Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 475(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
But she didn't answer my question. So I ask a different one. "Are you afraid of Giovanni?"
Emmaleen sighs. "No. But like I just said. I'm not the best judge of character. That probably says more about how broken my threat-detection system is than it does about whether Giovanni's actually safe."
I keep my eyes on the road.
Process that.
Christ.
The silence stretches. I don't know what to say, so I let it.
She's the one who breaks it. "Lorcan?"
"Hmm."
"Should I be afraid of Giovanni?"
I look her in the eyes and nod. "Yes, Emmaleen. Ya absolutely should."
She blows out a breath. Turns her back to me. Stares out the window. Rests her head against it. "OK. Well. I'm tired. So…"
"Yeah. Rest. Sleep. You're not gonna miss nothin'."
And that's what she does.
She turns off.
8
I wake up disoriented, my neck cramped, muscles stiff, awareness flooding back in fragmented pieces like a Netflix show resuming mid-episode after someone pressed pause three weeks ago and you have absolutely no idea what's happening, or who these people are, or why everyone's crying.
Where the hell am I?
Panic claws up my throat. The surface beneath me is moving. Engine rumbling. Windows dark. Someone else's clothes on my body. A collar around my throat—
A hand touches my shoulder.
I gasp, jerk away hard, my spine slamming against the car door.
"Easy, easy—it's just me."
Irish accent. Gray eyes. Blond hair.
Oh.
Relief floods through me so fast I actually smile. "Lorcan."
"Yeah. You're alright. Just wakin' ya up. We're nearly home."
I blink at him.
Process that word.
Home.
His home. Not mine. Because mine is—
Giovanni's dungeon. Jino's training mat. The throne where I kneel. Position Three with my forehead pressed to stone. The punishment bench. The notebooks. The rules I broke by taking the key. The library I wasn't supposed to enter. The book I wasn't supposed to touch.
The sads hit me like a freight train driven by a nihilist who doesn't believe in brakes.
I turn away from Lorcan, staring out the window as my throat tightens and my eyes burn. Don't cry. Do not fucking cry in front of the hot Irish kidnapper who thinks you're a victim. Prove him wrong by not being pathetic.
"Hey." His voice gentles. "You alright?"
"Yeah. Fine. Just—tired."
Liar.
I sit up properly, forcing myself to look around, to notice things like a functioning human with working observational skills instead of a broken wind-up toy that only knows three positions and how to count to thirty.
We're driving through what looks like someone tried to build a utopian future city but also wanted to keep it tasteful. Sleek glass buildings. Exposed brick. String lights everywhere like the neighborhood hired an Instagram influencer as urban planning consultant. Waterfront views. Trendy restaurants with names like "Salt & Ash" or "The Butcher's Daughter" that definitely serve twelve-dollar toast.
"South Boston Waterfront," Lorcan says, watching me take it in. "Seaport District. Don't judge me."
I snort despite myself. "For what?"
"For livin' somewhere this fuckin' trendy."
And just like that, my brain kicks back online. Oh good. We're doing banter. I know how to do banter. Banter is safe.
"Wait, hold on. You kidnapped me. Shoved me in a trunk. Drove me across state lines. Lectured me about Sartre, and Foucault, and Giovanni's psychological damage while I was naked—and now you're worried I'll think less of you because your neighborhood has… what, artisanal coffee shops? Overpriced juice bars? A farmer's market on Sundays where people buy seven-dollar heirloom tomatoes?"
He almost smiles. "There's a ramen place on the corner that does a twenty-three-dollar bowl with a single soft-boiled egg like it's a Fabergé artifact."
"Unforgivable. I take it all back. You're the monster. Giovanni who?"
That gets a real laugh out of him.
But then his face shifts—something darker crossing it—and I realize I fucked up by saying Giovanni's name. Reminded us both why I'm here. What I'm running from.
Or not running from.
I don't even know anymore.
Lorcan eases the car onto a quieter street, and I realize with a jolt that we're heading straight toward the water. The pavement narrows, industrial buildings giving way to open sky, and suddenly we're not just near the waterfront—we're on it. A private pier stretches out ahead of us, sleek and modern, lined with bollards and railings that gleam under the streetlights.
He pulls up to what looks like a converted brick warehouse. It's massive, industrial, gorgeous in that gentrified-former-factory way that screams I have money and taste but I want you to think I'm too cool to care about either.
A huge glass garage door begins to rise.
"Oh, fancy," I say, because sarcasm is my emotional support animal and I will ride it into the ground.
"Wait for it." He drives inside—not into a garage but into some kind of vestibule. The glass door closes behind us with a heavy, airtight thunk. We sit there. Waiting.
Then another door—this one solid steel—opens in front of us.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter. "What is this, a bank vault? A supervillain lair? Are we about to enter the Batcave?"