The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
The sun setting is the only concept of time I have.
It was rising when Lorcan Quinn stormed out of the room, leaving me in a crying heap on the floor. It was high in the sky when I finally crawled back into the bedroom and curled up on the window seat, where I’ve remained ever since. Now, its golden rays are disappearing behind the towering hedges that block out any signs of the outside world.
There’s nothing to do but cry and think and mourn. The tears come in waves, making my eyes swollen and sore, but the questions are an ever-present feature in my mind.
How long have I been here? How much time passed between being drugged in the restaurant and waking up in this… museum? Have Sam and Nellie contacted the police?
It’s the mourning that drags me under, weighing heavy on my chest, making it hard to breathe.
I’m mourning the life I carved out for myself. I worked so goddamn hard to escape the fate the Devil bestowed on me all those years ago. Every business book, every restoration piece, every eBay bid got me further and further away from that monster, but none of it was enough. I’ve landed right back in his clutches.
My thoughts even go somewhere I never allow them to go—my father. All roads seem to lead back to Marcus Murphy. I wouldn’t even be on Lorcan Quinn’s radar if it wasn’t for him. I wonder if he knows I’m here. If he even cares.
When the sky turns to an inky abyss, a chill creeps over my body. Despite it being summer, the evening wind rolls in, rattling the window frames and creaking the floorboards. I tug my knees to my chest and bury my head in the silk fabric around my thighs.
It’s the perfect setting for a visit from the Devil.
My mind wanders back to our morning encounter. I’ve replayed it a million times in my head today, and a cocktail of white-hot embarrassment and anger swirl in my stomach every time. The way his greedy eyes washed over my bare skin. How he boldly staked his claim on me. The shame rises to my face when I remember how he forced me to look into his golden eyes and tell him I’m a virgin.
He is not going to take that away from me.
Fueled by a fresh wave of determination, I uncurl my limbs and stride to the small en suite, slam my hands against the Thomas Crapper basin and meet my swollen eyes in the mirror.
Girl, wash your face and fight.
I turn on the golden taps and splash freezing cold water on my face, then scrub away the streaks of mascara from my cheeks.
I need an escape plan.
In three strides I’m back at the bay window in the bedroom, grappling at the handle. With a lazy groan, it opens a crack, before being hindered by a child lock. I peer outside and sigh—I must be at least three stories high. Even if I bust this lock open, I’ll snap my ankles on the jump.
Right.
I stomp over to the bedroom door and grapple with the knob. It’s locked with a key from the outside. “Fuck!” I hiss, slamming my palm against the painted panels.
Into the dressing room. There’s a door on the left—I fling it open to reveal a surprisingly plain walk-in closet.
Well, I’m not getting out of here tonight, that’s for sure.
As I scan the dressing room, hoping for a portal to another world to magically appear, I notice the smashed pieces of gold, green, and pink on the floor. A pang of hope beats against my rib cage. I might not be getting out of here tonight, but I can play the long game.
I hastily scoop up the pieces and bring them back into the bedroom, laying them down on the bed covers.
A sickly feeling settles over me as I run my fingertips over the shards. The translucent pale green and latticed rose-cut diamonds. The light and dark pink enamel roses entwined with emerald leaves. Heart in my mouth, I hunt through the pieces that make up the bottom of the egg. And there it is. 1907.
With trembling hands, I lay the pieces gently back on the bed.
Fuck.
This is one of fifty-seven known Faberge eggs in the world, and it’s fucking real. The Rose Trellis. I’m holding the shards of one of the rarest pieces of history in my hands. Worth millions and millions of dollars. So rare that it might as well be priceless. And the way the Devil just threw it across the room like he was throwing a soda can in the trash?
Rich. Ruthless. Unhinged.
If he can do that to one of the world’s most famed artifacts then I have no doubt he’ll do the same to me.
But I have no choice. I say a small prayer to Peter Carl Faberge and take the largest, sharpest piece, before carefully putting the rest in the bedside drawer.
It’s pitch black outside now and having secured a makeshift, multi-million dollar weapon and a half-formed plan, I curl up on top of the bed covers and close my eyes.
A fighter needs her sleep.
* * *It could be seconds, minutes, or hours that passed before I hear the scraping of the lock. Suspended somewhere between sleep and a nightmare, I immediately wake up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Ready for the Devil.
He darkens the doorway like a demon. The floorboards groan under his heavy footsteps as he makes his way through the darkness towards the bed.
The bedside lamp flicks on, washing its amber glow over him. Immediately, I notice there’s something… different about him.
“Good evening,” he grunts, ripping his eyes away from my glare to dip below my collarbone. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
My eyes narrow, following him as he walks to the foot of the bed. Slow, deliberate movements. He traces the curve of the gold frame, something resembling a smile dancing on his lips. “How are you finding the bed? It was Marie Antoinette’s.”
Still, I don’t answer. I watch him instead. His hair is disheveled, thick, black strands curl on his forehead. The shirt that was so crisp and white this morning is now wrinkled, and there’s a dark stain on his chest.
He raises his gaze to mine, the somewhat-smile hardening into a scowl. “I’m talking to you.”
Three unsteady strides and he’s inches from me, looming over my body. I force myself not to cower away, instead, I look past him at the bedroom door. He’s left it wide open, and in that pit of darkness lies my freedom.
“Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” I mutter, lying down on my side as if returning to a sleeping position.
The bed dips under his weight. Glancing sideways, I see he’s sitting by my feet. “Then we won’t talk,” he growls, his cold, clammy hand curling around my calf. His touch slides slowly up my leg, over my knee, until it lingers on my thigh.
It’s now or never.
I slip my hand under the pillow, grabbing my weapon. There’s no time to think. I lunge forward and press the sharp enamel into the side of his face, before stumbling to my feet and bolting towards the bedroom door. The light of the lamp doesn’t stretch further than the threshold, so I stumble into the darkness, my shaking hands clamoring around me. They land on a long banister, and I follow the curve until the floor disappears underneath me.
Stairs. Going down. Yes, that’s good. That’s—
The bed groans. The floorboards creak. My breathing hitches in my chest and the slow, deliberate footsteps send a wave of terror washing over my trembling body.
He’s in no rush to stop me.
Because he knows I can’t escape.
The realization paralyzes me with fear. Before my brain can scream loudly enough at my limbs to keep it fucking moving, a strong arm snakes around my waist, lifting me in the air like I weigh nothing.
“Put me down,” I shriek, clawing, hammering, beating against any hard flesh I can reach. “Just let me fucking go, goddammit!”
A few seconds later I’m back in the glow of the bedroom, and when he releases me, I crash onto the soft mattress.
I scramble to get away from him, but he grabs me by the ankle, flipping me onto my back like a rag doll.
Suddenly, his weight is on top of me. His hands are pinning down my wrists, and his thigh is wedged in between my legs.
The fight has left my body by brute force, and I find myself reverting back to being a nine-year-old girl, peeking through the crack of my father’s study. I squeeze my eyes shut. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. What you can’t see can’t hurt you.
“Look at me.” Lorcan’s breath tickles against my cheek. It smells like liquor and cigars. “Now.”
Why make it worse for myself? With a lungful of stale air, I pop my eyes open and force myself to meet his furious glare. His eyes are glassy, unhinged, but the fury behind them is like the pits of hell. The blood drips from his cheek, onto my silk robe in small, warm drops.
He’s going to kill me.
“I own you now,” he says, eerily calm. “I own all of you. Every curve of your body belongs to me. Every hair on your head.” He pushes his thigh against my bare mound. The friction from his suit rubs against my clit, sending an unwanted shiver up to my stomach. “You will do as I want and as I say. You will eat when I tell you to eat. You will drink when I tell you to drink. Is that understood?”
I clamp my mouth shut in response. He pushes his chest closer to mine, and I can feel the strong beat of his heart. His silk tie dips between my cleavage, butter-soft and gentle.
I hate how my nipples stiffen under the weight of him. Hate the way my pussy is tingling from the pressure of his muscular thigh. It’s crazy, but instinctive, to want to push myself against it.
That’s all it is, Poppy. Instinctive.
I need to get myself out of this situation before I lose my goddamn mind. Whatever it takes. “Yes,” I croak.
“Yes what?” he growls back.
“I understand that I’m yours.”
Right now, I’ll say anything to get him off of me. To get him out of this room.
With one last lingering stare, he pushes himself to his feet, picks up my shank from the floor, and slips it into his breast pocket.
“You know what else belongs to me, China Doll? The untouched flower between your legs. And I’ll take it whenever I feel like it.” He looks down at his thigh, then a cruel smile tugs at his lips. I follow his gaze, blood rushing to my cheeks when I see the damp spot on his thigh.
“And it looks like you’ll open your legs and let me.”