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)
My face goes nuclear.
He wrote that down. Committed it to paper. Left evidence.
Tonight, I'm going to teach you Position Tertia. It involves the altar, your wrists cuffed behind your back, and my mouth between your legs until you forget how to recite the prayer. We'll see how long you can hold stillness when I'm making you come on my tongue.
Oh my god.
My pussy clenches involuntarily, and I hate myself a little.
— Your Saint
I set it down carefully and pick up the second note.
Next to it is a key fob, Porsche emblem gleaming in the morning light.
The white car in the garage is yours to use. It's already facing the exit—just press the remote in the center console to open the wharf gate and garage door. Full tank of gas. Nav system if you need directions. Credit card in the glove box for anything you want.
Explore Boston. Find a bookstore. Buy yourself something that makes you smile.
You're not a prisoner here, Emmaleen. You're a guest.
I read that last line three times.
The cognitive dissonance is staggering.
Because two days ago, I absolutely was a prisoner. Trunk-dwelling-Stockholm-syndrome-speedrun-kidnapped-against-my-will-and-cuffed-to-a-bed prisoner.
Now I'm a guest with a Porsche and a credit card and permission to "explore Boston."
Sure. Totally normal progression. Nothing weird about that at all.
I pick up the third note, propped against the French press.
How to Make Proper Coffee (Not That American Swill)
Grind beans fresh. Medium-coarse. The grinder's set to the correct setting—don't touch it.
Boil water. Let it cool exactly 30 seconds after boiling.
Add 60g coffee to the French press (there's a scale in the drawer).
Pour water slowly. Stir once. Set timer for 4 minutes.
Press down slowly. Pour immediately.
Drink it black first. Taste it. Then decide if you need milk.
If you add sugar, we're going to have a conversation tonight.
— L
I stare at the note. Then I laugh. It's sharp and slightly unhinged, echoing through the empty warehouse space, but I can't help it.
He's going to punish me for putting sugar in my coffee?
The absurdity is magnificent.
I set the note down carefully beside the other two and just... stand there for a moment.
Giovanni would never leave me notes.
The thought arrives uninvited, unwelcome. Giovanni doesn't explain. Doesn't instruct with playful threats about "conversations." He just watches—through hidden cameras, through Jino's reports, through the mechanical precision of his demerit system—and delivers consequences when I fail.
No warning. No charm. No personality.
Just the reckoning.
And I miss it.
The realization hits harder than it should. I'm standing in another man's kitchen, holding his thoughtful notes, anticipating his romantic punishment—and all I can think about is Giovanni's silent observation. His cold assessment. The way he makes me work for every scrap of approval.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I follow Lorcan's instructions with obsessive precision—because of course I do, I've been trained to follow instructions like it's a second language—grinding beans, boiling water, timing exactly four minutes while I watch the surface darken.
When I pour it, the coffee is perfect. Rich. Smooth. Not civet shit designed to test my desperation.
Giovanni gave me the worst coffee on purpose. Lorcan gave me instructions to make the best.
I don't know what to do with that difference.
I lean against the counter, cradling the mug in both hands, and stare out at the harbor view through those massive windows.
The rational part of my brain—the part that got a poetry scholarship, that used to analyze books for 75,000 followers—is screaming about head injuries, and dungeons, and textbook Stockholm syndrome.
But there's another part. Quieter. Deeper.
The part that wants to perform for my master, Jino. Who wants to pray to Lorcan, my saint. And who desperately wants to tame the monster inside Giovanni Bavga.
That part whispers: What if you don't want to run?
I like him.
Not in the "thank you for rescuing me" way or the "Stockholm syndrome is really doing its thing" way.
I actually like Lorcan Ó Fearghail.
Which is inconvenient as hell, considering he kidnapped me and I belong to someone else.
Lorcan talks to me about Declan Cross novels while his cock is still inside me. Lorcan washes my hair, and speaks Irish, and tucks me into bed like I'm something precious instead of something he stole.
Protective. Caring. Definitely alpha.
And that whole chapel scene—what kind of person comes up with that kind of sex scheme? It's impressive.
Lorcan designed a theology around submission. That shouldn't be hot. It absolutely is.
I press my thighs together, leaning against the counter.
The altar, your wrists cuffed behind your back, and my mouth between your legs until you forget how to recite the prayer.
My brain supplies the image immediately. Me face-down on cold stone, ass in the air, wrists bound behind my back so I can't touch him or escape or do anything except receive whatever Saint Lorcan decides to give me.
His mouth. His tongue. Working me over until I forget how to speak.
Heat floods between my legs, slick and immediate.