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)
Shut up, old man.
—fuck them from behind like animals, their cries echoin' in this desecrated space ya've built to mock everythin' holy.
That's not even close to what this is about.
It's got nothin' to do with God.
It's got nothin' to do with the Church.
It's just… the aesthetic I prefer.
Ya lyin' bastard…
The discipline cord hangs on the wall to the left—braided leather, traditional design, identical to the ones the Brothers used at St. Augustine's. Except theirs were for penance. Self-flagellation. Mortification of the flesh to bring the spirit closer to God.
And yours? Yours is for pleasure, isn't it? For makin' them scream while ya convince yerself it's what they want, what they need, that you're givin' them absolution through pain when really you're just feedin' the monster ya swore ya'd starve.
I can feel Emmaleen's breathing change beside me. Feel her takin' it all in.
The candle bank dominates the far wall—rows upon rows of votive candles in red glass holders, at least a hundred of them, arranged in perfect symmetry. They're not lit. Haven't been in twenty-two months. But there's no way to forget what they look like when they are. How the flames cast shadows that dance across skin, how the heat makes the air shimmer.
Candles for prayer intentions, Lorcan. Each flame a petition to the Divine. But ya light them for spectacle, don't ya? For ambiance while ya commit yer sins. Make the whole thing feel sacred when it's anythin' but.
Father Patrick's voice drops lower, crueler.
Ya built a church to worship at the altar of yer own depravity. Dressed it up in Catholic symbolism so ya could pretend there's somethin' holy in what ya do here. But there's nothin' holy about it, mah boy. It's just you. You and yer need to control, to dominate, to wrap yer hand around a woman's throat and feel her pulse slow under yer palm while ya—
Stop.
—convince yerself you're givin' her what she needs when you're really just takin' what ya want.
My hands are shakin'. Proper fuckin' shakin', which pisses me off because I don't shake. I'm steady. Controlled. That's the whole fuckin' point of being me.
Is it, though? Or is control just another word for avoidance? For not dealin' with the fact that you like this. Crave it. Need it the way some men need drink or violence. You'rean addict, Lorcan, and this is your cathedral of addiction.
Right, so here's the philosophical nightmare—if I'm aware the space is profane, if I recognize the symbolism I'm corruptin', does that make it worse or better?
Because on one hand, at least I'm not deludin' myself about what this is. I'm not pretendin' the kneeler is anythin' but a device for submission, that the altar is anythin' but a surface for edgin' and fuckin', that the discipline cord is anythin' but an instrument of pleasure disguised as punishment.
But on the other hand—isn't conscious desecration the greater sin? At least ignorance has the defense of not knowin' better. I know exactly what I'm doin'. Know exactly what these symbols mean to the Church, what they meant to Father Patrick when he was alive, what they should mean to me.
Still do, sometimes. Under the right occasion.
And I'm usin' them anyway.
Because you're a monster, Lorcan. You've always been a monster. Ya just dress it up prettier than Giovanni does.
That hits.
At least he's honest about what he is. Doesn't hide it. Doesn't pretend there's anythin' sacred about claimin' a woman's body and mind until she can't tell where she ends and he begins.
"Now what?" Emmaleen's voice breaks my spiral.
"Now," I say, leaning into her neck. "You will enter the prie-dieu." It's made of dark wood, tall, carved, and heavy enough that once it's in place, it doesn't move.
Up front, there's a kneeling bench with a padded top and a slanted prayer desk. When used properly, this desk is for elbows, or praying hands, or a missal.
That's not how I use it.
Directly behind that is a high-backed seat, boxed in with solid arms that climb to shoulder height when you’re sitting.
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.