Still hard somehow.
Still wanting more.
But this time—thisonetime—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 inEternal 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 youyoujust… dissolve.
And what's left is this pure, distilled essence offeeling.
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 isnotGiovanni.
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.
