Chapter 8 #3
"That's just… not true. I was happy. You took me away from my happy. And now you're… what? What are you doing with me? Because the moment you let me leave, I'm going back to Giovanni. There's nothing you can do to stop it."
He walks over to me, reaching for my hand. He takes it, squeezes. "Good to know. I guess I'll have to make sure you never get the chance to leave."
Then he starts pulling me across the room, his grip firm but not painful. "What are we doing?" I ask, trying to dig my heels into the polished concrete floor.
"I haven't slept in nearly forty-eight hours now," he says, not slowing his pace. "I need to rest. And since you've so delightfully informed me that yer just bidin' your time, waitin' for an opportunity to go back for more abuse, yer comin' with me."
"Coming with you where?"
He doesn't answer. We're headed for the stairs now—a dramatic industrial staircase that climbs to a second level. The warehouse has an open loft-like design, all exposed brick and steel beams, and before we even get halfway up the steps I get a good look at everything above.
The upper floor is clearly Lorcan's personal space.
I can see the edge of a massive bed—dark sheets, black iron frame—and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the docks.
There's a leather chair in one corner, a stack of books on the nightstand, and what looks like a bathroom entrance tucked to the side.
It's intimate. Private. And he's dragging me straight toward it.
He stops at the foot of the bed, his hand releasing my wrist with deliberate slowness. The absence of his touch leaves my skin tingling. He points to the mattress with one long finger, his silver-gray eyes never leaving mine.
"Get in."
It's not a request. Not even close. It's a command, delivered in that low, rough voice that carries the weight of absolute expectation.
And my body—my traitorous, well-trained body—responds before my brain can fully process what's happening.
A wave of heat rolls through me, settling low in my belly.
My pulse quickens. There's something about the tone, the authority, the sheer certainty in his voice that does things to me.
Things I don't have adequate words for. Things that make my thoughts scatter and my breathing shallow.
But I obey. Quickly. Without the sort of trepidation that most women would feel in this situation—kidnapped, alone, being ordered into a strange man's bed.
Instead, what I feel is... anticipation.
A dark, eager curiosity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
I climb onto the bed, my hands sinking into the charcoal-gray duvet as I crawl across the mattress. The fabric is soft, expensive, with that crisp hotel-like smoothness that speaks of high thread counts and meticulous care.
I'm acutely aware that he's watching.
I can feel his gaze tracking my movement, settling on me with an intensity that makes my skin burn.
He's looking at my ass right now.
I know he is.
What is he thinking? Does he want to spank it? The thought sends another jolt of heat through me, a tingling sensation that spreads between my legs. Desire blooms, uninvited and undeniable, making my breath catch.
For fuck's sake, Emmaleen. Get a hold of yourself! I try to mentally shake some sense into my hormones. You've been kidnapped. This is not the time to start craving consequences.
But here's the thing—the truth I can't escape no matter how much I try to logic my way out of it:
I do crave consequences.
I left the dungeon yesterday knowing I'd have to answer for my disobedience when Giovanni came home. I broke protocol. I took the key, opened the dungeon door, and went upstairs to get a freaking book.
Hell, that alone would earn me ten or fifteen demerits.
It was a plan. And every moment I spent in that library was an accumulation. I knew Giovanni was gonna watch the security footage. I understand how precise he is about things like minutes. The demerits were stacking up in my mind like stones, each one a promise of correction to come.
Which was supposed to be last night.
But then I spent a whole night away from him.
My demerits didn't get cancelled.
He didn't point to the space between his legs and command me into throne position.
I didn't get to feel his cock grow hard beneath my cheek when I place my head in his lap, my breath warming him through the fabric of his pants.
He didn't play with my hair, threading his fingers through the strands with that possessive gentleness that makes my chest ache.
He didn't ask for more lines in our epic never-ending poem, listening with that focused intensity that makes me feel like my words mattered.
He didn't command me to ride him until I climax, his hands guiding my hips, his voice a rough litany of praise and demand in my ear.
I didn't get anything.
And now, here I am.
Miles from that dungeon.
Commanded into another man's bed.
I understand that it's wrong. I do. On some rational, functioning level of my brain, I know this whole situation is completely fucked up.
But is it any wonder I'm fucking horny? My body has been trained to respond to authority, to anticipate reward and punishment, to crave the structure that gives my chaos shape and meaning.
I turn around, settling my back against his metal headboard, and watch as Lorcan—my heroic kidnapper, my philosophical spiral machine, my willing savior—roots through his closet like he's searching for something specific.
He's muttering to himself. Little curses in that thick Irish accent that I can't quite catch. Words that sound like prayers or profanity, or maybe both at once.
Then he exhales—a long, defeated sound—and turns back around to face me.
And what is he holding in his hands?
A pair of handcuffs.
But not industrial-grade steel handcuffs. Not the cold, utilitarian kind you'd see on a cop's belt or in a crime show.
No, I'm talking about leather handcuffs—padded, supple black leather with stitching so precise it looks like art. Little gold padlocks dangle from the clasps.
"You're…" But I can't finish.
My body is organizing a fucking revolution. Every nerve ending is suddenly firing at once, every synapse lighting up like a city grid during a blackout that just ended.
My hormones are flooding my bloodstream—adrenaline, oxytocin, dopamine all rushing through my veins in a chaotic cocktail that makes my hands shake and my breath catch.
Hell, I can practically feel my clit swelling in real time, that unmistakable pulse of heat and pressure that signals exactly how my body is interpreting this moment.
"You're a dom." I say it like it's an accusation. Like I've just uncovered some terrible secret he was trying to hide from me.
"A dom?" Lorcan repeats, and there's something dangerous in the way he says it—like I've just stepped on a landmine disguised as casual conversation.
"Ah, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. No. Absolutely not.
That's not—" He stops himself, running one hand through his blond hair in a gesture of pure exasperation.
"Look, I experimented a bit when I was younger, yeah?
Everyone does. Some teenage stuff. Couple sessions at a club in Dublin.
Learned some knots. The psychological dynamics of power exchange punishments and—"
He catches himself spiraling, jaw clenching. "I'm not explainin' this to you."
Except… he kinda is.
My brain latches onto every word like a starving thing.
Experimented. That implies innovation.
Learning knots means Shibari, rope work, the intricate patterns that turn a body into living art.
A club in Dublin—I can picture it with terrifying clarity. Dark rooms with leather furniture. The scent of expensive cologne mixing with sweat and arousal. Music pulsing through the walls while people negotiated scenes in alcoves, their voices low and intent.
Power exchange punishments.
And he's been doing this since he was a teenager.
Holy fuck. My imagination is running absolutely fucking wild right now.