Cliches, especially in the form of Saint Lorcan the Spanker reading fiction, hit all the little dopamine receptors. Lighting them up like fairy lights in a summer garden.
Details start spilling out of my mouth like water. "I'm @BookishEmma_leen on all the socials. Well, I was. Before. You know. Before…everything." I blow out a breath, not wanting to talk about that part of my past. Like, at all. So I keep going. "I had seventy-five thousand followers. I used to post reviews. Dark romance, literary fiction. I'd photograph books in weird places around Cleveland and write these long captions about why they mattered."
Lorcan's hand stills on my neck. Listening.
"Tyler got jealous," I continue flatly. "Said I was flirting with followers. Started monitoring my account. Then answering messages pretending to be me. When I tried to keep it secret, he found out and destroyed my collection. All my signed first editions. Everything."
My voice sounds strange. Clinical. Like I'm describing someone else's life.
"I haven't read a book in almost two years," I whisper. "I haven't evenwantedto. And just now, when you described your castle, I pictured myself there, curling up with a book in some tower niche. But then realized that I can't even remember the last time I got lost in a story. The last time I felt... that…thing. That utter falling when you connect with characters."
I blow out a long breath. The grief that surfaces is unexpected. Sudden and overwhelming.
"Ah," Lorcan says softly. "That's why ya were upstairs."
I freeze against his chest. "What?"
"Giovanni's library," he continues, his thumb making slow circles against my shoulder. "Ya broke protocol to get a book."
"I—"
"Don't apologize. I get it now." His voice shifts, warming with something almost like... understanding? "Though I have to say, if you were desperate enough to risk Giovanni's wrath for literature, you picked the wrong library,a stór. Giovanni doesn't read fiction," Lorcan says, and there's definite amusement in his tone now. "Those books aren't his. They came with the house. He just kept them because they looked impressive. Like... decorative spines for his decorative life."
"But you..." I start.
"Read?" Lorcan grins. "Voraciously. Obsessively. My library is actually mine. First editions, signed copies, the whole lot. And considerably more interesting than whatever moldy collection Giovanni inherited."
"What are you reading right now?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it.
His grin widens. "Declan Cross'sKeepers Trilogy."
I sit up straighter. So abruptly that I feel his cock shift inside me—still hard, still there—but for once I don't care about the physical.
"The Keepers Trilogy?" My voice climbs an octave. "The Vatican conspiracy one?"
"The very same."
"Indiana Jones if he was Irish and had daddy issues!" I blurt out.
Lorcan barks a laugh, genuine and surprised. "You've read it?"
"I reviewed Book One four years ago! Posted this whole thing about how the Celtic artifact plot line was brilliantly researched but the Vatican conspiracy made absolutely no sense because?—"
"—because the timeline doesn't work with the actual Conclave records!" Lorcan finishes, his eyes lighting up. "That bothered me too! Cross just handwaves away the entire 1978 papal succession like?—"
"—like historical accuracy is optional when you need a dramatic backdrop!" I'm gesturing now, completely forgetting I'm naked and impaled on this man. "And don't even get me started on the Trinity Knot being hidden in the Sistine Chapel's renovation rubble because Michelangelo would have?—"
"—noticed a massive Celtic artifact while painting the fucking ceiling!" Lorcan's accent thickens with enthusiasm. "The man was obsessive about details! He wouldn't have just... missed it!"
"EXACTLY!" I'm practically bouncing now. "But the Dublin scenes? The ones in Trinity College Library?"
"Perfection," Lorcan says reverently. "Absolute perfection. Cross nailed the atmosphere."
"The Long Room description made me want to book a flight immediately."
"Ya haven't been?"
"Never left the States." The admission feels smaller than it should. Less shameful. Just... fact.
