"Repeat after me," he says. "I am held."
"I am held," I whisper.
"I am seen."
"I am seen."
"I am forgiven."
My throat tightens. "I am forgiven."
"I am yours."
Oh god.
"I am yours."
"Good girl," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "Now again. All of it. Find the rhythm."
I take a breath.
"I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Again."
"I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Louder, a stór. Let me hear ya mean it."
I push more air behind the words. "I am held. I am seen. I am forgiven. I am yours."
"Perfect," he says.
And then his palm cracks across my ass—hard, sudden,loudin the quiet chapel.
I yelp, my whole body jerking forward, hands scrambling against the prayer desk.
JESUS FUCK?—
"Pray," Saint Lorcan commands. "Don't stop."
My brain is static and alarm bells andow ow ow, but I force the words out. "I am—I am held?—"
Another strike. Same cheek. Just as hard.
"Fuck!"
"Prayharder, Emmaleen. Louder."
"I am held! I am seen!"
CRACK.
The next one lands on my other cheek, and tears spring to my eyes immediately.
"I am forgiven! I am?—"
CRACK.
