"Ah,thereya are," he murmurs, voice low and reverent. "It's done now, a stór. The penance is complete. Ya did it—all seventeen, counted perfectly. Such agoodgirl. Such abrave, beautiful girl."
His palms slide slowly up my trembling back, fingers splayed wide, tracing the curve of my spine like he's reading braille, like my body is scripture he's memorizing. Over my shoulders, down the length of my arms, his touch deliberate and grounding.
Petting me.
Soothing me.
Worshiping me.
Anchoring me back to reality one stroke at a time.
"So proud of ya," he whispers. "You tookeverystrike. Counted perfectly. Prayed so beautifully."
I'm gasping into the prayer desk, my whole body wrung out and trembling, but—I did it.I actually fucking did it.
Seventeen strikes. Seventeen prayers. No resets.
Saint Lorcan's hands cup my face, tilting my head up gently so I'm looking back at him over my shoulder.
His gray eyes are soft. Warm.
Proud.
"Are ya ready for your absolution, luv?"
I blink at him through tears, my brain still half-dissolved, trying to process what that means.
Absolution.
If that means what I think it means—if absolution is his word for what comes next, for release, and reward, and that final benediction that will shatter the last brittle pieces of me holding on—thenfuck yes, I'm ready!
My body is already saying yes before my brain can catch up, hips shifting restlessly despite the burn, despite the exhaustion, despite everything.
I want it.
Whatever he's offering, whatever comes next in this twisted liturgy we're performing together.
I wantallof it.
My pussy clenches involuntarily, and I know—Iknow—that whatever he's about to do to me is going to wreck me in entirely new ways.
But also?—
My ass is literally on fire.
I'm crying.
I just prayed my way through the most intense spanking of my entire life.
And I'mhappy.
Like, genuinely, inexplicablyhappy.
Which is absolutely fucked up and also somehow exactly right.
A broken laugh bubbles out of me.
"What is it, lass?" Saint Lorcan asks, thumbs stroking my cheeks.
