Chapter 6 #2
His palms are warm.
Calloused.
Bigger than Giovanni's but gentler, which shouldn't matter except my traitorous brain immediately starts cataloging the differences like I'm comparison shopping for mob-adjacent authority figures on .
"Look at me, a stór," he says quietly.
I don't know what that means but it sounds pretty and sad at the same time, which feels appropriate for whatever fresh hell this situation has become.
I lift my eyes.
Meet his.
Gray like storm clouds over the ocean in one of those artsy Instagram photos where someone's standing on a cliff in Ireland looking contemplative and probably very cold.
"Hi," I say.
Because apparently when presented with an emotionally significant moment, my brain defaults to casual greetings like we're running into each other at Starbucks instead of having an intense trauma-unpacking session while I'm naked on his couch.
His mouth twitches. "Hi yourself."
"So this is awkward," I continue, because clearly I've decided to deal with this situation through rambling.
"Not just the naked thing—though yes, obviously the naked thing is objectively awkward—but also the part where you kidnapped me thinking you were rescuing me from my mob boss boyfriend except he's not actually my boyfriend, he's more like my...
owner? Which sounds worse when I say it out loud.
Definitely sounds worse. You're making a face.
That's the 'this girl needs help' face. I know that face.
Sister Margaret made that face at me constantly. "
Lorcan's smile grows. Soft and genuine and a little sad around the edges. "You always talk this much when you're nervous?"
"Yes. It's a defense mechanism. Words are my safety blanket except instead of being soft and comforting they're just..." I gesture vaguely with the hands he's still holding. "A lot. I'm a lot. People have mentioned this. Frequently."
"I like it," he says simply.
Which—
Okay.
That shouldn't make my chest tight but it does.
"Would you do me a kindness, Miss Rourke?" His accent makes my last name sound almost musical. "Would you accompany me to the bedroom so we can find ya some proper clothes?"
I nod.
Can't speak now.
Because something about the gentleness in his voice is breaking me in a completely different way than Giovanni's intensity or Jino's methodical training.
This feels like being seen as a person.
Not a project. Not a possession. Not a puzzle to solve.
Just... Emmaleen.
And I don't know what to do with that.
Lorcan helps me up with one hand under my elbow—such a small gesture, so careful—and I feel tears prickling again because why is kindness harder to handle than cruelty?
Why does gentleness make me want to shatter when I can take a whipping without using my safe word?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
We walk to the bedroom in silence.
It's small. Sparse. A double bed with a plain navy comforter, a dresser, a closet with the door half-open revealing clothes on hangers.
Lorcan gestures to the closet.
"Take whatever fits. Or doesn't fit. I'm not particular."
Then he snags a shirt for himself and leaves.
Just... walks out and closes the door behind him.
Giving me privacy.
Like that's a thing I deserve.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, feeling the absence of surveillance cameras like a missing limb.
No one's watching.
No one's cataloging my choices or adding demerits for hesitation.
I'm just... alone.
With clothes.
In a bedroom.
Like a normal person doing a normal thing.
Except I don't remember how to be normal anymore.
I move to the closet and start sorting through options. Everything's too big—Lorcan's tall, maybe six-two or six-three, broader through the shoulders than Giovanni. I find a faded gray henley that's soft from washing, a pair of black sweatpants with a drawstring waist.
My hands shake as I pull the henley over my head.
The fabric smells like laundry detergent .
I'm drowning in it.
The sleeves fall past my hands, the hem hits mid-thigh.
The sweatpants require rolling the waistband three times and cuffing the legs but at least they stay up.
I catch my reflection in a mirror mounted on the closet door.
I look ridiculous.
Like a child playing dress-up in her father's clothes.
The collar's still around my throat—black leather with the small silver O-ring. The one I've worn for weeks now, the one I forget I'm wearing until moments like this when I see it in the mirror and remember what it means.
Property.
Owned.
His.
I touch it with trembling fingers.
I should take it off.
That would be the normal thing to do.
The sane thing.
But my hands won't cooperate and my throat closes up at the thought and—
Christ, I can't even remove a collar without permission.
What does that make me?
I force myself to leave the bedroom before I spiral further.
Lorcan's standing at the front door with his keys in hand, looking exactly like someone preparing to leave.
My stomach drops.
"Are you taking me back?" My voice comes out smaller than I intended. "To Giovanni?"
"No."
The word lands between us like a stone.
Lorcan turns to face me fully, and his expression is gentle but serious.
"Listen to me, Emmaleen. The LaRiccia family hired me to find dirt on Giovanni. They're lookin' for proof of what happened to their son." He pauses. Studies my face. "It was Rico who attacked you, yeah? Put you in hospital?"
I don't answer.
Can't answer.
My silence is answer enough.
"Right." Lorcan's jaw tightens. "Here's the situation.
The LaRiccias are huntin' Giovanni. They don't yet know that he killed Rico, but they will.
These things always come out eventually—someone talks, someone makes a mistake, a financial trail gets uncovered.
" He takes a step closer. "And when they find out?
When they learn there's a witness who saw everythin'? "
He doesn't finish the sentence.
Doesn't need to.
"They'll kill me," I whisper.
"They'll kill you," he confirms. "Slowly. As a message. To Giovanni, to the Bavgas, to anyone who thinks they can touch LaRiccia blood without consequences."
My knees feel weak.
"So I'm takin' you to Boston," Lorcan continues.
His voice is calm. Measured. Like he's explaining a business transaction instead of my potential murder.
"That's where I've got power. Where I can keep you safe.
And once we're there, once you're protected, we'll work out everythin' else. Giovanni, the families, all of it."
He holds out his hand. "But we need to leave now, a stór. Before this gets worse—and it will get worse. There's no stoppin' it now, luv."
I stare at his outstretched hand.
At the door behind him.
At the beginning of whatever comes next.