"Then you're forgiven. Say it."
"I am forgiven."
"And the last line," Saint Lorcan murmurs. "I am yours. Not because I own ya, lass. Because you'vegivenyourself to me. Freely. Do ya understand the difference?"
I nod against the wood.
"Say it," he commands.
"I am yours."
"Good girl," he says. "Now we're goin' to try again. And this time, when the pain comes, ye'll let the prayer hold ya instead of fightin' it. If it overwhelms ya, I'll stop again and we'll have a moment. I'll always give ya what ya need, Emmaleen."
I let out a long breath, his words gentling me. Helping me relax. Then—suddenly he'sright there, leaning over me, his chest pressed against my back, his cock hard and thick beneath the robe, pressing against my ass.
I freeze.
"But Emmaleen," he says, and his voice has gone cold. Sharp. "If you're thinkin' of trickin' me—of pretendin' to try while holdin' back your true effort—I'll banish ya from this chapel forever. Do ya understand?"
Oh shit.I wasn't gonna do that, but just the thought if it makes me shudder.
Banished.
No. I do not want to be banished.
"I will forgive failure," Saint Lorcan says quietly. "I will forgive tears, and breakin', and losin' count, and forgettin' the words. But I willnotforgive lies. If ya don't give me your best, lass—if ya try to manipulate this—you'll never kneel here again."
His hips press forward slightly, grinding his cock against me, and I whimper.
"So I'm askin' ya now," he murmurs against my ear. "Are ya goin' totry?"
I swallow hard.
Nod.
"Say it."
"I'll try," I whisper. "I'll try my very hardest."
"Good girl."
He straightens, his weight lifting off my back, and I feel the loss of him like a physical ache.
"Then let's begin."
I close my eyes, press my forehead to the wood, and start to pray.
CRACK.
My entire body jolts forward, fingers scrabbling against the prayer desk, and holy fuck that hurt ten times worse than the last one.
"What number was that, a stór?" Saint Lorcan asks, voice calm as death.
I freeze.
My brain scrambles, desperately trying to rewind the last sixty seconds, trying to count how many strikes I've taken?—
Five? Six? Eight?
