Chapter 18
I wake up alone.
Which, honestly, feels like the perfect metaphor for my life right now.
Kidnapped by an Irish mob enforcer, subjected to the world's most elaborate Catholic BDSM ritual, fucked until I saw God—or at least whatever deity presides over orgasms that make you forget your own name—and then abandoned in a warehouse loft overlooking Boston Harbor.
Great. Excellent. Nihilistic life goals unlocked.
The sun streams through Lorcan's massive windows with that particular aggressive brightness that suggests it's way past a reasonable hour. I squint at the light like it's personally offended me, then immediately regret moving because—
My god, my pussy is sore.
Not in a bad way. Not in a Tyler-threw-me-down-the-stairs-and-I-need-a-hospital way. In the I-got-thoroughly-fucked-by-a-man-who-knows-exactly-what-he's-doing way.
Memories flash through my brain like a highlight reel I didn't consent to watching—the chapel, the red votive candles, Position Prima with my forehead pressed to that oversized prayer kneeler while I recited prayers to the newly canonized Saint Lorcan.
I sit up slowly, cataloging sensations. Lorcan's t-shirt bunched around my waist. The soft sheets. The faint smell of the shampoo he used to wash my hair last night while talking to me in Gaelic like I was something precious.
The absurdity crashes over me in waves.
This is my life now.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, immediately feeling the protest from muscles I didn't know I had.
My ass is still burning from those spankings.
Walking feels like a reminder of exactly what happened—each step a small echo of Lorcan's cock inside me, his hand on my throat, his voice commanding me to breathe, a stór, breathe.
I pad across his bedroom toward the stairs, catching my reflection in a full-length mirror.
Giovanni's collar still locked around my throat.
I look like the world's most confused captive—bedhead, kiss-swollen lips, faint outlines of fingertip-sized splotches blooming across my collarbone, wearing an oversized t-shirt that screams 'property of boyfriend' in all caps.
Perfect. I'm a walking thesis statement on moral relativism.
The stairs descend through Lorcan's space, and I take them slowly, one hand trailing along the industrial metal railing.
The warehouse conversion is stunning in the morning sunlight—exposed brick, massive windows overlooking the Seaport waterfront, furniture that manages to look both expensive and comfortable.
Books everywhere. Everywhere. Shelves lining the walls, stacks on tables, a reading chair positioned near the harbor-facing windows with a blanket draped over the arm like someone actually uses it.
My chest does this weird tight thing looking at all those books.
I haven't read in almost two years. Haven't let myself even think about it because Tyler made books dangerous.
But last night Lorcan and I talked about Declan Cross novels, and Celtic mythology, and plot holes, and it felt like—
Stop. You're not doing this. You're not romanticizing your kidnapper just because he has good taste in fiction and knows how to make you come.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and cross the great room, my bare feet silent on the polished concrete floors.
The kitchen occupies the far end—all stainless steel and black granite, professional-grade appliances, the kind of space that suggests Lorcan actually cooks instead of just ordering takeout like a normal person.
It's quiet.
Too quiet.
I do a slow turn, scanning the space. No sounds from the bathroom. No movement in the library corner. No Irish accent calling me a stór and telling me to assume Position Prima.
He left me.
Some kidnapper he is. Doesn't even have the courtesy to stick around for the morning-after awkwardness.
I wander toward the kitchen, drawn by basic need—coffee, water, literally anything to ground me in reality instead of this fever dream I'm apparently living.
There are three notes on the counter, arranged like a paper trail of Lorcan's personality.
I pick up the first one.
Good morning, Emmaleen!
The exclamation point feels aggressively cheerful.
I have to work today—back around dinner time. You were fantastic last night. Watching you count all seventeen strikes without breaking form was extraordinary. The way you pressed my hand harder against your own throat when you came? That's going to live in my head for a while, a stór.
My face goes nuclear.
He wrote that down. Committed it to paper. Left evidence.
Tonight, I'm going to teach you Position Tertia. It involves the altar, your wrists cuffed behind your back, and my mouth between your legs until you forget how to recite the prayer. We'll see how long you can hold stillness when I'm making you come on my tongue.
Oh my god.
My pussy clenches involuntarily, and I hate myself a little.
— Your Saint
I set it down carefully and pick up the second note.
Next to it is a key fob, Porsche emblem gleaming in the morning light.
The white car in the garage is yours to use. It's already facing the exit—just press the remote in the center console to open the wharf gate and garage door. Full tank of gas. Nav system if you need directions. Credit card in the glove box for anything you want.
Explore Boston. Find a bookstore. Buy yourself something that makes you smile.
You're not a prisoner here, Emmaleen. You're a guest.
I read that last line three times.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
Because two days ago, I absolutely was a prisoner. Trunk-dwelling-Stockholm-syndrome-speedrun-kidnapped-against-my-will-and-cuffed-to-a-bed prisoner.
Now I'm a guest with a Porsche and a credit card and permission to "explore Boston."
Sure. Totally normal progression. Nothing weird about that at all.
I pick up the third note, propped against the French press.
How to Make Proper Coffee (Not That American Swill)
Grind beans fresh. Medium-coarse. The grinder's set to the correct setting—don't touch it.
Boil water. Let it cool exactly 30 seconds after boiling.
Add 60g coffee to the French press (there's a scale in the drawer).
Pour water slowly. Stir once. Set timer for 4 minutes.
Press down slowly. Pour immediately.
Drink it black first. Taste it. Then decide if you need milk.
If you add sugar, we're going to have a conversation tonight.
— L
I stare at the note. Then I laugh. It's sharp and slightly unhinged, echoing through the empty warehouse space, but I can't help it.
He's going to punish me for putting sugar in my coffee?
The absurdity is magnificent.
I set the note down carefully beside the other two and just... stand there for a moment.
Giovanni would never leave me notes.
The thought arrives uninvited, unwelcome. Giovanni doesn't explain. Doesn't instruct with playful threats about "conversations." He just watches—through hidden cameras, through Jino's reports, through the mechanical precision of his demerit system—and delivers consequences when I fail.
No warning. No charm. No personality.
Just the reckoning.
And I miss it.
The realization hits harder than it should. I'm standing in another man's kitchen, holding his thoughtful notes, anticipating his romantic punishment—and all I can think about is Giovanni's silent observation. His cold assessment. The way he makes me work for every scrap of approval.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I follow Lorcan's instructions with obsessive precision—because of course I do, I've been trained to follow instructions like it's a second language—grinding beans, boiling water, timing exactly four minutes while I watch the surface darken.
When I pour it, the coffee is perfect. Rich. Smooth. Not civet shit designed to test my desperation.
Giovanni gave me the worst coffee on purpose. Lorcan gave me instructions to make the best.
I don't know what to do with that difference.
I lean against the counter, cradling the mug in both hands, and stare out at the harbor view through those massive windows.
The rational part of my brain—the part that got a poetry scholarship, that used to analyze books for 75,000 followers—is screaming about head injuries, and dungeons, and textbook Stockholm syndrome.
But there's another part. Quieter. Deeper.
The part that wants to perform for my master, Jino. Who wants to pray to Lorcan, my saint. And who desperately wants to tame the monster inside Giovanni Bavga.
That part whispers: What if you don't want to run?
I like him.
Not in the "thank you for rescuing me" way or the "Stockholm syndrome is really doing its thing" way.
I actually like Lorcan ó Fearghail.
Which is inconvenient as hell, considering he kidnapped me and I belong to someone else.
Lorcan talks to me about Declan Cross novels while his cock is still inside me. Lorcan washes my hair, and speaks Irish, and tucks me into bed like I'm something precious instead of something he stole.
Protective. Caring. Definitely alpha.
And that whole chapel scene—what kind of person comes up with that kind of sex scheme? It's impressive.
Lorcan designed a theology around submission. That shouldn't be hot. It absolutely is.
I press my thighs together, leaning against the counter.
The altar, your wrists cuffed behind your back, and my mouth between your legs until you forget how to recite the prayer.
My brain supplies the image immediately. Me face-down on cold stone, ass in the air, wrists bound behind my back so I can't touch him or escape or do anything except receive whatever Saint Lorcan decides to give me.
His mouth. His tongue. Working me over until I forget how to speak.
Heat floods between my legs, slick and immediate.
I'm looking forward to it.
Which is… something.
My hand lifts unconsciously to the collar still locked around my throat.
Giovanni's collar.
Still there. Still claiming me. Even while I'm standing in Lorcan's kitchen, reading Lorcan's notes, anticipating Lorcan's tongue.
I could take it off.
The thought arrives like a stranger knocking on a door I didn't know existed. I could. Lorcan would probably help me if I asked.
But I won't.
Because even here—miles from Riverview, hours from Giovanni's control—I'm still his.
I press my palms against the cool countertop, trying to process this.
Giovanni likes to engineer failure, then punish me for failing a test I didn't know I was taking. The civet coffee, driving his Lambo, the demerit notebook.
He expects failure because he likes to punish. He doles that out in delicious ways, but Giovanni expects the lesson to be learned from the struggle. Not the preparation, like Jino. Not the performance, like Lorcan.
The difference between the three men is staggering.
Giovanni throws me into the ocean, watches me drown, then pulls me out at the last second so I'm grateful for the rescue from the disaster he created.
Jino hands me fins and an oxygen tank, then demands I use them properly so I can survive the underwater trip we'll take together.
Lorcan leads me aboard a party boat, turns up the music, hands me drugs and a drink, and makes me float on the current with him.
All three of these acts are dominance. All three are control. All three involve me submitting to someone else's authority.
But only one of them makes me feel like I'm drowning on purpose.
Only Giovanni.
I stare at my reflection in the window.
Giovanni's collar gleams back at me.
What is happening here?