Books everywhere.Everywhere. Shelves lining the walls, stacks on tables, a reading chair positioned near the harbor-facing windows with a blanket draped over the arm like someone actually uses it.
My chest does this weird tight thing looking at all those books.
I haven't read in almost two years. Haven't let myself even think about it because Tyler made books dangerous.
But last night Lorcan and I talked about Declan Cross novels, and Celtic mythology, and plot holes, and it felt like?—
Stop. You're not doing this. You're not romanticizing your kidnapper just because he has good taste in fiction and knows how to make you come.
I reach the bottom of the stairs and cross the great room, my bare feet silent on the polished concrete floors. The kitchen occupies the far end—all stainless steel and black granite, professional-grade appliances, the kind of space that suggests Lorcan actually cooks instead of just ordering takeout like a normal person.
It's quiet.
Too quiet.
I do a slow turn, scanning the space. No sounds from the bathroom. No movement in the library corner. No Irish accent calling mea stórand telling me to assume Position Prima.
He left me.
Some kidnapper he is. Doesn't even have the courtesy to stick around for the morning-after awkwardness.
I wander toward the kitchen, drawn by basic need—coffee, water, literally anything to ground me in reality instead of this fever dream I'm apparently living.
There are three notes on the counter, arranged like a paper trail of Lorcan's personality.
I pick up the first one.
Good morning, Emmaleen!
The exclamation point feels aggressively cheerful.
I have to work today—back around dinner time. You were fantastic last night. Watching you count all seventeen strikes without breaking form was extraordinary. The way you pressed my hand harder against your own throat when you came? That's going to live in my head for a while, a stór.
My face goes nuclear.
Hewrote 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 isstaggering.
