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)
What am I, a monk? Father Patrick's the dead one, not me.
I looked.
And then… fuck. I've got no idea what happened. The next thing I knew, I was shirtless, had my hand over her mouth, and I was shovin' her in the boot.
A collar.
My brain just went white.
That's the only way to describe it. Not blank—white. Like someone had taken a photograph with the flash too close and burned out all the details. I didn't think. I just moved.
Brilliant.
Absolutely brilliant decision-makin', Lorcan.
Somehow, some way, I found the good sense to take off my shirt and pull it over her head before I did all this. Because she was wearin' it when I closed the boot. Which is disturbin' to say the least, because I literally have no recollection of doin' that.
Auto-pilot kidnapping.
That's a new low, even for me.
It was all… instinct, or somethin'.
Primal. Stupid. The worst kind of reactive.
No strategy at all. And that terrifies me in retrospect because I don't do instinct. I'm the one who thinks, who plans, who sees three moves ahead and positions accordingly.
And now look at me. Kidnapped a woman on reflex like some kind of feral animal.
I'm supposed to be better than this.
But I saw the collar and somethin' just… triggered. Like I was Captain Marvel, Manchurian Candidate edition. Except instead of "Hail Hydra," it's apparently naked-woman-in-a-collar-equals-grand-theft-person.
The turn-off appears in my headlights. I take it automatically. The Buick bounces over ruts and potholes, suspension complainin', and I slow down because the last thing I need is to blow a tire out here in the middle of nowhere with a kidnapped woman in the boot.
Because that's exactly the kind of situation where you want to be changin' a tire in the dark.
The cabin appears through the trees after another quarter mile. We use it for situations that require discretion.
This wasn't supposed to be a situation that required discretion. I just didn't want to drive nine fuckin' hours back to Boston after driving nine fucking hours to get to Riverview. Round trip to Pennsylvania for a thirty-minute reconnaissance job. Brilliant use of fuel.
It was just a rest stop. Couple winks, then back on the road.
Now… for fuck's sake. Now, who knows how long I'll be stuck here. Babysittin' Giovanni's collared woman in a safe house.
I pull up close to the door and kill the engine. Silence rushes in to fill the space the engine noise left behind. Just my breathin', and the tick of the engine coolin', and absolutely nothin' from the boot.
I get out and walk around to the back of the car. Then brace myself for the consequences of a dead body, pausin' to breathe.
I lift the lid.
The laugh rushes out in a plume of cold air.
She's alive.
I laugh again.
Because this is so fuckin' classic. So… apropos. The universe has a sense of humor, and apparently I'm the punchline.
First of all, she's naked again. She took off my shirt, wadded it up—a nine-hundred-dollar shirt, I might add, which apparently means nothin' to a woman who's decidin' hypothermia is preferable to cotton—and stuffed it in the corner.
It's a statement. A scream that echos how she has positioned herself. And not a subtle one, either.
Because she's kneelin'. Not sprawled unconscious or curled up in terror, but actually, deliberately kneelin'. Positioned longways to fit in the limited space, her knees spread open in a precise V, arms stretched out in front of her like a supplicant before an altar, forehead pressed to the carpeted floor of the boot.
Which is not exactly standard kidnapping victim protocol, is it?
The position is too deliberate to be accidental. Too precise to be the result of panic or disorientation. This is rehearsed. Trained. The kind of muscle memory you don't pick up from a self-help book.
She's not prayin' or beggin'.
She's… submitting.
To a man who's currently standin' shirtless in a safe house driveway, questionin' every life choice that led to this exact moment.
Without turnin' her head, without breakin' position, the naked girl whispers, "Hello my Saint, how can I serve you?"
My brain just… stops.
Completely flatlines for three full seconds while I try to process what she just said, and how she said it, and why she's sayin' it at all when she should be screamin', or cryin', or demandin' I let her out.
Or literally anythin' else a rational human being would do when they've been kidnapped and shoved in a boot for two hours.
Instead, she's greetin' me like she's room service.
Saint? Oh, Father Patrick's gonna have fun dissectin' this one.
"What the fuck did ya just call me?" I only ask because my brain needs time to catch up with the absolute Patty Hearst world I've been dropped into.
She stays perfectly still in that disturbingly precise kneelin' position with her forehead pressed to the stained carpet and her arse in the air like she's waitin' for instruction.