Chapter 13 #2
Emmaleen hesitates for a moment, unsure what to do.
I guide her with a hand on the small of her back. "Just step in, luv. It won't bite."
She does, then looks at me for guidance. Her whole chest blooms red as she meets my eyes. It's not hard to imagine how I use this piece of furniture.
I point to the padded kneeler. "Go 'head. Down on your knees."
She blinks. Nods. "Yes, my—"
She doesn't know what to call me. She's already got a master. Already got a monster too. Her king.
Who am I to her?
Savior?
Father Patrick barks a laugh, but I push him away.
"Saint," I say. Recalling the name she already gave me.
She smiles, just a little bit. "Yes, my Saint."
Sacrilege, Father Patrick sneers. Lorcan, mah boy. Yer goin' to hell, son. You're damned. Yer soul will rot in the fires of damnation.
"Aye," I mutter. "But not today."
Emmaleen gives me a confused look over her shoulder as she steps into the prie-dieu, but doesn't ask. Just kneels like I told her to.
"Good girl," I say, appreciating the way she folds her hands into prayer and bows her head without having to be told. Like she belongs here. Like she understands this space is sacred.
Nah, it's not for prayin' to the god of gods.
It's for embracin' the devil of devils.
That thing inside us that craves pain. That blackness that loves the bite of discipline, the sharp clarity that comes when control is stripped away and all that's left is the raw, honest truth of what we are beneath the lies we tell ourselves about being good.
I position myself behind Emmaleen, one hand steady on her shoulder. She's kneelin', but the pose is not quite right.
"Position Prima," I murmur, guidin' her gently forward. "Forehead to the prayer desk."
She obeys, lowerin' herself until her brow touches the worn wood. The angle forces her back to arch slightly, arse risin', and I push that observation away before it can take root.
"Elbows bent," I continue, tappin' the inside of each arm. "Arms extended. Not too far—just enough."
She adjusts as I watch her find the position.
"Palms together now. Aye, like that. Thumbs touchin' your forehead."
Her hands come together in prayer position, thumbs pressed to the space between her brows, and my fucking God, she looks perfect like this. Broken, and beautiful, and exactly where she should be.
Exactly where ya want her, ya mean.
I ignore Father Patrick and focus on Emmaleen, on the slight tremor runnin' through her shoulders, the way her breath catches every few seconds like she's fightin' tears, or anticipation, or both.
"Good girl," I say quietly, dragging my fingertips down the bones of her spine. Her whole body responds—muscles relax, breath slows', like those two words unlocked somethin' fundamental in her nervous system.
Right, so here's the thing about power exchange—it's not actually about power at all, is it? It's about trust. About findin' someone who'll hold your chaos steady while you fall apart, who'll catch the pieces and put them back together in an order that makes sense.
Emmaleen's not kneelin' because I'm dominating her. She's kneelin' because she needs someone to tell her what to do when her own mind's too loud, too broken, and too desperate for the structure she can't build herself.
Which makes me exactly the wrong person for this job.
But I'm the one who's here.
"We're goin' to give your mind somethin' to hold onto," I tell her. Sweepin' my fingertips back up her spine until my hand rests on the crown of her head.
"A prayer. Simple. Repetitive. Somethin' to keep the spirals quiet while I prepare the space."
She makes a small sound of acknowledgment, not quite a word.
I crouch down beside the prie-dieu so I can see her face—eyes closed, her lashes dark a contrast against flushed skin.
"Repeat after me," I say, keepin' my voice low and steady. "Saint Lorcan, deliver me."
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me," she echoes.
"Saint Lorcan, guide me."
"Saint Lorcan, guide me."
"Saint Lorcan, hold me."
"Saint Lorcan, hold me." This time there's wetness on her lashes—tears gatherin' but not quite fallin'.
"Saint Lorcan, free me."
"Saint Lorcan, free me."
The prayer hangs in the air between us, and I realize with sudden, uncomfortable clarity that she means every fuckin' word. She's not performin'. She actually believes—or wants to believe—that I can deliver her, guide her, hold her, free her.
You can't even free yerself, mah boy.
I stand, steppin' away from the prie-dieu before the weight of her faith fully lands. "Again," I tell her. "From the top. Keep goin' until I tell ya to stop."
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me," she begins. "Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold—Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan... free me?"
She's questionin' the last line, like maybe she got it wrong, and I move back to her, lettin' my hand settle on her head again.
"Aye, that's right. You've got it." I stroke her hair once, twice, the gesture more instinctive than calculated. "Free me. Now again, from the start. Slower this time."
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me. Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
Better. Smoother. The words findin' their rhythm.
"Good girl. Keep goin'."
She continues, voice softening into a chant, and I step away, crossin' the stone floor toward the far wall where the chandelier hangs twelve feet off the ground. It's made of wrought iron, circular, and fitted with sixteen unlit pillar candles.
I reach for the rope, and the chains rattle as I release the mechanism.
The sound is medieval. Visceral. Metal against metal, echoin' off stone walls and vaulted ceiling like we're in some castle dungeon instead of my converted warehouse chapel.
Because that's not theatrical at all, is it?
The chandelier descends slowly, pulley creakin', until it hangs at chest height. I pull a box of long wooden matches from an alcove, strike one against the stone—sulfur flares, sharp and acrid—and light the first wick.
Light blooms.