The robe hangs on an iron hook. It's made of heavy linen dyed deep crimson. Cut in a monastic style, it's simple, hooded, and ties at the waist with a cord. I pull it on, lettin' the fabric settle against my shoulders, and immediately feel the shift.
The moment I put it on, I'm a different person playin' a whole new role. Not Lorcan anymore—at least not the version who lies to his uncle, and kidnaps girls from mob bosses, and pretends he's got his shit together.
This version of me is older, darker, and more honest about what he is.
A monster in priest's clothin'. That's what ya are.
I tie the cord at my waist and cross back to the prie-dieu.
"Good girl," I say, lettin' my hand rest on Emmaleen's head again. "You can stop now."
Her prayer cuts off mid-sentence, and she goes completely still—waitin' for the next instruction, the next command, the next piece of structure to hold onto.
"Stand up," I tell her.
She unfolds from the kneeler with practiced grace, risin' to her feet beside me. Her pupils are dilated, breath still shallow, body hummin' with anticipation or fear or both.
I take her hand and lead her across the chapel toward the candles. The wall is covered with them—rows upon rows of dark, red, glass votive holders, arranged in perfect symmetry.
"Your Master and your King," I say, "have assigned ya seventeen demerits."
Emmaleen's breath catches at the number.
Is it a lot for her? I have no clue. Giovanni told me seventeen, so I'm clearin' seventeen.
"You'll light one candle for each demerit." I reach into the alcove beside the candle bank and pull out a long wooden kitchen match. "Take this."
She accepts it with both hands, holdin' it like it might break.
I gesture toward the wall. "Strike it there."
She looks at the stone, lookin' at the hundreds of strike marks scorin' the surface. Black streaks. Sulfur stains. A record of every match ever lit in this chapel, every woman who's stood where she's standin' now, lightin' candles for sins committed for the sole purpose of contrition.
And even though I've only lived in this warehouse for five years and haven't used the chapel in nearly two, at least severaldozen women have lit candles for the chance to be forgiven by me.
Each of them more than once.
Emmaleen's hand trembles as she positions the match against the wall.
Every mark a confession, Lorcan. Every flame a soul ya claimed.
She strikes.
Sulfur flares. Light catches.
"Count," I command.
She moves to the first votive, touchin' the flame to the wick. "One."
The candle blooms to life.
She moves to the next. "Two."
And the next. "Three."
Four, five, six… Her voice is steady now, mechanical, each number punctuated by another flame ignitin'. I watch her count, watch the light grow, watch the shadows shift as more candles join the constellations spreadin' across the wall.
"Eleven."
