Chapter 13 #3
I move around the circle, lightin' each candle methodically. Two. Three. Four… sixteen flames castin' warm, flickerin' shadows that dance across the walls, and across Emmaleen's kneelin' form, and across the altar behind her.
When they're all lit, I return to the rope and pull. Hand over hand. With a steady rhythm, the chandelier rises, chains slidin' through the pulley mechanism with that distinctive creak-and-settle sound that's somehow both gratin' and satisfyin'.
Higher. Higher. Until it hangs suspended above the chapel center, sixteen flames castin' cathedral light through the space.
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me. Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
Emmaleen's still prayin', voice steady now, fully lost in the repetition.
I secure the rope and turn toward the alcove where I keep the robe.
My hands go to my belt. The leather slides through loops, then the buckle hits the floor with a soft thud. I unbutton my jeans, shove them down my thighs along with my boxers, and step out of both.
Naked now except for the tension crawlin' beneath my skin.
The robe hangs on an iron hook. It's made of heavy linen dyed deep crimson. Cut in a monastic style, it's simple, hooded, and ties at the waist with a cord. I pull it on, lettin' the fabric settle against my shoulders, and immediately feel the shift.
The moment I put it on, I'm a different person playin' a whole new role. Not Lorcan anymore—at least not the version who lies to his uncle, and kidnaps girls from mob bosses, and pretends he's got his shit together.
This version of me is older, darker, and more honest about what he is.
A monster in priest's clothin'. That's what ya are.
I tie the cord at my waist and cross back to the prie-dieu.
"Good girl," I say, lettin' my hand rest on Emmaleen's head again. "You can stop now."
Her prayer cuts off mid-sentence, and she goes completely still—waitin' for the next instruction, the next command, the next piece of structure to hold onto.
"Stand up," I tell her.
She unfolds from the kneeler with practiced grace, risin' to her feet beside me. Her pupils are dilated, breath still shallow, body hummin' with anticipation or fear or both.
I take her hand and lead her across the chapel toward the candles. The wall is covered with them—rows upon rows of dark, red, glass votive holders, arranged in perfect symmetry.
"Your Master and your King," I say, "have assigned ya seventeen demerits."
Emmaleen's breath catches at the number.
Is it a lot for her? I have no clue. Giovanni told me seventeen, so I'm clearin' seventeen.
"You'll light one candle for each demerit." I reach into the alcove beside the candle bank and pull out a long wooden kitchen match. "Take this."
She accepts it with both hands, holdin' it like it might break.
I gesture toward the wall. "Strike it there."
She looks at the stone, lookin' at the hundreds of strike marks scorin' the surface. Black streaks. Sulfur stains. A record of every match ever lit in this chapel, every woman who's stood where she's standin' now, lightin' candles for sins committed for the sole purpose of contrition.
And even though I've only lived in this warehouse for five years and haven't used the chapel in nearly two, at least several dozen women have lit candles for the chance to be forgiven by me.
Each of them more than once.
Emmaleen's hand trembles as she positions the match against the wall.
Every mark a confession, Lorcan. Every flame a soul ya claimed.
She strikes.
Sulfur flares. Light catches.
"Count," I command.
She moves to the first votive, touchin' the flame to the wick. "One."
The candle blooms to life.
She moves to the next. "Two."
And the next. "Three."
Four, five, six… Her voice is steady now, mechanical, each number punctuated by another flame ignitin'. I watch her count, watch the light grow, watch the shadows shift as more candles join the constellations spreadin' across the wall.
"Eleven."
"Twelve."
My cock's thickenin' beneath the robe, and I hate myself for it. Hate that this does somethin' to me—the ritual, the submission, the precise choreography of dominance disguised as absolution.
"Seventeen," she whispers, touchin' the final candle.
Seventeen flames now. Seventeen sins. Seventeen marks against her submissive soul that Giovanni and Jino decided warranted punishment.
Emmaleen turns to me, and the candlelight catches her face—illuminates the tears on her cheeks, the desperate need in her eyes, the complete surrender in every line of her body.
And it's like… she knows me. Like she and I aren't brand new to each other.
Because she repeats her prayer, lookin' me right in the eye.
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me. Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
My cock is throbbin'.
My mind is spinnin'.
She's still lookin' at me. Waitin'. Trustin'. "Please." It's just a whisper, really. Something barely there. But there it is.
Permission?
Oh, it's much more than that.
It's the willingness to kneel before somethin' greater than herself and beg for salvation.
"Come here, beloved," I murmur. "Step back inside the prie-dieu. Let's see if ya pray as pretty as ya beg."