"—yours!"
"Again," he says, and there's no mercy in his voice now. Just calm, relentless authority.
"I am held?—"
CRACK.
"—I am seen?—"
CRACK.
"—I am forgiven?—"
CRACK.
My voice breaks on the last line. "I am—I am?—"
CRACK.
"Yours!"
Tears are streaming down my face now, my ass ison fire, and I can't remember what comes next in the prayer because my brain has officially abandoned ship.
"I am—Saint Lorcan, I can't?—"
The strikes stop. Immediately. Saint Lorcan's hands settle on my hips again—gentle, grounding. "Easy, beloved," he murmurs. "Breathe for me."
I'm sobbing into the prayer desk, my whole body shaking, and he just... pets me.
Strokes my back.
Cups my hip.
Waits.
"Focus, a stór," he says quietly. "The prayer is your anchor. When the pain gets too much, the words hold ya steady. But ya have totrustthe words. Trust that they're true."
His hand slides between my thighs again—not sexual, justthere. Grounding me.
"I am held," he says. "Do ya feel my hands on ya?"
"Yes," I whisper.
"Then you're held. Say it."
"I am held."
"I am seen," he continues. "Do I see ya, lass? Every part of ya—the fear, the need, the tears?"
"Yes."
"Then you're seen. Say it."
"I am seen."
His thumb strokes along my inner thigh. "I am forgiven. When ya fail, when ya break, when ya can't remember the words—do I punish ya for it, or do I stop and help ya?"
My breath hitches. "You help me."
