I step back, pullin' out my phone, and start snappin' pictures.
A close-up of her face. Eyes half-closed, lips parted, tear tracks dried on her cheeks.
Another of her tits pressed against the glass, covered in the remnants of the wax from a punishment during Station Tertia. Nipples hard from the cold surface.
I circle her slowly. Artistic angles. Brutal close-ups. Her arse, still red from the spankin'. Her thighs, streaked with evidence of her own enjoyment. Her hands, fingers splayed weakly against the glass like she's tryna hold herself upright but her body won't cooperate anymore.
I crouch low and shoot upward—her entire body backlit by sunrise, silhouetted against Boston Harbor, lookin' like some sort of debauched religious icon.
Sheisan icon.
My icon.
I lower my phone and just look at her for a long moment, catalogin' the way dawn light makes her glow, the way her chestrises and falls with shallow breaths, the way she's completely surrendered everythin' she has left.
A stór.
My treasure.
Mine.
Epilogue
Sea glass starts as something sharp and dangerous.
Broken bottles, shattered windows, jagged edges designed to cut.
Then the ocean takes it.
Rolls it endlessly against sand and rock until all those lethal points wear smooth.
Until what was meant to wound becomes something beautiful.
Something worth keeping.
I arrive at Lorcan's South Boston warehouse at noon sharp, the Aventador's engine throwing echoes off the brick buildings.
He meets me at the door wearing sweats and nothin' else, hair still wet from a shower. His tattoos cover his torso like something out of Celtic mythology—skeletal saints, Latin phrases, that fucking raven on his ribs.
I walk past him without comment.
"She had a great time," he says, following me inside. "Brilliant, really. You're gonna love the footage—already compiled all the camera angles. Should be in your inbox by the time ya get back to Providence."
I ignore him.
My focus is entirely on Emmaleen, curled up on his couch near the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor. She's wearing his shirt and sweats—both too big, drowning her small frame.
She looks wrecked.
I cross the space and crouch beside her, smoothing hair out of her face with careful fingers.
"Ready to go, Miss Take?" I whisper.
She manages the barest acknowledgment—eyes flickering open just enough to find mine before closing again.
Behind me, Lorcan's still talking about how well she did at station whatever. I just can't with his fucking pageantry, so I tune it out as much as possible and slide my arms beneath Emmaleen, lifting her against my chest.
Her head drops to my shoulder.
