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)
Lorcan's hand stills on my neck. Listening.
"Tyler got jealous," I continue flatly. "Said I was flirting with followers. Started monitoring my account. Then answering messages pretending to be me. When I tried to keep it secret, he found out and destroyed my collection. All my signed first editions. Everything."
My voice sounds strange. Clinical. Like I'm describing someone else's life.
"I haven't read a book in almost two years," I whisper. "I haven't even wanted to. And just now, when you described your castle, I pictured myself there, curling up with a book in some tower niche. But then realized that I can't even remember the last time I got lost in a story. The last time I felt... that… thing. That utter falling when you connect with characters."
I blow out a long breath. The grief that surfaces is unexpected. Sudden and overwhelming.
"Ah," Lorcan says softly. "That's why ya were upstairs."
I freeze against his chest. "What?"
"Giovanni's library," he continues, his thumb making slow circles against my shoulder. "Ya broke protocol to get a book."
"I—"
"Don't apologize. I get it now." His voice shifts, warming with something almost like... understanding? "Though I have to say, if you were desperate enough to risk Giovanni's wrath for literature, you picked the wrong library, a stór. Giovanni doesn't read fiction," Lorcan says, and there's definite amusement in his tone now. "Those books aren't his. They came with the house. He just kept them because they looked impressive. Like... decorative spines for his decorative life."
"But you..." I start.
"Read?" Lorcan grins. "Voraciously. Obsessively. My library is actually mine. First editions, signed copies, the whole lot. And considerably more interesting than whatever moldy collection Giovanni inherited."
"What are you reading right now?" The question tumbles out before I can stop it.
His grin widens. "Declan Cross's Keepers Trilogy."
I sit up straighter. So abruptly that I feel his cock shift inside me—still hard, still there—but for once I don't care about the physical.
"The Keepers Trilogy?" My voice climbs an octave. "The Vatican conspiracy one?"
"The very same."
"Indiana Jones if he was Irish and had daddy issues!" I blurt out.
Lorcan barks a laugh, genuine and surprised. "You've read it?"
"I reviewed Book One four years ago! Posted this whole thing about how the Celtic artifact plot line was brilliantly researched but the Vatican conspiracy made absolutely no sense because—"
"—because the timeline doesn't work with the actual Conclave records!" Lorcan finishes, his eyes lighting up. "That bothered me too! Cross just handwaves away the entire 1978 papal succession like—"
"—like historical accuracy is optional when you need a dramatic backdrop!" I'm gesturing now, completely forgetting I'm naked and impaled on this man. "And don't even get me started on the Trinity Knot being hidden in the Sistine Chapel's renovation rubble because Michelangelo would have—"
"—noticed a massive Celtic artifact while painting the fucking ceiling!" Lorcan's accent thickens with enthusiasm. "The man was obsessive about details! He wouldn't have just... missed it!"
"EXACTLY!" I'm practically bouncing now. "But the Dublin scenes? The ones in Trinity College Library?"
"Perfection," Lorcan says reverently. "Absolute perfection. Cross nailed the atmosphere."
"The Long Room description made me want to book a flight immediately."
"Ya haven't been?"
"Never left the States." The admission feels smaller than it should. Less shameful. Just... fact.
"Tragic," Lorcan says, but he's smiling. "Though I have to admit, despite the Vatican plot holes, the second book somehow—"
"—makes it worse!" I interrupt. "Because he doubles down on the conspiracy instead of pivoting to the Irish mythology, which is clearly his strength!"
"But the folklore research—"
"—is impeccable! That's what makes it so frustrating!"
We're both grinning like idiots now. Just... talking. About books. About ridiculous thriller plots and historical accuracy and whether Declan Cross should have hired a better Vatican consultant.
It's the first normal conversation I've had in... God. Weeks? Months?
Not Emmaleen-the-submissive and Giovanni-the-monster.
Not Miss Take earning demerits.
Not the slave girl learning positions.
Just... two people who read too much and have opinions about fictional Irish archaeologists.
Lorcan's watching me with something soft in his expression. Almost tender.
"Would ya like a book to read?" he asks quietly.
The question hits me like a physical thing. My throat tightens. "You'd... let me?"
"Let ya?" He cups my face gently. "Emmaleen. You're not a prisoner here. You're..." He trails off, seeming to search for the right word. "You're under my protection. That includes feeding your mind as well as your body."
"I—" My voice cracks. "I'd love a book." God, I sound pathetic. Desperate.
But I am desperate. Suddenly, violently desperate to lose myself in someone else's story. To remember what it feels like to turn pages and forget myself and just... read.
"You'll let me browse your library?" I whisper, and I'm begging again but this time it's not for punishment or pain or pleasure.
It's for words.
Lorcan's cock twitches inside me, and his eyes darken slightly. "Aye," he says, voice rougher now. "I'll show ya everything."
I'm vibrating with excitement. Actual, genuine excitement that has nothing to do with sex or submission or any of the twisted dynamics I've been swimming in.