Humanity's fucked, isn't it? Whole species glued to the black mirror, scrollin' through other people's curated misery while our own piles up behind us like dirty dishes. We're all just moths battering ourselves against the screen's glow, pretendin' we're not slowly going blind.
The buzzing stops.
Thank Christ.
Another sound invades the quiet. Something breathier. Rhythmic.
Heavy breathin'?
I open my eyes, stare at the ceiling for a long moment. Black paint. Bold choice for a ceiling, that—dramatic, a bit oppressive if I'm bein' honest. The kind of design decision you make when you're tryna project mystery, or darkness, or some other shitethat probably reads better in a catalogue than it does when you're lyin' under it.
What time is it? Afternoon, if the slant of light through the curtains is tellin' me anythin'.
Not breathing.
Moaning.
I turn my head.
"Ah,fuck." The words come out in a rush of Irish curses—"Jaysis Christ, what in the name of—" I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, remembering exactly what the fuck happened over the last twenty-four hours.
Lorcan, mah boy,Father Patrick's voice drifts through my skull, thick with that familiar County Clare disapproval,only you could kidnap a woman and wake up more confused than when ya started.
Uncle Fearghus. The LaRiccia family's request for intel. Giovanni's estate. The security system I had my team install six months back. The girl—naked, collared, emergin' from the library like some Gothic nightmare made flesh.
The girl who's currently handcuffed to my headboard.
And she's naked again.
Which issomethin', considerin' she was wearin' my clothes when I fell asleep. The henley's pushed all the way up her arm, bunched at her wrist where the leather cuff circles. Sweatpants gone entirely—probably kicked off sometime during the night.
And she's kneeling.
Not sitting. Not lying down like a normal person who's been cuffed to a bed.
Kneeling.
Forehead pressed to the mattress, arse in the air, arms stretched out in front of her like she's reachin' for somethin' that isn't there. The position looks obscene and devotional allat once, her spine curved in a way that can't possibly be comfortable.
My irritation spikes—sharp and immediate.
"What thefuck," I snap, sitting up too fast. My head pounds in protest. "Are ya—are ya afreak? Why are ya doin' this?" I gesture at her, at the whole fucked-up tableau. "Just act normal, would ya?"
I'm still tired. Got maybe four hours of sleep after drivin' through the night with a kidnapped woman in my passenger seat. My head's throbbing like someone's taken a mallet to it, and I don't want to deal with this fuckin' woman and whatever psycho-sexual conditionin' Giovanni's shoved into her brain.
I want to take her back.
I want to explain this shit to Giovanni—figure out what the hell I was thinkin' breaking into his house, what possessed me to shove her in my trunk like some sort of deranged savior.
But I've got to play this careful now.
Can't just roll up to Giovanni's estate and say, "Sorry mate, had a moment of temporary insanity, here's your slave back."
Not when Uncle Fearghus is waitin' for my report. Not when the LaRiccias are circlin' like sharks who've caught the scent of blood in the water.
The girl doesn't move.
Just stays in her position, and now she'smuttering—low, rhythmic, like a prayer or an incantation.
