"I like it," he says simply.
Which—
Okay.
That shouldn't make my chest tight but it does.
"Would you do me a kindness, Miss Rourke?" His accent makes my last name sound almost musical. "Would you accompany me to the bedroom so we can find ya some proper clothes?"
I nod.
Can't speak now.
Because something about the gentleness in his voice is breaking me in a completely different way than Giovanni's intensity or Jino's methodical training.
This feels like being seen as aperson.
Not a project. Not a possession. Not a puzzle to solve.
Just... Emmaleen.
And I don't know what to do with that.
Lorcan helps me up with one hand under my elbow—such a small gesture, so careful—and I feel tears prickling again becausewhyis kindness harder to handle than cruelty?
Why does gentleness make me want to shatter when I can take a whipping without using my safe word?
What the fuck is wrong with me?
We walk to the bedroom in silence.
It's small. Sparse. A double bed with a plain navy comforter, a dresser, a closet with the door half-open revealing clothes on hangers.
Lorcan gestures to the closet.
"Take whatever fits. Or doesn't fit. I'm not particular."
Then he snags a shirt for himself and leaves.
Just... walks out and closes the door behind him.
Giving me privacy.
Like that's a thing I deserve.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the closed door, feeling the absence of surveillance cameras like a missing limb.
No one's watching.
No one's cataloging my choices or adding demerits for hesitation.
I'm just... alone.
With clothes.
In a bedroom.
Like a normal person doing a normal thing.
