Page 63 of His Holy Chaos

Ford nods. He doesn't ask the obvious questions, and I love him for that.

"Ford directs the choir like a general," I tell Alfie, steering into safer waters. "He made Helen, seventy-two-year-old Helen, cry once because her diction was sloppy."

"Her diction was sloppy. And she thanked me afterward."

"She thanked you because she was afraid of you."

"She thanked me because she sounded better. There's a difference."

I laugh. Alfie laughs too.

"You do look scary, Ford. I was wrong," Alfie says. Ford raises his eyebrows.

"Oh?" he asks. Alfie nods while he drinks his white wine.

"Because you're a real Dom, not one of the fake ones who are always trying to prove themselves, and I know what that means. True discipline," Alfie says. Ford looks mildly embarrassed, but it's true, and he knows it. "Good. It's exactly what Jude needs."

“Thank you. It’s high praise coming from another seasoned Dom such as you,” Ford says. Alfie smirks.

Then, he swirls his wine. "So. Edging or denial? With him."

I nearly choke on my water. "Excuse me, I'm right here."

They both ignore me.

"Both," Ford says. "Denial is more effective for correction. Edging is more effective for breaking down the attitude."

"Interesting. I always found denial alone was enough. But I never had him for more than a scene or two, so the stakes were different." Alfie tilts his head, considering. "What about impact? He'll tell you he can take anything."

"It’s all talk. But, to be fair, he can take a lot, but I don’t like to break him too much, or it stops being fun."

"Hello? I am literally sitting between you two."

Alfie doesn't even glance at me. "That's good. You caught that fast. It took Emmett months."

"I pay attention," Ford says simply.

"The hardest part with him," Alfie continues, and he leans forward slightly, his voice dropping, "is that he'll use bratting to avoid vulnerability. He'll escalate and escalate until you punish him, because punishment is easier than saying what he actually feels. If you let him turn every conversation into a scene, he never has to be honest."

Ford is quiet for a moment. Then he nods. "I know. I redirect him when I see it. We talk first. The punishment comes after if needed."

Alfie sits back. Something in his expression settles. Relief.

"Okay," Alfie says. "Good."

"I have feelings, you know," I say. "And ears. And I'm right here. At this table. That I'm sitting at. With both of you. Who are discussing me like I'm a horse at auction."

"A very pretty horse," Alfie says, not looking at me.

"Excellent temperament," Ford adds. "Tends to bite."

"I hate you both," I say, but my face is on fire and something in my chest is glowing, because two people who love me just agreed, without saying it, that they're going to keep me safe. Even from myself.

Dessert arrives. A crème brûlée for me, a dark chocolate torte for Alfie, nothing for Ford because Ford doesn't eat sugar after seven, a fact that I find both admirable and psychotic. He drinks an espresso instead, and the small white cup looks absurd in his large hands, like a toy from a dollhouse.

His phone buzzes on the table. He glances at the screen.

"Excuse me," he says, already rising. "It's my mom. Probably just church stuff, but with her, you never know." He's moving before he finishes the sentence, the phone pressed to his ear, his free hand already gesturing even though Martha can't see him.