The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
“Get up. We’re going out.”
There are only two scenarios where I hear that gruff voice. The first is when the Devil visits, and the other is in my nightmares.
I happen to be in a dreamless sleep, so I pop an eye open.
The Devil is staring down at me, amber eyes glowering in the morning sun. Despite my groggy vision, I can see how handsome he looks. The razor-sharp outline of his bespoke suit, not a single curl escaping his pulled-back hairstyle. The smell of expensive aftershave, leather, and man waft down towards me.
When I get further away from my state of sleep, I come to my senses, tugging the duvet up to my neck. “Out?” I croak, blinking rapidly to wake myself up. “Where?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just get ready.”
His jaw ticks but I match his hard face with a scowl. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I snap, rolling away from his looming silhouette.
Bad idea.
He rips the duvet from my body in a motion so quick that it could be its own wind energy source. There’s nothing but my thin nightie between my body and his hungry gaze. “What did I tell you about talking back to me? I’d bend you over my knee and spank you, but you enjoyed it too much last time.” His fingers graze against the hemline of my nightie, leaving a blazing trail of fire on my skin.
Goddammit, body. Why do you go into meltdown every time he touches you?!
I only swing my feet over the bed and leap up to get away from his wandering hands and my conflicted emotions, not because he told me to. His eyes follow me around the room, and when I turn to him, hand on hips, his gaze falls to my mouth, then below my collarbone. My nipples stiffen at the attention. “Where are we going?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest as if it’s the most natural movement in the world.
“None of your fucking business,” he growls, “Get dressed. Look pretty, and keep your mouth shut. Got it?”
A cocktail of fear and fury swirls in the pit of my stomach. I can’t trust the Devil as far as I can throw him—and by the way he makes this room feel ten sizes smaller, that’s not very far. The voice in my brain is telling me it’s a trap, but the early morning sun warming my cheeks, and the small wisp of a breeze swirling in from the small, child-friendly crack in the window is begging me to reconsider.
I follow the voice that got me far away from Boston in the first place. The one that always tries to protect me. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” I say simply, putting some more distance between us. “Not unless you tell me exactly where we’re going.”
A rumble comes from deep in his chest, one that doesn’t sound human. But I raise my eyes to his. Challenging him.
Why are you going toe-to-toe with the Devil?The sensible voice chimes in again.
I hate that I know the answer.
Because I enjoyed the last punishment he dealt me.
There’s a mild pang of disappointment somewhere deep inside of my loins when he grits his molars together and glances at his watch. “You know,” he says, through clenched teeth. “I’ll tell you this one time, because I don’t have time today for this back and forth. But mark my words, China Doll,” he purrs, closing the gap between us until I can feel the silk fabric of his tie against my chest. “I’ll be sure to punish your disobedience later.” My knees are close to buckling under the weight of his words. “I’m taking you to meet a few clients. It’s collection day and I need a woman’s touch.”
Clients. Collection day.Buzzwords that snap me right out of his intoxicating spell and bring me back to my reality with a heavy thump.
Collecting who?
Because it seems that I have ‘debt’ written across my forehead.
“No chance.” I’m unable to keep the wobble out of my voice as I try to dart past him and into the bathroom. But he’s too quick and too strong. As he wraps his arms around me and the floor disappears underneath my feet, I immediately regret my decision.
He takes me over to the window, flipping me around to face the gardens below. With an aggressive hand, he tugs at the straps of my nightie, ripping it off my shoulders so the fabric pools around my waist. He pushes me up against the window, the cold glass against my nipples makes me gasp. His voice is low and syrup-like, designed for my ears only.
“See those men?” he purrs, his beard tickling the nape of my neck. With ragged breaths, I glance down at the henchmen patrolling the grounds. Cillian in the distance, trimming bushes. White, hot shame creeps over me. If anyone one of them were to look up right now, they’d see me in all my glory. “I asked a question.”
I manage a nod; there’s no air left in my lungs.
“If you don’t do as your told, I’ll fuck you right against this window, and all of my men will watch me take your virginity. Is that understood?”
An unwanted ripple of excitement makes the short journey from the pit of my stomach to between my legs. Lorcan pushes his hard body against my ass, and I stifle a groan when I feel the bulge at the front of his pants. “Yes,” I breathe, choking on the thick, sweaty tension.
“Good girl,” he purrs. There go my knees again. “I’ll be back to collect you in fifteen minutes. Don’t make me wait.”
He pulls away, leaving me to slide down into the window seat in a panting mess.
I spend five of those precious fifteen minutes getting my breath back. What the hell just happened?
Whether I like it or not, my body reacts to Lorcan Quinn in ways that make me want to dig a very deep hole and jump inside. When he’s around me, touching me, talking to me—I’m under some sort of sick, twisted spell. He does things to my body that my brain can’t—or doesn’t want to—understand. And then when I’m left alone again with nothing but a roomful of antiques and my own conscious, I come back to reality with a thump.
Lorcan Quinn is the Devil. And I’m not here with my own free will.
I can’t look at myself in the bathroom mirror as I quickly shower, braid my hair and slip on a camisole dress. Sliding my hands over the thin fabric, I immediately change my mind. Too much breast, too much ass. The words clients and collection linger at the back of my mind like a bad dream. I really don’t need to lean into that right now. Instead, I slip on a Ted Baker maxi dress. The floaty white fabric will keep me cool, but the long, puffy sleeves and Victorian collar cover almost every inch of flesh.
The lock rattles a few moments later, and Lorcan Quinn darkens the doorway once more. I step out of the dressing room, bunching the fabric around my thigh. I hate that I’m watching, waiting for a reaction. Like I’m seeking his goddamn approval.
His jaw sets as his eyes wash over the length of me. He moistens his lips, chest rising and falling quicker than normal. “Very good, China Doll,” he murmurs.
I hate that I feel a burst of pride when I get that approval too.
He steps closer to the door frame, gesturing for me to lead the way. Ironic, considering that I have no idea where I’m going. In the lobby, he turns away from the security screen and drinks me in once more. I flinch as he reaches around to the tip of my braid, but he’s surprisingly gentle when he pulls out my hairband. “Wear your hair loose,” he says, transfixed on my eyes. “I like it loose.”
I swallow whatever sarcastic retort is brewing in my chest. We walk through the grounds in silence, Lorcan leading the way. I learned long ago, when you say less, you observe more. As we pass the gardeners and henchmen, Lorcan’s presence is unmistakable. Eyes lower, heads bow. Nervous energy can be felt from every person we pass.
I can’t deny the power is alluring.
We round the corner and the manor comes into sight. This time, I’m not distracted by the bombshell of seeing Cillian here. Instead, I look up at it, in all of its glory, under the early morning sun, drinking in its grandeur.
It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. An imposing, multi-story building crafted from what can only be Bath stone. No other brick has that dusky yellow hue. Endless windows line each floor, sprawling and snaking away from my line of sight. Like the building I’ve been put in, ivy snakes up the side of the building, like nature is trying to reclaim it for its own.
“It’s been in the family since my great, great grandfather came over from Limerick.” Lorcan’s voice brings me back to reality. “Built it himself.”
“It’s beautiful,” I mutter.
He offers a curt nod, revealing nothing. We follow the perimeter of the house, stopping when the endless windows give way to two white pillars, a large oak door and a set of stairs leading up to it. There’s a man standing in front of it, hands in the pocket of his suit pants. I cup my hand to my eyes to get a better look. The first thing I notice is that he doesn’t look away or fidget when Lorcan comes into sight.
He’s not one of the henchmen.
“Keys,” Lorcan grunts, taking the steps two at a time to meet him. The man’s eyes narrow. As they glint in the sun, I realize they are the exact same color as Lorcan’s.
Great, another Quinn. Let’s hope he leans more towards Orna’s personality instead of Lorcan’s.
He shakes his head. “Not unless you pass a breathalyzer. The driver’s bringing the X7 around.”
Before I can digest what he means about a breathalyzer, he pins me with his glare. “Marcus Murphy’s daughter.”
It’s not a question, and I don’t answer.
But his words add to the itch somewhere in the corner of my brain. Why does everyone give my father’s name such weight? First, the venom in Lorcan’s eyes when he mentioned him. Then Cillian’s off-handed comment in the rose garden.
His eyes are hard, cruel. I immediately take a disliking to him, and I’m not sure that it’s only because he’s clearly related to the Devil himself. He drags his attention back to him. “Need any men?”
“Fuck no,” Lorcan says darkly. “I can handle myself.”
A chill runs down my spine. I don’t like the thought of where we’re going, and why we’d need any ‘men’ to go there. The crunching of gravel in the distance makes me turn my head. I follow the noise and watch as a black SUV rolls up.
“Ready?” he asks, with a bored expression that shows he couldn’t give a flying fuck if I was or not.
I guess I don’t have a choice but to be ready.