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)
She's starin' up at me with those big eyes. Tears still trackin' down her temples from the intensity of her orgasm. My come decoratin' her skin like some sort of primitive claim.
Every debauched demon inside me purrs with satisfaction.
I push myself up to standin', cock still half-hard, and look down at her sprawled on the polished concrete.
Time to mark the occasion.
I prop Emmaleen against the floor-to-ceiling windows facin' east, her body leavin' smudged handprints and sweat streaks on the glass. She can barely hold her eyes open—lids heavy, pupils wide, consciousness floatin' somewhere between subspace and actual sleep.
I step back, pullin' out my phone, and start snappin' pictures.
A close-up of her face. Eyes half-closed, lips parted, tear tracks dried on her cheeks.
Another of her tits pressed against the glass, covered in the remnants of the wax from a punishment during Station Tertia. Nipples hard from the cold surface.
I circle her slowly. Artistic angles. Brutal close-ups. Her arse, still red from the spankin'. Her thighs, streaked with evidence of her own enjoyment. Her hands, fingers splayed weakly against the glass like she's tryna hold herself upright but her body won't cooperate anymore.
I crouch low and shoot upward—her entire body backlit by sunrise, silhouetted against Boston Harbor, lookin' like some sort of debauched religious icon.
She is an icon.
My icon.
I lower my phone and just look at her for a long moment, catalogin' the way dawn light makes her glow, the way her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, the way she's completely surrendered everythin' she has left.
A stór.
My treasure.
Mine.
Epilogue
Sea glass starts as something sharp and dangerous.
Broken bottles, shattered windows, jagged edges designed to cut.
Then the ocean takes it.
Rolls it endlessly against sand and rock until all those lethal points wear smooth.
Until what was meant to wound becomes something beautiful.
Something worth keeping.
I arrive at Lorcan's South Boston warehouse at noon sharp, the Aventador's engine throwing echoes off the brick buildings.
He meets me at the door wearing sweats and nothin' else, hair still wet from a shower. His tattoos cover his torso like something out of Celtic mythology—skeletal saints, Latin phrases, that fucking raven on his ribs.
I walk past him without comment.
"She had a great time," he says, following me inside. "Brilliant, really. You're gonna love the footage—already compiled all the camera angles. Should be in your inbox by the time ya get back to Providence."
I ignore him.
My focus is entirely on Emmaleen, curled up on his couch near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. She's wearing his shirt and sweats—both too big, drowning her small frame.
She looks wrecked.
I cross the space and crouch beside her, smoothing hair out of her face with careful fingers.
"Ready to go, Miss Take?" I whisper.
She manages the barest acknowledgment—eyes flickering open just enough to find mine before closing again.
Behind me, Lorcan's still talking about how well she did at station whatever. I just can't with his fucking pageantry, so I tune it out as much as possible and slide my arms beneath Emmaleen, lifting her against my chest.
Her head drops to my shoulder.
Lorcan opens the door as I carry her through. He reaches out, placing one hand against her cheek, and leans in to kiss her—gentle, possessive.
"Goodbye, a stór," he murmurs. "See ya soon."
I nod once.
The Aventador's scissor door rises as I approach, and I carefully maneuver Emmaleen into the passenger seat. When I reach across to buckle her seatbelt, she stirs slightly—just enough to sigh and smile at me before sinking back into whatever exhausted haze Lorcan left her in.
I slide into the driver's seat and pull away from the docks, then merge onto I-95 toward Rhode Island.
The highway stretches ahead—ninety minutes between Lorcan's cathedral of submission and our Providence estate.
I glance at Emmaleen.
Still out. Breathing steady.
I adjust my grip on the steering wheel and focus on the road instead of how I'm feeling.
Fucking sea glass.
I hate feelings.
They're so fucking messy.
Emmaleen stirs about twenty minutes into the drive, sighing softly. The sound pulls my attention sideways just as her lips curve into a small, sleepy smile.
Without opening her eyes, she murmurs, "Did you have a nice trip to New York?"
I look at her fondly, cataloging the exhaustion written across her features. "No," I say quietly. "It was work."
I pause.
"Did you have fun?"
Her smile widens, and she snuggles deeper into the Aventador's seat, burrowing into the leather like it's a goddamn blanket.
"The best time," she whispers. Then one eye opens—just barely—finding mine with hazy focus. "When I have to be away from you, that is."
The ache in my ribs shifts.
Twists.
Settles like cool hazy green glass that looks like it's been tossed in the sea for eons and finally washes up on a beach.
I smile—small, involuntary.
"Sleep," I tell her softly.
She hums her agreement and lets her eye drift shut again, head tilting toward me even as her body relaxes completely.