Chapter 16
Subspace.
Of course, I know what it means. I've been experiencing it for weeks in Giovanni's dungeon. Sometimes, very extreme experiences. Like that first time Giovanni punished me with the crop.
There is quite a bit of academic debate on whether or not subspace is a good or a bad witch. There are arguments, either way.
A lot of it is based on perspective and from my perspective, it's definitely a good witch.
But, obviously, I've been trauma bonding with gangsters so… I might not have the most objective state of mind right now.
I float. Float, float, floating…
Skimming the edge of euphoria like it's the blade of a knife.
Saint Lorcan's hand is still wrapped around my throat. Not tight. Just… present. Like a bookmark holding my place in reality so I don't drift too far into the ether.
His other hand strokes my hair while I slump against his chest, boneless as overcooked pasta. Which is exactly how I feel. Al dente Emmaleen has left the building. We're in leftover-lasagna territory now.
"There she is," he murmurs. "Back with me, are ya?"
I make a sound. Not quite a word. More like what a balloon makes when you let the air out slowly.
"That's a yes, then."
My brain is trying to reboot. System Alert: Consciousness.exe has stopped responding. Would you like to continue floating indefinitely?
Yes. Yes, I would.
Unfortunately, the good witch's spell has been broken by a sexy Irish accent and my mind is already whirring with intellectual-isms.
Because here's the thing about subspace that all the Reddit threads and BDSM educational blogs don't fully capture—it's like being the main character in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, except instead of erasing your memories, you're erasing your anxiety.
Your shame. Your overthinking. All the parts of you that make you you just… dissolve.
And what's left is this pure, distilled essence of feeling.
Which sounds beautiful and transcendent when you describe it like that.
Less beautiful when you realize what you're feeling is utterly wrecked, thoroughly fucked, and somehow both completely safe and completely owned by a man you met approximately twenty-four hours ago.
A man who is not Giovanni.
A man who just made me pray to him like he's a patron saint of damaged women with daddy issues and a choking kink.
Oh God.
The thoughts are starting to come back. Bit by bit. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle assembling themselves into a picture I'm not sure I want to see.
Saint Lorcan shifts slightly, and I feel him still inside me. Still hard. Still there.
My face flames.
"Easy," he says quietly. "Don't come back too fast. You'll crash."
"I'm fine," I mumble against his chest.
"You're floating."
"I'm fine."
"Emmaleen."
The way he says my name—firm, grounding, commanding—makes my pussy clench around him involuntarily.
His breath hitches. "Christ."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize for your body's response." He cups the back of my neck, thumb stroking the edge of Giovanni's collar. "This is normal. This is good. Ya did so well, a stór."
A stór. I still don't know what that means, which is embarrassing. I'm like sixty-eight percent Irish. It feels like something I should know…
Just stop, Emmaleen. Overthinking is for people who aren't currently impaled on an Irish saint. Enjoy what's left of the moment.
I'm still floating. Still untethered. But overthinking and me are old friends.
Like second-grade besties that built forts in the woods, did blood-sister rituals, and played light-as-a-feather during birthday sleepovers—then grew apart in college, but found each other again at our ten-year high school reunion.
So my thoughts are coming in fragmented bursts, like someone's changing channels inside my head.
You just fucked a man who kidnapped you.
No, he rescued you.
Did he though?
You begged him to punish you.
You came so hard you saw God. Or… Saint Lorcan. Same difference, apparently.
Giovanni is going to kill him.
Giovanni is going to kill you.
You're a terrible person.
You're a brilliant person.
You have no idea who you are anymore.
"Shh," Lorcan murmurs, his hand still stroking my hair. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not—"
"Ya are. I can feel it. Your whole body just went tense."
Busted.
He shifts slightly, and I'm hyper-aware that he's still inside me. Still connected. Which should probably feel weird, or awkward, or something, but instead it just feels... grounding.
"Let me tell ya a story," he says quietly.
"A story?"
"Aye. About where I'm from."
I close my eyes, letting the rhythm of his voice pull me away from the spiral.
"I grew up in a castle," he says. "Doire An Rí. The King's Oak Grove. County Galway, western Ireland. Sits on two hundred acres overlooking Lough Corrib—that's a lake, massive thing, stretches for miles."
A castle. Of course he grew up in a literal castle.
"The original tower was built in the fifteen hundreds," he continues, his thumb tracing slow, mesmerizing circles against my shoulder blade—each rotation deliberate, hypnotic, grounding me in the present even as his words pull me centuries back.
"Grey limestone blocks. The walls are at least three feet deep in places—had to be, to withstand both English cannon fire and Irish winters.
Crenellated towers rise up on the east and west sides, their battlements still intact, though no one's manned them in generations.
Just crows now, circling overhead like they're keeping watch for ghosts. "
He pauses, and I feel his chest rise and fall beneath my cheek.
"The windows have proper stone arches," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, more reverent.
"Romanesque curves, the kind ya don't see anymore except in cathedrals or ruins.
Looking out through them... Christ, it makes ya feel like you're living inside a painting.
Like ya've stepped into something timeless.
Something that existed before ya and will exist long after you're gone. "
I can see it. I can see it perfectly—like something out of a fantasy novel. Stone walls covered in ivy. Towers silhouetted against stormy Irish skies.
"There's a Great Hall," he says, his voice softening with something that sounds almost like longing, "with a table carved from ancient oak—older than anyone living can remember, older than the stories we tell about it.
Seats eighteen people easily. The walls are covered with family crests, each one hand-carved by craftsmen whose names are lost to time now.
And portraits—God, so many portraits. Dead chieftains, every last one of them, staring down at ya with those stern, judgmental eyes while ya try to eat your supper.
Like they're watching to make sure ya hold yer fork properly, that ya don't shame the family name. "
My brain supplies the image immediately—flickering candlelight, heavy tapestries, the smell of peat fires and rain.
"The library's in the north tower," he murmurs. "Three stories of books. Floor to ceiling. Some of them older than the house itself. I used to hide up there when I was small. There's a window seat in the corner where ya can curl up and read while watching the storms roll in off the lake."
Oh God. A library. Three stories. I wish I could see that. "Secret passages?" I whisper before I can stop myself.
His chest rumbles with quiet laughter beneath my cheek. "Aye. Two of them. One runs from the master bedroom down to the chapel—priests' escape route from the Cromwell days. The other connects the kitchen to the wine cellar. Smugglers' tunnel."
Of course there are secret passages. Because apparently Lorcan's childhood was a literal Regency romance novel.
"The gardens are older than the house additions," he continues softly. "Formal hedges, rose arbors, a fountain that doesn't work anymore but nobody's had the heart to tear it down. And beyond that, the woods. Oak trees so old they've got names. Stories."
I'm not in his chapel anymore. I'm there. Walking through those gardens. Running my hand along stone walls that have stood for five hundred years. Climbing spiral staircases in towers. Curling up in window seats with a book…
My chest constricts and suddenly, I have the sads. Because I haven't read a book in almost a year. The realization hits. Like… hard. I haven't curled up anywhere with a book since... since Tyler. Since before everything fell apart.
"There she goes again," Lorcan says gently, his hand tightening slightly on the back of my neck. "What're ya overthinkin' now, a stór?"
I consider lying. I mean, who is this guy? My Heroic Kidnapper who kinda got it all wrong. I don't owe him my private thoughts.
That's what 'old Emmaleen' would've thought. She would've gone silent. Refused to give details.
But 'new Emmaleen' has been trained to open her mind just as easily as she does her legs by Giovanni and Jino. So the question triggers an automatic response—full transparency about my internal landscape, no deflection or lies.
"I had a BookTalk account," I hear myself say. "Before… things."
"Booktalk, huh?"
"You've heard of it?"
"I can neither confirm nor deny," he laughs.
He's bookish. I'd forgotten about that. My heroic kidnapper, the Irish Mobster otherwise known as Saint Lorcan the Spanker, reads.
It's like… something out of a fucking novel. A really, kind of cliche novel. But cliches exist for a reason, don't they?
Cliches, especially in the form of Saint Lorcan the Spanker reading fiction, hit all the little dopamine receptors. Lighting them up like fairy lights in a summer garden.
Details start spilling out of my mouth like water.
"I'm @BookishEmma_leen on all the socials.
Well, I was. Before. You know. Before… everything.
" I blow out a breath, not wanting to talk about that part of my past. Like, at all.
So I keep going. "I had seventy-five thousand followers.
I used to post reviews. Dark romance, literary fiction.
I'd photograph books in weird places around Cleveland and write these long captions about why they mattered. "