Chapter 16 #2
Lorcan's hand stills on my neck. Listening.
"Tyler got jealous," I continue flatly. "Said I was flirting with followers. Started monitoring my account. Then answering messages pretending to be me. When I tried to keep it secret, he found out and destroyed my collection. All my signed first editions. Everything."
My voice sounds strange. Clinical. Like I'm describing someone else's life.
"I haven't read a book in almost two years," I whisper.
"I haven't even wanted to. And just now, when you described your castle, I pictured myself there, curling up with a book in some tower niche.
But then realized that I can't even remember the last time I got lost in a story.
The last time I felt... that… thing. That utter falling when you connect with characters. "
I blow out a long breath. The grief that surfaces is unexpected. Sudden and overwhelming.
"Ah," Lorcan says softly. "That's why ya were upstairs."
I freeze against his chest. "What?"
"Giovanni's library," he continues, his thumb making slow circles against my shoulder. "Ya broke protocol to get a book."
"I—"
"Don't apologize. I get it now." His voice shifts, warming with something almost like...
understanding? "Though I have to say, if you were desperate enough to risk Giovanni's wrath for literature, you picked the wrong library, a stór.
Giovanni doesn't read fiction," Lorcan says, and there's definite amusement in his tone now.
"Those books aren't his. They came with the house.
He just kept them because they looked impressive.
Like... decorative spines for his decorative life. "
"But you..." I start.
"Read?" Lorcan grins. "Voraciously. Obsessively. My library is actually mine. First editions, signed copies, the whole lot. And considerably more interesting than whatever moldy collection Giovanni inherited."
"What are you reading right now?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it.
His grin widens. "Declan Cross's Keepers Trilogy."
I sit up straighter. So abruptly that I feel his cock shift inside me—still hard, still there—but for once I don't care about the physical.
"The Keepers Trilogy?" My voice climbs an octave. "The Vatican conspiracy one?"
"The very same."
"Indiana Jones if he was Irish and had daddy issues!" I blurt out.
Lorcan barks a laugh, genuine and surprised. "You've read it?"
"I reviewed Book One four years ago! Posted this whole thing about how the Celtic artifact plot line was brilliantly researched but the Vatican conspiracy made absolutely no sense because—"
"—because the timeline doesn't work with the actual Conclave records!" Lorcan finishes, his eyes lighting up. "That bothered me too! Cross just handwaves away the entire 1978 papal succession like—"
"—like historical accuracy is optional when you need a dramatic backdrop!" I'm gesturing now, completely forgetting I'm naked and impaled on this man. "And don't even get me started on the Trinity Knot being hidden in the Sistine Chapel's renovation rubble because Michelangelo would have—"
"—noticed a massive Celtic artifact while painting the fucking ceiling!" Lorcan's accent thickens with enthusiasm. "The man was obsessive about details! He wouldn't have just... missed it!"
"EXACTLY!" I'm practically bouncing now. "But the Dublin scenes? The ones in Trinity College Library?"
"Perfection," Lorcan says reverently. "Absolute perfection. Cross nailed the atmosphere."
"The Long Room description made me want to book a flight immediately."
"Ya haven't been?"
"Never left the States." The admission feels smaller than it should. Less shameful. Just... fact.
"Tragic," Lorcan says, but he's smiling. "Though I have to admit, despite the Vatican plot holes, the second book somehow—"
"—makes it worse!" I interrupt. "Because he doubles down on the conspiracy instead of pivoting to the Irish mythology, which is clearly his strength!"
"But the folklore research—"
"—is impeccable! That's what makes it so frustrating!"
We're both grinning like idiots now. Just... talking. About books. About ridiculous thriller plots and historical accuracy and whether Declan Cross should have hired a better Vatican consultant.
It's the first normal conversation I've had in... God. Weeks? Months?
Not Emmaleen-the-submissive and Giovanni-the-monster.
Not Miss Take earning demerits.
Not the slave girl learning positions.
Just... two people who read too much and have opinions about fictional Irish archaeologists.
Lorcan's watching me with something soft in his expression. Almost tender.
"Would ya like a book to read?" he asks quietly.
The question hits me like a physical thing. My throat tightens. "You'd... let me?"
"Let ya?" He cups my face gently. "Emmaleen. You're not a prisoner here. You're..." He trails off, seeming to search for the right word. "You're under my protection. That includes feeding your mind as well as your body."
"I—" My voice cracks. "I'd love a book." God, I sound pathetic. Desperate.
But I am desperate. Suddenly, violently desperate to lose myself in someone else's story. To remember what it feels like to turn pages and forget myself and just... read.
"You'll let me browse your library?" I whisper, and I'm begging again but this time it's not for punishment or pain or pleasure.
It's for words.
Lorcan's cock twitches inside me, and his eyes darken slightly. "Aye," he says, voice rougher now. "I'll show ya everything."
I'm vibrating with excitement. Actual, genuine excitement that has nothing to do with sex or submission or any of the twisted dynamics I've been swimming in.
"Now?" I breathe.
"After your bath," he says firmly, and there's Saint Lorcan again—that command wrapped in care. His thumb brushes my cheek. "Ya need tending first. Then the library."
I want to argue. Want to demand books now, immediately, before this moment evaporates.
But something in his tone—that gentle firmness—makes me nod instead.
"Okay," I whisper. "Bath first."
"Good girl," he murmurs. And then he's standing, hands gripping my ass, lifting me like I weigh nothing.
I gasp and wrap my legs around his waist instinctively—not because I'm trained to, but because I'm desperate to keep him inside me. To stay connected just a little longer.
His cock shifts as he moves, and I bite back a whimper.
"Easy," he says against my hair. "I've got ya."
I expect that we'll leave the chapel now, but we don't. Lorcan carries me over to the bank of red votives along the wall and bends down. Once again, his cock shifts and for a moment, I'm panicking, thinking it will slip out of me.
"Shhh," he soothes. "Don't worry, lass. We're still connected." And we are. "Blow them out, a stór. All your sins are forgiven now."
I am momentarily stunned at the symbology happening here. The candles were lit as an admission of transgressions. Punishment became my penance. Then, fucking was forgiveness.
Now, I get to blow the candles out, erasing the debt forever.
"Emmaleen?"
"Yeah," I breathe. "OK, it's just…" Then a tear falls down my cheek.
"Ya OK, lass?"
I wipe the tear away. Nodding. "I am… it's just. This is so… nice."
Lorcan chuckles. "It's a little over the top, yeah."
"No." I look down at him. His eyes are very gray. And they flicker with gold and amber from the firelight. "No, it's not. It's exactly what I needed."
This makes him smile. And I realize that his smiles come easy. "Blow them out then. Let's put it behind us."
I take a breath, nodding. Then I blow them out. One by one, my sins are erased.
He stands again, shifting me in his grip. Enough thrust to remind me his cock is still impaling me like a sword. Then he carries me out of the chapel, through the crimson curtain, into his great room. I bury my face against his neck, inhaling the scent of him—clean sweat and something woodsy.
My brain catalogs details even as my body melts. The leather furniture I glimpsed earlier, the massive fireplace made of stone, Persian rugs over polished concrete floors.
Everything in this man's space is deliberate. Curated. Like he built himself a castle inside a converted Boston warehouse because growing up in an actual castle wasn't enough.
Of course it wasn't.
Saint Lorcan the Spanker doesn't do things halfway.
He carries me up the stairs and I feel his cock start to slip. I tighten my legs desperately.
"Greedy thing," he murmurs, but there's warmth in his voice.
"Don't want to let go," I admit against his throat.
"You'll have me again, a stór."
Will I though? Or is this just one of those things people say during the afterglow before reality crashes back in?
Because I don't belong to him. I understand that he and Giovanni came to some kind of agreement, but that was just… some kind of pity reaction to my spiral.
Three men in my life.
It's something out of a dream.
Which means it's too good to be true.
I would not trade Giovanni for Lorcan. Just like I wouldn't trade Giovanni for Jino—I go where he goes. Giovanni is mine.
But this is… nice.
Heroic kidnapper, Saint, Irish mobster—doesn't matter. This man is just nice.
Lorcan reaches the top of the stairs and suddenly we're in his bedroom again. But he doesn't stop at the bed—he keeps walking, carrying me through to an adjoining bathroom.
"Holy shit," I breathe. The bathroom is a fucking spa.
The centerpiece—because of course there's a centerpiece—is a massive freestanding copper tub. Not against a wall. Not tucked into a corner. In the middle of the room, like a sculptural throne demanding worship.
It's deep enough to completely submerge in. Wide enough for three people, maybe four if they were friendly. The copper has this gorgeous aged patina—burnished dark metal that looks like it was salvaged from some ancient Irish manor and shipped across the Atlantic just to hold Lorcan's bathwater.
Because why the fuck not.
A skylight sits directly above it. Stars visible through the glass. During the day, natural light would pour down on whoever was bathing, turning the whole thing into some kind of pagan ritual.