She places the notebook in my palm—Jino's meticulous record of the week's trainin', Giovanni's notes on her performance, her own confessions written in the margins that come with doodles, and pieces of poetry, and colors. Like her demerits notebook is a dark romance she plans on reviewin' on BookTalk.
She drops the coat, letting it pool at her feet on the floor. Then looks up at me with a barely-hidden smirk. No shame at all in that look, even though her nipples are so peeked and tight, they could cut glass.
I circle her slowly, obsessin' over every line and curve. "Beautiful," I murmur.
And she is. God, she is.
The monster in me wants to drag her to the windows immediately, skip the ritual entirely and just press her face first against the glass and fuck her until she forgets every prayer.
But that's not how this works. That's not what she came for.
I gesture toward the chapel's curtained alcove. "Ya know where to go, a stór."
She happily skips her way across my great room, disappearin' from view.
I don't follow immediately. Instead I stand in the threshold holdin' her performance notebook, flippin' to the transgression section, each demerit cataloged with clinical precision.
Right, so here's the thing about Giovanni's demerit system—it's bollocks, isn't it? Complete theater. She could probably breathe wrong and he'd find a reason to add another tally.
But that's not the point. The point is the performance.
Giovanni sends Emmaleen to my chapel when he wants to make her happy. Not because she did somethin' wrong, just… to make her happy.
Because she likes my chapel, demandin' and fucked up as it is.
She's in to it.
And there's no way in fuckin' hell that Giovani Bavga is ever gonna bend her over a prayer desk and make herprayto him.
He's just… not that guy.
This visit he's cataloged twelve demerits for me to clear, which is a good number.
I close the notebook and enter the chapel.
She's already in Position Prima—kneelin' at the prie-dieu, forehead pressed to the prayer desk, hands clasped like she's beggin' salvation from a God who abandoned her the moment she signed Giovanni's contract.
Which is just another bit of theatre.
She loves that damn mobster. Monster and all. All three of us know that he's the glue. He's what holds this arrangement together.
"Saint Lorcan, deliver me," she's whisperin'. "Saint Lorcan, guide me. Saint Lorcan, hold me. Saint Lorcan, free me."
I stand behind her, close enough that my robe brushes her bare shoulder, and open the notebook.
"Twelve demerits this week," I read aloud. "Ya've been bad, a stór. Bratty. Testin' boundaries ya know better than to cross."
"Yes, my Saint," she breathes.
"Spoke without permission. Incorrect posture. Multiple instances of lookin' up when ya should've kept you're eyes down." I flip the page. "Self-touch at two in the mornin' when ya knew full well your body belongs to yer King, not to your own wanderin' hands. And the worst transgression—" I lean down, mouth near her ear, "—yasmiledduring punishment. Like yer King's discipline was entertainment instead of instruction."
"Yes, my Saint," she whispers again, voice thick with arousal.
She's not afraid of me.
She's not afraid of any of this.
Oh, she struggles. She cries, and sobs, and begs sometimes. To keep goin', to push harder, to give in to me own monster.
