Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Writhing. Submitting. Taking. Giving.
The scent of it, the weight of it, presses against me like an invitation, and I breathe it in.
I don’t belong here.
Not tonight. Not in this headspace.
But I came anyway. And without my mask. I’m done pretending I’m two people. Consequences be damned.
I scan the room, my pulse a steady, punishing thrum beneath my skin. I know who I’m looking for. A particular person clad head to toe in latex, booted heels tipped in a wicked spike.
Quinn.
She’s easy to spot. In all black, confidence rolls off her as she sits on a throne-like chair with a man kneeling at her feet, his head bowed, his body slack in surrender. She runs a hand through his hair absentmindedly as if he’s a pet. The room seems to orbit around her without her even trying.
I cross the floor in measured steps.
When I reach her, I don’t hesitate. “Mistress Quinn. I’d like to engage your services for the night.”
“Father Blackwood,” she purrs, dismissing the man at her feet with a flick of her wrist. He whines but crawls away.
She looks up at me and takes her time raking her gaze over my frame. Reading me.
“You look like hell, Father.”
I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension coil tighter. “I need your services.”
Quinn leans back in her chair, crossing her legs, the movement lazy. Unbothered. “Oh?”
“I need you to hurt me.”
She stills. Not a dramatic pause, not a tease—just pure, assessing silence. Then, slowly, she exhales, setting her drink down on the table beside her.
“You’re not my usual clientele.”
“I don’t care.” My voice is raw, scraping against something inside me that feels close to breaking. “Just do it.”
She studies me, taking her time, eyes slicing through my composure like a scalpel. She sees too much. She always has.
“This about her?”
My teeth clench, and my pulse roars.
“Questions aren’t part of the bargain.” My voice is low with warning.
Quinn smirks, tilting her head like she’s debating. “Oh, I think they are.” She stands, stepping closer, the scent of expensive perfume curling around me. “Because you, Father, are not a man who gives up control easily. And yet, here you are.”
I don’t flinch. “Are you going to help me or not?”
She lifts a hand, trailing one perfect, red-tipped nail down my chest. Slow, deliberate.
“I could break you,” she murmurs, a whisper of a promise.
I meet her gaze, unflinching. “That’s the point.”
She lets that hang between us. The music pounds, distant, like it belongs to another world—one where I haven’t lost everything. One where Moira still calls me hers.
Then Quinn laughs. A quiet, knowing sound. She steps back, shaking her head.
“No.”
The word slams into me harder than any whip ever could. It lodges deep, where the wounds are still open and bleeding. My body locks up.
“You’re refusing?” My voice is even, but barely. “Why?”
She shrugs. “I don’t play with men looking to run from their pain.”
I exhale through my nose. “That’s not what this is. I want the pain.”
She tilts her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. “Oh, really? So tell me, Father. Are you here because you like submission?”
I stay silent.
“Are you here because you want to serve?”
My jaw tightens.
“Or are you here because you think if I beat the hell out of you, it’ll erase what’s already been done?”
Something in my chest twists violently. “Don’t act like you know me.”
“Oh, but I do.” She steps closer again, pressing a single, manicured finger to my sternum. “I know exactly what you are. A man who takes. Who dominates. Who breaks others, piece by piece, until they’re nothing but offerings at his altar.”
My teeth clench. I don’t respond.
She leans in, lips just brushing my ear.
“And now? You want someone to break you?”
The breath I take is sharp, burning its way down.
“I need to feel something else,” I grind out. “I need to be punished for my sins.”
She pulls back, meeting my gaze again, something knowing in her expression. “No, you want to feel her. You want to replace the pain of losing her with another kind, but you’re not built for that, Father. You don’t bend.”
I clench my fists, every muscle in my body screaming for violence, for anything that isn’t this truth she’s carving into me. “If you won’t do it, I’ll find someone who will.”
Quinn sighs, stepping back. “You could. Plenty of people here would love the chance to put their hands on you.”
She sits again, taking her time crossing her legs and picking up her drink.
“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” she murmurs. “You don’t want them. You want someone who can actually hurt you.” She takes a slow sip, eyes glinting.
Then, with the smallest tilt of her head, she gives the order.
“Kneel.”
It’s not a request. Not an invitation.
It’s a command.
My body locks up. A muscle in my jaw ticks. I’ve only kneeled before one person in my entire life.