Epilogue Emmaleen #4
I open my mouth to explain that I'm fine, that this is consensual, that I'm exactly where I want to be—but he's already moving, pulling off his black shirt to reveal a torso marked with Celtic tattoos, dark lines against pale skin.
"Here," he says, trying to pull the shirt over my head. "Put this on."
"What? No—" I protest, stepping back. "I don't need—"
"Shh," he cuts me off, pressing the fabric firmly into my palms, his grip insistent and unrelenting, as if the shirt itself could undo whatever horrors he imagines I've endured.
His eyes lock onto mine with a fierce, protective determination that brooks no argument.
"I'm gettin’ ye outta here. Right now. Before he comes back. "
I fight him, trying to push the shirt away, but he's stronger, more determined. He backs me against the wall, his body blocking any escape route, and manages to pull the shirt over my head despite my struggles.
"Stop—" I try again. "You don't understand. I'm supposed to be here. I—"
"It's okay," he says, his voice gentle now, as if talking to a frightened animal. "Yer safe now. I won't let him hurt ye again."
His hand closes around my wrist, warm and unyielding. The book and key clatter to the floor as he pulls me down the hallway, moving with purpose toward what I assume is the front door.
"No!" I yell, trying to dig in my heels. "Let go of me!"
His hand claps over my mouth with the precision of someone who's done this before, cutting off my protests mid-syllable. My scream collapses into the warm flesh of his palm.
"Stop fightin’," he hisses, his accent thickening with each word. "I'm tryin’ to save your fuckin’ life."
I thrash against him—or I try to. His other hand finds my throat, fingers pressing into the soft hollow beneath my jaw, pushing me back against the wall with alarming efficiency. My head connects with the plaster, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stun.
And that's when it happens. The thing I can't explain. The thing I'll hate myself for later.
My body goes liquid. Compliant. A flush of heat blooms between my thighs, and my nipples harden against his borrowed shirt.
Some broken, fucked-up part of my brain has been rewired to translate threat into arousal, danger into desire.
My eyelids flutter, and a small sound escapes—not a protest this time.
The stranger's eyes widen. He sees it. Recognizes it.
"Christ," he mutters, disgust and pity warring in his expression. "What did they do ta ye?"
I should be fighting. Screaming. Clawing. Instead, I'm melting into his grip like I was made for it.
He's not my Master.
He's not my King.
He shouldn't have this power over me.
But he does.
"He's done it again," he growls, adjusting his hold to pin both my wrists in one large hand. "We need ta go. Now."
He drags me through the hallway, my bare feet stumbling on the hardwood. I try to plant myself, to resist, but my body won't cooperate. It's like I've forgotten how to fight back—or worse, like I don't want to.
"He'll find me," I say, voice thin and desperate. "He always finds me."
"Not this time."
The night air hits my legs like a slap as he pulls me outside. The massive shadow of his car waits in the driveway—some sleek European thing with tinted windows. He pops the trunk with a remote, the lid rising with hydraulic precision.
"No—" I finally manage to struggle again, panic breaking through the haze. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." He lifts me easily, depositing me into the trunk like I weigh nothing. "He's lost his mind. Complete fuckin’ psychopath now. I won't let him kill another woman."
Another woman?
The stranger's face hovers above me, moonlight catching the planes of his cheekbones, the storm-gray of his eyes. He looks genuinely concerned, genuinely heroic in his misplaced rescue mission.
"It's okay," he says, softer now. "I'm Lorcan. And I'm gonna get you out of here. If it's the last thing I do, I’ll protect you..."
The trunk slams shut with brutal finality, plunging me into darkness. The engine growls to life, and the car lurches forward, carrying me away from the only place I've ever felt like I belonged.
I press my cheek against the cold metal of the trunk, feeling each vibration through my bones as the car speeds away. My mind should be racing with escape plans. I should be panicking, clawing at the trunk release, screaming until my voice gives out.
Instead, my thighs press together, seeking friction.
The stranger's grip on my throat replays in my mind, and my pulse quickens.
The way he overpowered me, the effortless control, the certainty in his voice.
My body responds to the memory like Pavlov's most fucked-up dog, trained to salivate at the sound of any bell, not just my Master's or my King's.
I don't fight the arousal. What's the point?
Instead, I surrender to it, the way I've been taught.
The way that makes everything quiet and simple.
They've trained me so perfectly—drilled it into my bones, my breath, my body's first instinct—that I'll spread my legs for anyone who can make me feel owned.
Anyone who wraps their hand around my throat with that same confident pressure.
Anyone whose voice carries that edge of absolute certainty.
So congratulations, Lorcan the Heroic Kidnapper—you gallant son of a bitch with your storm-gray eyes, and your careful touches, and your low, rumbling voice that wraps around my bones like gravity itself.
You just rescued me from one cage and walked me straight into another.
The only difference is…
You don't even know you're holding the fucking key.