you're perfect. She counts your strikes like prayers. She takes your pain like communion. You don't need Jino to balance you. You need him gone before he convinces her otherwise.
The monster is half right. Jino's presenceisa problem. Not now—not yet—but eventually. He's already overstepping. The bath. The aftercare. The way he looked at her when he thought I wasn't watching. He's supposed to be a contractor, a professional, a tool I'm using to shape her properly.
But he's becoming something else.
He's becoming areference point. A comparison. A voice in her head that suggests maybe Giovanni Bavga isn't the only way to experience this.
And that's unacceptable.
She's mine. The bruises on her ass are mine. The tears she cried last night were mine. The way her voice breaks when she calls me "Sir" or "my King"—that'smine.
The fantasy lingers.
Emmaleen. Permanent. Mine.
No Jino.
No distractions.
No mistakes.
Jino needs to go.
Soon.
I find Jino in the living room.
Reading the newspaper.
Not scrolling through his phone. Not watching the monitors. Not downstairs with Emmaleen where he's supposed to be.
Reading. The Newspaper.
He's seated in the leather armchair near the window, legs crossed, one tattooed hand holding the fold of newsprint like he's a retiree on a Sunday morning. His face is bruised too—worse than mine, actually. His split lip is healing crooked. There's a purple shadow along his jaw where I landed a solid hit.
But he looks calm.
Serene, even.
I stop in the doorway, cataloging the scene. The coffee table has a mug on it—espresso, based on the size—and a small plate with crumbs. He's eaten. Made himself at home. Comfortable.
Too comfortable.
"Where the hell did you get a newspaper?" I ask. My voice comes out flat. Cold. The kind of tone that makes people flinch.