I know what I swore.
I lead Emmaleen across the open space toward the corner where the high arched doorway waits. The entrance is partially hidden—red velvet curtain layered over black gauzy material that moves slightly in the air current from the heating vents.
My heart's poundin' now. Proper hammerin' against my ribs.
I hate that I love this. Hate that my body's already respondin', already anticipatin', already rememberin' exactly how it feels to cross that threshold and let this side of me come out to play.
We reach the curtain.
I guide Emmaleen in front of me, her body warm and pliant under my touch. One hand flat against her stomach, feelin' her breathe—fast, shallow, nervous. My other hand rises to her breast, findin' her nipple already peaked. I don't twist it. Not yet. Instead I hold it between my thumb and forefinger, rollin' it gently, watchin' goosebumps spread across her skin as her breath catches.
My cock thickens in my jeans.
"Enterin' the chapel is sacred," I murmur, my voice droppin' into that register I haven't used in almost two years—the one that comes from somewhere deep and dark and hungry. "Ya must perform the ritual."
She tenses, nerves rippling through her, and I lean down into her neck, my lips so close to her skin I can feel the heat radiating off her.
"Shh." The sound is gentle, measured, deliberate. My breath raises the fine hairs at her nape, and I feel her shiver against me. "Step through the curtain,a stór."
She hesitates for only a heartbeat before movin' forward, her hand reachin' out to part the gauzy material.
The moment she crosses the threshold, my cock goes fully hard.
I step through after her, and the familiarity of it hits me like a drug.
We stand together just inside the threshold, neither of us movin', and the space opens before us like a confession I can't take back.
Sweet Mother of God.
Father Patrick's voice cuts through my skull, sharp and venomous.
Yave turned the sacred into profane, haven't ya, mah boy? Look at it. Look at what ya've done.
I don't want to. But I do anyway, seein' it through his eyes instead of mine, which is its own special kind of torture.
The kneeler sits in the center—custom-built, padded leather the color of fresh blood, positioned in front of what I've always called the throne. Except it's not really a throne, is it? It's a chair. My chair. Where I sit behind them while they kneel.
That's a prie-dieu, Lorcan. A prayer desk. Meant for supplication before God Almighty, not for some broken girl to worship at yer cock while ya play deity.
I disagree, Father.
And that stone altar behind it—Christ, ya even got the dimensions right. Three feet high, seven feet long, pure marble like somethin' ripped from a cathedral. Except instead of holdin' the Eucharist, ya bend them over it, don't ya? Pressin' their faces to the cold stone while ya?—
Shut up, old man.
—fuck them from behind like animals, their cries echoin' in this desecrated space ya've built to mock everythin' holy.
That's not even close to what this is about.
It's got nothin' to do with God.
It's got nothin' to do with the Church.
It's just… the aesthetic I prefer.
Ya lyin' bastard…
The discipline cord hangs on the wall to the left—braided leather, traditional design, identical to the ones the Brothers used at St. Augustine's. Except theirs were for penance. Self-flagellation. Mortification of the flesh to bring the spirit closer to God.
