Savior?
Father Patrick barks a laugh, but I push him away.
"Saint," I say. Recalling the name she already gave me.
She smiles, just a little bit. "Yes, my Saint."
Sacrilege, Father Patrick sneers.Lorcan, mah boy. Yer goin' to hell, son. You're damned. Yer soul will rot in the fires of damnation.
"Aye," I mutter. "But not today."
Emmaleen gives me a confused look over her shoulder as she steps into the prie-dieu, but doesn't ask. Just kneels like I told her to.
"Good girl," I say, appreciating the way she folds her hands into prayer and bows her head without having to be told. Like she belongs here. Like she understands this space is sacred.
Nah, it's not for prayin' to the god of gods.
It's for embracin' the devil of devils.
That thing inside us that craves pain. That blackness that loves the bite of discipline, the sharp clarity that comes when control is stripped away and all that's left is the raw, honest truth of what we are beneath the lies we tell ourselves about being good.
I position myself behind Emmaleen, one hand steady on her shoulder. She's kneelin', but the pose is not quite right.
"Position Prima," I murmur, guidin' her gently forward. "Forehead to the prayer desk."
She obeys, lowerin' herself until her brow touches the worn wood. The angle forces her back to arch slightly, arse risin', and I push that observation away before it can take root.
"Elbows bent," I continue, tappin' the inside of each arm. "Arms extended. Not too far—just enough."
She adjusts as I watch her find the position.
"Palms together now. Aye, like that. Thumbs touchin' your forehead."
Her hands come together in prayer position, thumbs pressed to the space between her brows, and my fucking God, she looks perfect like this. Broken, and beautiful, and exactly where she should be.
Exactly where ya want her, ya mean.
I ignore Father Patrick and focus on Emmaleen, on the slight tremor runnin' through her shoulders, the way her breath catches every few seconds like she's fightin' tears, or anticipation, or both.
"Good girl," I say quietly, dragging my fingertips down the bones of her spine. Her whole body responds—musclesrelax, breath slows', like those two words unlocked somethin' fundamental in her nervous system.
Right, so here's the thing about power exchange—it's not actually about power at all, is it? It's about trust. About findin' someone who'll hold your chaos steady while you fall apart, who'll catch the pieces and put them back together in an order that makes sense.
Emmaleen's not kneelin' because I'm dominating her. She's kneelin' because she needs someone to tell her what to do when her own mind's too loud, too broken, and too desperate for the structure she can't build herself.
Which makes me exactly the wrong person for this job.
But I'm the one who's here.
"We're goin' to give your mind somethin' to hold onto," I tell her. Sweepin' my fingertips back up her spine until my hand rests on the crown of her head.
"A prayer. Simple. Repetitive. Somethin' to keep the spirals quiet while I prepare the space."
She makes a small sound of acknowledgment, not quite a word.
I crouch down beside the prie-dieu so I can see her face—eyes closed, her lashes dark a contrast against flushed skin.
"Repeat after me," I say, keepin' my voice low and steady. "Saint Lorcan, deliver me."
