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)
A green highway sign cuts through the spiral like a prophecy.
The spiral stops. Absolute clarity crashes through the chaos like lightning.
Twenty-three years ago, Salvatore Bavga traded his youngest son as tribute for a debt that wasn't even his.
An eight-year-old boy. Bound and bleeding in a warehouse. Payment for a sister's betrayal.
That boy dislocated his thumb. Shot a guard in the hip. Ran.
Then got beaten bloody by his father for 'ruining things'.
Luca never collected.
And I've been paying for it ever since—in Rico's cruelties, in Salvatore's contempt, in the unspoken debt that's hung over my head for two decades.
But debts work both ways.
I pull onto the shoulder and put the car in park.
My phone feels heavy in my hand as I begin putting the pieces together. begin to formulate a plan. My thumb scrolls through contacts.
Then I press send.
It's time to pay the debt.
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.