Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
I look up.
Find Lorcan actually smiling now.
Soft. Almost fond.
"Classic Giovanni," he says quietly.
And something about the way he says it—with familiarity and exasperation and this bone-deep understanding—makes my chest hurt.
"Yeah." I swipe at my eyes again. "Classic Giovanni. Making me parade around in stolen shoes because—I don't know. Because he could. Because he wanted to see if I'd break. Because somewhere in that beautiful, fucked-up brain of his, making me suffer was the same thing as seeing if I was worth keeping."
Lorcan leans back against the wall.
His whole posture's different now.
Less interrogator, more... listener.
"He does that," Lorcan says. His accent softens the consonants, makes the words almost gentle. "Tests people in the most elaborate, theatrical ways possible. Like everythin's a performance and he's the only one with the script."
"Yes." I practically exhale the word. "Exactly that."
"It's because he doesn't trust easy things." Lorcan's watching me now with those sharp gray eyes. "If somethin' comes too simple, he assumes it's a trap. So he sets his own traps first—controlled variables where he decides the outcome."
I nod.
Because yes.
God, yes.
"He offered me money I desperately needed," I continue, "with contracts full of vague language about 'demerits' and 'corrective measures' that could've meant anything. I signed it anyway because—" I stop. Swallow hard. "Because I had twenty-three days, and no other options, and he saw me."
"He's good at that." Lorcan's voice has gone quieter. "Seein' people. Really seein' them—past the masks and the performance and the lies they tell themselves. He looks at you and knows exactly what you need and exactly what you're afraid of losin'."
"And then he uses it," I finish.
"And then he uses it," Lorcan agrees.
But he doesn't say it like an accusation.
More like... fact.
Just the way things are when you're in Giovanni Bavga's orbit.
"Everyone gravitates to him," Lorcan continues. His eyes go distant. Remembering something. "It's not just the money or the power—though Christ knows that doesn't hurt. It's the attention. The way he makes you feel like you're the only person in the room who matters. Like he's chosen you specifically, out of everyone, because you're worth his time."
My throat tightens.
"He's charismatic in this brutal, efficient way," Lorcan says. "Doesn't waste words. Doesn't perform emotion. Just... sees you. And once Giovanni Bavga decides you're interestin'? You're fucked. Because you'll do anythin' to keep that attention. To stay in his sight line."
I'm leaning forward now.
Hanging on every word.
Wanting more.
Wanting Lorcan to keep talking about Giovanni in that accent that makes every consonant sound like a caress, with those word choices that feel literary, and strange, and right.
"I understand how you fell for him," Lorcan says softly. "I really do. Because I know exactly how magnetic he is. How he makes you feel seen, and chosen, and necessary. How he builds this world where you're the center of his universe—as long as you play by his rules."
He shifts.
His expression gentler now.
Almost sympathetic.
"The shoes were just the beginnin', weren't they?"
I nod.
Unable to speak.
Because if I open my mouth, I'll start crying again.
And I'm so tired of crying.
I wilt.
That's the only word for what happens to my posture as I sit on this stranger's couch with my hands folded in my lap like some demented finishing school dropout who forgot the most important rule: wear clothes to kidnappings.
I'm naked.
Fully, completely, spectacularly naked in a cabin somewhere in rural Pennsylvania with a man I don't know who's been giving me the philosophical breakdown of my life choices like he's guest-lecturing at a university I didn't apply to.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is that I stopped noticing I was naked about twenty minutes ago because apparently my brain has decided that emotional vulnerability is more mortifying than physical nudity, which says something deeply disturbing about my current mental state that I absolutely do not have time to unpack right now.
My shoulders curve inward, making myself smaller. A habit I thought I'd broken after Tyler but apparently it's still living in my muscle memory right next to "kneel when a man tells you to" and "count the strikes while you're being whipped."
Christ.
I really am a walking disaster, aren't I?
A case study in spectacularly bad decisions wrapped in a body that's been conditioned to respond to dominance with arousal instead of—I don't know—running.
Lorcan moves.
I freeze.
He crosses the small space between us and crouches down in front of me, his knees cracking slightly because apparently even hot Irish kidnappers with good bone structure can't escape the reality of joint deterioration, which is somehow comforting in a completely absurd way.
He takes both my hands in his.
His palms are warm.
Calloused.
Bigger than Giovanni's but gentler, which shouldn't matter except my traitorous brain immediately starts cataloging the differences like I'm comparison shopping for mob-adjacent authority figures on Amazon.
"Look at me, a stór," he says quietly.
I don't know what that means but it sounds pretty and sad at the same time, which feels appropriate for whatever fresh hell this situation has become.