The centerpiece—because of course there's a centerpiece—is a massive freestanding copper tub. Not against a wall. Not tucked into a corner. In themiddle of the room, like a sculptural throne demanding worship.
It's deep enough to completely submerge in. Wide enough for three people, maybe four if they were friendly. The copper has this gorgeous aged patina—burnished dark metal that looks like it was salvaged from some ancient Irish manor and shipped across the Atlantic just to hold Lorcan's bathwater.
Because why the fuck not.
A skylight sits directly above it. Stars visible through the glass. During the day, natural light would pour down on whoever was bathing, turning the whole thing into some kind of pagan ritual.
He sets me down gently on a velvet bench—velvet, because obviously—and his cock finally slips free. I feel the immediate loss, the emptiness, and resist the urge to whine about it.
Lorcan moves to the tub and starts running water, his naked back to me. I watch the muscles shift under tattooed skin—Celtic wolf, skeletal raven, Gaelic script I haven't a prayer of reading.
My brain kicks back online. Okay. Let's review.
My Heroic-Kidnapper-Who-Got-It-All-Wrong lives in a converted warehouse overlooking Boston Harbor. He has a library. A three-story library back home in Ireland, and apparently an equally impressive one here because of course he does. He reads Declan Cross thrillers and gets heated about historical accuracy in Vatican conspiracy plots.
He also has a private chapel where he larps as a crimson-robed monk while spanking women who beg for absolution.
The duality of man, I guess.
Did I… hit my head and fall into a dark romance novel? What the actual fuck is going on here. This can't be real. This cannot be my life.
"Stop thinkin' so loud,a stór. I can hear ya from here."
I smile. Suddenly enjoying the moment. Because this isn't a dream. I'm not asleep. I'm not delusional or dead.
I'm literally the luckiest girl alive. Sitting in a bathroom that looks like Architectural Digest poster child for 'masculine'. I catalog details as steam starts to rise from the filling tub.
Slate tile floors. Heated, obviously—my bare feet aren't cold.
A massive walk-in shower with like, seventeen different shower heads including a rainfall panel that could probably drown someone if they weren't careful.
Double vanity in dark walnut with vessel sinks that look like smooth black stone.
The mirror above it is backlit, casting this soft glow that's probably designed to make you look good even at 3am when you stumble in to pee.
Towel warming rack. Because regular towels are for peasants.
Two bathrobes hanging on hooks—one charcoal, one cream—like he keeps them ready for guests. Or women he rescues from mob dungeons.
Everything is masculine and expensive and deliberatelynotsterile. This isn't some cold modernist bathroom. It's warm. Grounding. The kind of space designed by someone who understands that bathing can be meditation, ritual, ceremony—or all three.
Which tracks, I guess, given the whole monk-robe situation downstairs.
Lorcan tests the water temperature with his hand, adjusting the faucet slightly.
My Heroic Kidnapper, I think, watching him move with precise care, is a control freak who disguises it as caregiving.
Which, honestly? Relatable.
He turns, offering me his hand. I blow out a breath, stand on still shaky legs, and cross the distance between us. I take his hand, allowing him to help me into the tub. The water is hot, but not biting. I sit down and immediately, the overthinking stops.
Just… stops.
Lorcan touches my shoulder. "Move forward, lass. Make room."
Then he steps into the tub behind me.
"We're gonna bathe together?" I ask. I don't know why this never occurred to me. Maybe because Jino is in charge my baths these days, and he prefers to keep a professional distance, mostly using bath time to tease me into failure with strategically-placed fingers and strict orders to not orgasm.
