But there's another part. Quieter. Deeper.
The part that wants to perform for my master, Jino. Who wants to pray to Lorcan, my saint. And who desperately wants to tame the monster inside Giovanni Bavga.
That part whispers:What if you don't want to run?
I like him.
Not in the "thank you for rescuing me" way or the "Stockholm syndrome is really doing its thing" way.
I actuallylikeLorcan Ó Fearghail.
Which is inconvenient as hell, considering he kidnapped me and I belong to someone else.
Lorcan talks to me about Declan Cross novels while his cock is still inside me. Lorcan washes my hair, and speaks Irish, and tucks me into bed like I'm something precious instead of something he stole.
Protective. Caring. Definitely alpha.
And that whole chapel scene—what kind of person comes up with that kind of sex scheme? It's impressive.
Lorcan designed a theology around submission. That shouldn't be hot. It absolutely is.
I press my thighs together, leaning against the counter.
The altar, your wrists cuffed behind your back, and my mouth between your legs until you forget how to recite the prayer.
My brain supplies the image immediately. Me face-down on cold stone, ass in the air, wrists bound behind my back so I can't touch him or escape or do anything exceptreceivewhatever Saint Lorcan decides to give me.
His mouth. His tongue. Working me over until I forget how to speak.
Heat floods between my legs, slick and immediate.
I'm looking forward to it.
Which is… something.
My hand lifts unconsciously to the collar still locked around my throat.
Giovanni's collar.
Still there. Still claiming me. Even while I'm standing in Lorcan's kitchen, reading Lorcan's notes, anticipating Lorcan's tongue.
I could take it off.
The thought arrives like a stranger knocking on a door I didn't know existed. Icould. Lorcan would probably help me if I asked.
But I won't.
Because even here—miles from Riverview, hours from Giovanni's control—I'm still his.
I press my palms against the cool countertop, trying to process this.
Giovanni likes to engineer failure, then punish me for failing a test I didn't know I was taking. The civet coffee, driving his Lambo, the demerit notebook.
He expects failure because he likes to punish. He doles that out in delicious ways, but Giovanni expects the lesson to be learned from the struggle. Not the preparation, like Jino. Not the performance, like Lorcan.
The difference between the three men is staggering.
Giovanni throws me into the ocean, watches me drown, then pulls me out at the last second so I'm grateful for the rescue from the disaster he created.
