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 hold her close through the aftershocks.
Keep my forehead pressed to hers.
Keep whispering promises I desperately hope I can keep.
"Never too much," I murmur. "Never too far. We'll train together, a stór. Slow and careful. One day we'll do it right."
She nods weakly, collapsed against me.
I'm still inside her.
Still hard somehow.
Still wanting more.
But this time—this one time—I choose patience over frenzy.
Control over chaos.
Training over destruction.
Please God, let me mean it.
16
Subspace.
Of course, I know what it means. I've been experiencing it for weeks in Giovanni's dungeon. Sometimes, very extreme experiences. Like that first time Giovanni punished me with the crop.
There is quite a bit of academic debate on whether or not subspace is a good or a bad witch. There are arguments, either way.
A lot of it is based on perspective and from my perspective, it's definitely a good witch.
But, obviously, I've been trauma bonding with gangsters so… I might not have the most objective state of mind right now.
I float. Float, float, floating…
Skimming the edge of euphoria like it's the blade of a knife.
Saint Lorcan's hand is still wrapped around my throat. Not tight. Just… present. Like a bookmark holding my place in reality so I don't drift too far into the ether.
His other hand strokes my hair while I slump against his chest, boneless as overcooked pasta. Which is exactly how I feel. Al dente Emmaleen has left the building. We're in leftover-lasagna territory now.
"There she is," he murmurs. "Back with me, are ya?"
I make a sound. Not quite a word. More like what a balloon makes when you let the air out slowly.
"That's a yes, then."
My brain is trying to reboot. System Alert: Consciousness.exe has stopped responding. Would you like to continue floating indefinitely?
Yes. Yes, I would.
Unfortunately, the good witch's spell has been broken by a sexy Irish accent and my mind is already whirring with intellectual-isms.
Because here's the thing about subspace that all the Reddit threads and BDSM educational blogs don't fully capture—it's like being the main character in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, except instead of erasing your memories, you're erasing your anxiety. Your shame. Your overthinking. All the parts of you that make you you just… dissolve.
And what's left is this pure, distilled essence of feeling.
Which sounds beautiful and transcendent when you describe it like that.
Less beautiful when you realize what you're feeling is utterly wrecked, thoroughly fucked, and somehow both completely safe and completely owned by a man you met approximately twenty-four hours ago.
A man who is not Giovanni.
A man who just made me pray to him like he's a patron saint of damaged women with daddy issues and a choking kink.
Oh God.
The thoughts are starting to come back. Bit by bit. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle assembling themselves into a picture I'm not sure I want to see.
Saint Lorcan shifts slightly, and I feel him still inside me. Still hard. Still there.
My face flames.
"Easy," he says quietly. "Don't come back too fast. You'll crash."
"I'm fine," I mumble against his chest.
"You're floating."
"I'm fine."
"Emmaleen."
The way he says my name—firm, grounding, commanding—makes my pussy clench around him involuntarily.
His breath hitches. "Christ."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize for your body's response." He cups the back of my neck, thumb stroking the edge of Giovanni's collar. "This is normal. This is good. Ya did so well, a stór."
A stór. I still don't know what that means, which is embarrassing. I'm like sixty-eight percent Irish. It feels like something I should know…
Just stop, Emmaleen. Overthinking is for people who aren't currently impaled on an Irish saint. Enjoy what's left of the moment.
I'm still floating. Still untethered. But overthinking and me are old friends. Like second-grade besties that built forts in the woods, did blood-sister rituals, and played light-as-a-feather during birthday sleepovers—then grew apart in college, but found each other again at our ten-year high school reunion.
So my thoughts are coming in fragmented bursts, like someone's changing channels inside my head.
You just fucked a man who kidnapped you.
No, he rescued you.
Did he though?
You begged him to punish you.
You came so hard you saw God. Or… Saint Lorcan. Same difference, apparently.
Giovanni is going to kill him.
Giovanni is going to kill you.
You're a terrible person.
You're a brilliant person.
You have no idea who you are anymore.
"Shh," Lorcan murmurs, his hand still stroking my hair. "Stop thinking so loud."
"I'm not—"
"Ya are. I can feel it. Your whole body just went tense."
Busted.
He shifts slightly, and I'm hyper-aware that he's still inside me. Still connected. Which should probably feel weird, or awkward, or something, but instead it just feels... grounding.
"Let me tell ya a story," he says quietly.
"A story?"
"Aye. About where I'm from."
I close my eyes, letting the rhythm of his voice pull me away from the spiral.
"I grew up in a castle," he says. "Doire An Rí. The King's Oak Grove. County Galway, western Ireland. Sits on two hundred acres overlooking Lough Corrib—that's a lake, massive thing, stretches for miles."