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)
"My Saint," she repeats.
Like I'm runnin' the Stanford Prison Experiment out of a stolen Buick.
I should probably be more concerned about the implications of that than I am. But this is neither the time, nor the place for that particular spiral. "Get out of the boot."
Immediately, she complies, but her body unfolds slowly. Like she's performin' some kind of ceremony I wasn't meant to witness. Her spine curves, shoulders roll back, tits thrust forward as she rises from that kneelin' position with the kind of grace that comes from repetition.
From trainin'.
From bein' broken down and rebuilt into somethin' that knows exactly how to move, when to move, and how to present itself.
Christ.
"Faster," I growl, because I can't watch this—whatever this is—for another second without my brain supplyin' commentary I don't want. "For fuck's sake, let's go. I'm freezin', woman."
She speeds up then, climbin' out of the boot with less ritual, but still too much control for someone who should be terrified. When her bare feet hit the gravel drive, she doesn't even flinch at the cold or the sharp stones diggin' into her soles.
I grab her roughly by the arm—partly to move her along, partly to see if she'll react like a normal human being and pull away, or protest, or somethin'.
She doesn't.
She just lets me pull her, pliant and obedient, toward the cabin door. Her skin's warm under my palm despite the November air bitin' at us both. Too warm. Like her body's runnin' hot from somethin' that has nothin' to do with temperature.
I shove the door open with my free hand and drag her inside, then push her toward the couch. "Sit."
She stumbles slightly when I release her—the first uncoordinated movement she's made since I opened that boot—and I turn away to deal with the practical matters of not freezin' to death in a cabin that hasn't been used in three months.
Lights first. The switch by the door controls the main overhead fixture, which flickers twice before stayin' on and castin' yellow light across the sparse interior.
Then the heat—there's a thermostat on the wall that I crank up to eighty because fuck it, we're not rationing electricity tonight. The furnace kicks on somewhere below with a mechanical groan that sounds like it's complainin' about bein' woken up.
I flip two more switches—kitchen light, bathroom light—just to chase away the shadows that make this place feel like a tomb instead of a safe house.
When I turn around, she's not on the couch.
She's kneelin' on the floor.
Right there in the middle of the room on the cold hardwood, like she's waitin' for Mass to start, positioned with her knees pressed together, hands resting on her thighs palms-down, eyes forward, chin lifted just enough to expose the line of her throat and that fuckin' collar still locked around it.
The position's different from the one in the boot but no less deliberate. No less trained.
"I didn't tell ya to kneel," I say. "I told ya to sit."
She doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. Just maintains that perfect stillness like she's waitin' for permission to exist.
How long has she been under Giovanni's control? Weeks? Months? Long enough for this to become automatic—for her body to default to submission the way most people default to breathin'.
Ya know exactly how long it takes, Father Patrick whispers. Ye've seen it before.
"Shut up," I mutter.
The naked woman's eyes flick toward me for just a second before returnin' to that forward stare. She heard me talk to myself and she's not reactin' to that either, which means she's either completely dissociated or she's been trained not to respond to things that aren't directed specifically at her.
Both options are equally disturbin'. And I'm standin' here shirtless, cataloguin' them like I'm writin' a dissertation on psycho-sexual warfare.
I should find her some clothes. Cover her up so I can think straight without her kneelin' there naked and obedient, with those really fuckin' very nice tits all perky and… and wrong.
Wrong, Lorcan.
This is Giovanni's slave.
I don't know what to do with myself.
My brain's spinnin' through options like a fuckin' roulette wheel—each one landin' on somethin' worse than the last. Call Giovanni? Terrible idea. Drive her back? Even worse. Keep her here? Absolutely fuckin' mental.
Questions start spillin' out before I can stop them.
"What's yer name? How long have ya been with Giovanni? Did he hurt ya? Are ya here willingly? What's with the collar? Why did ya call me Saint? Do ya know who I am? Has he been—"
I stop.
Because her face does somethin' strange. Just for a second, confusion flickers across those features—brow furrowin' slightly, lips partin' like she wants to answer but doesn't know which question to tackle first, eyes dartin' between mine like she's searchin' for permission to speak at all.
And then I remember.
Fuck.
Slaves need space to obey. They need clear commands, one at a time, with pauses built in for compliance. Ya can't just rapid-fire questions at them and expect coherent responses—their brains don't work that way anymore. They've been rewired to wait for instruction, to process commands in sequence, to ask permission before speakin' unless directly ordered otherwise.