Brilliant plan, Lorcan. Truly inspired.
I'm turnin' away from the window, headin' for the stairs, already mentally preparin' myself to go back upstairs and figure out what the hell I'm gonna do about Emmaleen—whether that's tellin' her to act normal when the LaRiccias come sniffin'around, or takin' a shower to wash off the tension crawlin' under my skin, or just goin' back to sleep and pretendin' this entire day never happened—when the doorbell rings.
Sharp. Insistent. Cuttin' through the quiet like a blade.
"Fuck!"
My heart kicks against my ribs before I can stop it—instant adrenaline spike, fight-or-flight response firin' on all cylinders because my first thought is?—
It's them. Already. The LaRiccias sent someone and I'm about to have a very difficult conversation while there's a handcuffed woman in my bedroom.
I cross the foyer in three strides, jaw tight, and check the security screen mounted beside the door—blood already boilin', hands flexin' at my sides, ready for whatever's comin'—and then I see the delivery truck parked at the curb, the logo stamped across the side panel.
My shoulders drop as I let out a breath. "For fuck's sake, Lorcan," I mutter, scrubbin' a hand down my face. "Get a hold of yourself."
It's my weekly grocery delivery. Nothing more sinister than that.
Which also means it's evening now. Not afternoon anymore. Five o'clock in the evening, to be precise—because the delivery always comes at five on the dot, every Monday like clockwork.
I've lost the entire day to sleepin' in, and not one moment of it was restful.
I don't open the door. It's contactless delivery—one of the few modern conveniences I've actually embraced, not out of efficiency but because I don't particularly enjoy small talk with strangers on my own doorstep.
So instead, I just stand there like a proper shut-in freak, pressin' myself against the wall beside the front window, peekin'around the edge of the frame like some paranoid recluse watchin' for signs of life in the outside world.
The delivery driver—a kid in his early twenties, I'd wager, wearin' a baseball cap and movin' with the kind of efficiency that comes from repeatin' the same task a hundred times a day—drops the bags on the front stoop, scans somethin' on his phone, then turns and jogs back to the truck without so much as a glance at the door.
Lorcan, my boy?—
One of these days, I'm gonna kill that priest…
I haul the grocery bags inside one at a time, methodically unpackin' them into the fridge and cupboards with the kind of rigid focus that keeps me from over-thinkin' my life choices.
Milk. Eggs. Bread. Butter. Coffee beans. Vegetables I'll probably forget to eat until they're wilted and sad-lookin' in the crisper drawer. A bottle of Jameson because I'm predictable like that.
When everything's sorted, I stand at the sink, hands braced against the edge of the counter, starin' out the window at the harbor lights blinkin' on as dusk settles over the water.
Right.
Can't avoid it forever.
I climb the stairs slowly, each step givin' me another second to prepare for whatever fresh hell awaits me. Maybe she's calmed down by now. Maybe she's worked through whatever spiral Giovanni programmed into her nervous system and she's just sittin' there waitin' for me to unlock the cuffs so we can have a rational conversation about what happens next.
I push open the bedroom door.
She's in the exact same position I left her.
Kneelin'. Forehead pressed to the mattress. Arse in the air like an offering. The curve of her spine is strained, unnatural—physically impossible to hold for this long without crampin' orcollapsin', and yet there she is, perfectly still except for the faint tremor in her thighs that suggests every muscle in her body is screamin' at her to stop.
And… cherry on top… her pussy's wet.
Glistenin' in the dim light of the bedroom, slick trails runnin' down the inside of her thighs like evidence of somethin' I don't want to name. The sheen catches what little illumination filters through the window, and I have to look away for a second because the sight of it—the physical proof of her body's response to whatever psychological maze Giovanni's built inside her head—makes somethin' twist uncomfortably in my chest.
The position itself strikes me as obscene and devotional all at once—a contradiction that shouldn't exist but does anyway, written into the arch of her spine and the tilt of her hips. Like she's prayin' to a god who demands debasement as the price of salvation. Like submission and worship have become so tangled together in her nervous system that she can't separate one from the other anymore.
It's the kind of image that belongs in a cathedral and a brothel simultaneously, and neither place would know what to do with it.
Irritation rises in me immediately, sharp and hot. "Seriously?" I mutter, crossin' the room toward her. "You've been like this the whole time?"
