Chapter 13
Punish me.
These words echo in my head as I stand up and hold out my hand to the naked girl on my bedroom floor.
For one moment—she hesitates. Looks at it. Looks at me.
And there's part of me that's cheering her on. That's it, I'm saying. Question this. Don't let some strange man take you down to the chapel. It only gets worse from here.
Fight, you doe-eyed little sub. Fight! Do not give in to the urges.
Because once you're in, once you get a taste of it, it's an addiction.
Ask me how I know.
But there's another part of me. A much darker part of me who wants her to mean this. With all her heart. Who wants her to be as fucked up as I am. Who wants her to long for what I want to give her. Who wants her dopamine hit to flow directly from my punishment.
She takes my hand. Her fingers sliding into mine—warm, tentative, trusting—and Christ, there it is.
That rush. That familiar spike of power straight to my cock.
I help her up and lead her toward the stairs, her smaller hand wrapped in mine, and the spirals start immediately because of course they do.
Right, so here's the thing about knowin' exactly what you're walkin' into—it doesn't make ya less culpable. If anythin', it makes ya worse, doesn't it? Because you're choosin' the descent with full awareness, eyes wide open, catalogin' every step that takes ya further from redemption.
I know what's at the bottom of these stairs.
I know what I'm about to do. And I'm doin' it anyway because apparently years of avoidance and self-discipline collapse the moment a broken girl asks me to fix her with the very thing that broke me, and her dom gave me permission to put her back together by breaking her, and I'm… I'm just a cock with urges. Apparently.
Father Patrick's voice slides into my thoughts like smoke under a door. Lorcan, mah boy, are such pleasures worth yer soul?
I don't answer. Won't engage. Just let him ramble while I guide Emmaleen down the steps, her bare feet silent against the cold surface, my hand steady on hers despite the war ragin' inside my chest.
Ya think ya can control it this time? Ya think one taste won't turn into another, and another, until ya've lost yerself entirely?
He's not wrong. Never is. That's the horrifyin' bit about conscience. It's technically correct even when ya desperately want it to shut the fuck up.
Especially when it comes in the form of a Catholic priest you mistakenly confessed your sins to back when you were twenty-one. Not that secret. That secret goes to the grave. But the others? The choking fetish? The way I get hard watchin' them see stars?
Yeah. I told that old bastard everythin' and now he follows me around like a heroin habit.
The great room opens before us as we reach the bottom of the stairs. The evening light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the fading sun filling the space with golden-hour illumination heaven would envy, which only adds to the conflict exploding inside my head.
Ya swore ya'd never go back. Ya swore—
I know what I swore.
I lead Emmaleen across the open space toward the corner where the high arched doorway waits. The entrance is partially hidden—red velvet curtain layered over black gauzy material that moves slightly in the air current from the heating vents.
My heart's poundin' now. Proper hammerin' against my ribs.
I hate that I love this. Hate that my body's already respondin', already anticipatin', already rememberin' exactly how it feels to cross that threshold and let this side of me come out to play.
We reach the curtain.
I guide Emmaleen in front of me, her body warm and pliant under my touch.
One hand flat against her stomach, feelin' her breathe—fast, shallow, nervous.
My other hand rises to her breast, findin' her nipple already peaked.
I don't twist it. Not yet. Instead I hold it between my thumb and forefinger, rollin' it gently, watchin' goosebumps spread across her skin as her breath catches.
My cock thickens in my jeans.
"Enterin' the chapel is sacred," I murmur, my voice droppin' into that register I haven't used in almost two years—the one that comes from somewhere deep and dark and hungry. "Ya must perform the ritual."
She tenses, nerves rippling through her, and I lean down into her neck, my lips so close to her skin I can feel the heat radiating off her.
"Shh." The sound is gentle, measured, deliberate. My breath raises the fine hairs at her nape, and I feel her shiver against me. "Step through the curtain, a stór."
She hesitates for only a heartbeat before movin' forward, her hand reachin' out to part the gauzy material.
The moment she crosses the threshold, my cock goes fully hard.
I step through after her, and the familiarity of it hits me like a drug.
We stand together just inside the threshold, neither of us movin', and the space opens before us like a confession I can't take back.
Sweet Mother of God.
Father Patrick's voice cuts through my skull, sharp and venomous.
Yave turned the sacred into profane, haven't ya, mah boy? Look at it. Look at what ya've done.
I don't want to. But I do anyway, seein' it through his eyes instead of mine, which is its own special kind of torture.
The kneeler sits in the center—custom-built, padded leather the color of fresh blood, positioned in front of what I've always called the throne. Except it's not really a throne, is it? It's a chair. My chair. Where I sit behind them while they kneel.
That's a prie-dieu, Lorcan. A prayer desk. Meant for supplication before God Almighty, not for some broken girl to worship at yer cock while ya play deity.
I disagree, Father.
And that stone altar behind it—Christ, ya even got the dimensions right. Three feet high, seven feet long, pure marble like somethin' ripped from a cathedral. Except instead of holdin' the Eucharist, ya bend them over it, don't ya? Pressin' their faces to the cold stone while ya—
Shut up, old man.
—fuck them from behind like animals, their cries echoin' in this desecrated space ya've built to mock everythin' holy.
That's not even close to what this is about.
It's got nothin' to do with God.
It's got nothin' to do with the Church.
It's just… the aesthetic I prefer.
Ya lyin' bastard…
The discipline cord hangs on the wall to the left—braided leather, traditional design, identical to the ones the Brothers used at St. Augustine's. Except theirs were for penance. Self-flagellation. Mortification of the flesh to bring the spirit closer to God.
And yours? Yours is for pleasure, isn't it? For makin' them scream while ya convince yerself it's what they want, what they need, that you're givin' them absolution through pain when really you're just feedin' the monster ya swore ya'd starve.
I can feel Emmaleen's breathing change beside me. Feel her takin' it all in.
The candle bank dominates the far wall—rows upon rows of votive candles in red glass holders, at least a hundred of them, arranged in perfect symmetry.
They're not lit. Haven't been in twenty-two months.
But there's no way to forget what they look like when they are.
How the flames cast shadows that dance across skin, how the heat makes the air shimmer.
Candles for prayer intentions, Lorcan. Each flame a petition to the Divine. But ya light them for spectacle, don't ya? For ambiance while ya commit yer sins. Make the whole thing feel sacred when it's anythin' but.
Father Patrick's voice drops lower, crueler.
Ya built a church to worship at the altar of yer own depravity.
Dressed it up in Catholic symbolism so ya could pretend there's somethin' holy in what ya do here.
But there's nothin' holy about it, mah boy.
It's just you. You and yer need to control, to dominate, to wrap yer hand around a woman's throat and feel her pulse slow under yer palm while ya—
Stop.
—convince yerself you're givin' her what she needs when you're really just takin' what ya want.
My hands are shakin'. Proper fuckin' shakin', which pisses me off because I don't shake. I'm steady. Controlled. That's the whole fuckin' point of being me.
Is it, though? Or is control just another word for avoidance? For not dealin' with the fact that you like this. Crave it. Need it the way some men need drink or violence. You'rean addict, Lorcan, and this is your cathedral of addiction.
Right, so here's the philosophical nightmare—if I'm aware the space is profane, if I recognize the symbolism I'm corruptin', does that make it worse or better?
Because on one hand, at least I'm not deludin' myself about what this is.
I'm not pretendin' the kneeler is anythin' but a device for submission, that the altar is anythin' but a surface for edgin' and fuckin', that the discipline cord is anythin' but an instrument of pleasure disguised as punishment.
But on the other hand—isn't conscious desecration the greater sin? At least ignorance has the defense of not knowin' better. I know exactly what I'm doin'. Know exactly what these symbols mean to the Church, what they meant to Father Patrick when he was alive, what they should mean to me.
Still do, sometimes. Under the right occasion.
And I'm usin' them anyway.
Because you're a monster, Lorcan. You've always been a monster. Ya just dress it up prettier than Giovanni does.
That hits.
At least he's honest about what he is. Doesn't hide it. Doesn't pretend there's anythin' sacred about claimin' a woman's body and mind until she can't tell where she ends and he begins.
"Now what?" Emmaleen's voice breaks my spiral.
"Now," I say, leaning into her neck. "You will enter the prie-dieu." It's made of dark wood, tall, carved, and heavy enough that once it's in place, it doesn't move.
Up front, there's a kneeling bench with a padded top and a slanted prayer desk. When used properly, this desk is for elbows, or praying hands, or a missal.
That's not how I use it.
Directly behind that is a high-backed seat, boxed in with solid arms that climb to shoulder height when you’re sitting.