The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

When the door locks behind Lorcan and I hear his heavy footsteps descending the stairs, I sprint into the bathroom and face myself in the mirror.

My act of defiance is joining him for dinner in an outfit that’s one step up from pajamas, but it doesn’t hurt to put a little bit of concealer over my puffy undereyes. And maybe I’ll dry my hair. Even run a little serum through it, perhaps.

I lock eyes with myself as I finger the false eyelashes in my new makeup bag. Get a goddamn grip, I say telepathically to my reflection.

There was a kidnapping case a few years ago that made the rounds in the news. Angie Baker, she was called. A girl around my age, walking home from her shift at a cafe when a van pulled up to the sidewalk and bundled her inside. I was obsessed for a little while because the fear of being kidnapped has always rightfully lingered over me. I watched every news segment, where stern-looking police officers would stand outside the station in front of a bunch of microphones and flashing cameras to appeal for witnesses. I remember her family sobbing on a talk show, staring down the camera lens, and begging their daughter to come home. I forgot about it entirely until six months later she reappeared as easily as she disappeared. She was healthy, a smile on her face as she waved to the press walking into the police station. She refused to give the name of her kidnapper, stating that he wasn’t a bad person.

Stockholm Syndrome, the newspapers called it. When you come to like your kidnapper.

I think about how my lungs caved inwards as Lorcan pulled me from the window seat and pressed his hard body against mine. How I involuntarily melted as the hand he used to kill a man just hours earlier grazed against my cheek. And now, here I am, goddamn mascara wand in my hand, ready to paint my face to go to dinner with this monster.

Even against the backdrop of constant fear, the sound of gunshots ringing in my ears, I’m on the verge of having Stockholm Syndrome.

I’m just too weak to fight the feelings right now.

A housekeeper I don’t recognize comes and collects me a few moments later. She has the same thick curls as Orna and the hallmark amber eyes. She’s uncomfortable as she guides me through the gardens, making small talk about the balmy weather and commenting on how much she likes my hair. I can see the visible relief on her face as we pass through a side door into the main manor and she points to the end of the corridor. “The dining room is right there,” she smiles at me.

She has the same pitiful expression as Orna too.

As she clicks the door shut behind me, my eyes are instantly drawn to the ceiling of the hallway. It’s painted with the intricacy of the Sistine Chapel, with pastel cherubs and men in flowing robes smiling down at me. Several gold chandlers light my path to the dining room, and as I pass under their crystal ornaments, I’m overwhelmed with how palatial everything is. It triggers something deep inside me—my passion for antiques. If this wasn’t the Devil’s lair, I’d love nothing more than to comb each section of this house, looking at every relic and keepsake, drinking in all the history.

But dinner with the Devil awaits.

I turn into the doorway of the dining room, and it’s as extravagant as I expected. The same painted ceilings of the corridor carry on into the cavernous room. Underneath them sits a sprawling dining table, upholstered chairs lining each side. The beauty of the dining setup takes my breath away. Dozens of flickering candles perched atop candelabras create a warm glow over the textured wallpaper and oak cabinets.

At the head of the table, Lorcan is leaning back in a chair, watching me.

“You came.”

“I doubt I had a choice.”

Is that a smile tugging at his lips? I scan the table and feel like I’m back in the school dining hall, looking for somewhere to sit. My eyes settle on the chair on the complete opposite end of the table. “Don’t even think about it,” he drawls, dragging out the chair next to him and patting the overstuffed seat cushion. “Sit.”

Holding my tongue, I take the seat. Lorcan’s eyes burn into the side of my head. Eventually, the magnetic force of his gaze is too overpowering, and I drag my eyes up to his face.

I hate how breathtakingly handsome he is. The soft lighting from the million candles flickers against the hard lines of his face, making him look almost human. But there’s no denying the otherworldly presence that he has. Good or bad. His suit fits him like second skin, and I realize that I’ve never seen him in anything else.

Suddenly, I feel embarrassingly underdressed.

A woman that looks like Orna puts a plate in front of me—an elaborate prawn cocktail dish, deconstructed across a marble plate like a piece of art. I’m thinking too hard about how the hell I’m going to eat it when Lorcan’s voice stabs the thick air.

“How did you know the money was fake?”

His eyes search mine, curiosity brewing behind them.

Straight to the point, I see.

I offer my most nonchalant shrug as if I spot counterfeit money in strip joints for a mafia boss every day. “I created the props for the theater productions in high school. One year, the production was Guys and Dolls.” I can’t help but smile at the ridiculousness of it now. “Lots of fake money to be made. I wanted it to look as real as possible, so I read up on counterfeits. Once you know what you’re looking for, it’s pretty easy to spot fake bills.”

He watches me for a beat, then laughs. Yes, the Devil just laughed. A delicious throaty laugh that throws him back in his chair. A wave of unwanted pleasure washes over me.

“So, you’re good with your hands?” he asks. The way his eyes twinkle tells me it’s a loaded question.

“I’m good at restoration,” I say, stabbing a prawn with my fork.

“Restoration?”

“Antiques,” I mumble. “I’ve done it for years.”

He cocks his head, watching me cram another prawn into my mouth. Damn, this is delicious.

Surprise laces his voice. “You’re interested in antiques?”

I nod.

“Then why didn’t you say?”

“Say when? Before you kidnapped me or after you held a gun to my head?”

There’s that damn laugh again. “You must love the Museum, then.”

The snort that escapes my lips is unladylike. I dab my mouth with a napkin, mostly to hide my mortified face. Then I compose myself and say, “No, I hate the Museum. It’s overcrowded and dusty and I’m stuck in it for twenty-four hours a day.”

Silence fills the air, broken only by the scraping of my fork against the plate.

“When did you start restoring things?”

“When you decided to claim me.”

The truth slips from my mouth like butter on a warm day. Lorcan fingers the rim of his whiskey glass, then leans in, closing the gap between us. “Why?”

Heat rises to my cheeks; for once it’s not because I’m embarrassed but because I’m annoyed at his naivety.

“To make as much money as I possibly could. To get the hell out of Boston. To escape you.”

He regards me now with sheer fascination. “And how did that work out for you?”

“How do you think?”

A small chuckle this time, before reclining in his seat, framing me with a gaze.

“So, Stanford.”

My fork clatters against the plate. “Are you trying to write my autobiography?”

“No, I’m trying to get to know you. Stanford. Why?”

“They have the best business school in the country. I loved restoring antiques, but I loved the money it made me too,” I say truthfully.

“That’s an incredible achievement.”

Our eyes lock. He seems like he means it. Suddenly, my heart is too heavy and plummets into the depths of my stomach. I’ve spent the last week focusing on the present, trying my best to forget about the past and not think about the future. Yes, getting into Stanford was an incredible achievement. It was an opportunity of a lifetime, and now the Devil, in all his glory, has taken that from me.

“Your father must be so proud,” he says, each word coming from his mouth slow and deliberate. He’s watching me, assessing me, for my reaction.

“I wouldn’t know,” I say through gritted teeth. It’s crazy how much anger bubbles in my gut the second my father pops into my head. “I don’t speak to him.”

Lorcan’s drink doesn’t make it to his lips. He frowns over his glass. “You don’t speak to your father?”

“No,” I all but hiss. “I haven’t spoken to him since the day he let you stake your claim on me.”

It’s my turn to study him, and it’s fascinating watching the Devil unravel. His perma-scowl slips from his brow, only long enough for me to see the pure shock underneath. He slowly returns his drink to the table, without ever having taken a sip.

I feel something. A shift in the room. One that might give me an edge.

Maybe this is my way out.

“My father doesn’t care that I’m here, Lorcan. My father probably doesn’t even know.” My hands are sweaty as I roll the silk napkin between my thumb and forefinger. “Taking me was a way to get back at him, but it hasn’t worked.” Lorcan’s staring at a spot above my head. I’m not sure he’s even listening. The panic rises in my throat like I can see the countdown clock on a bomb. It only has seconds until it explodes, and I have to do everything I can to stop that from happening. “He doesn’t care, Lorcan,” I all but squeal. “My father doesn’t care! I’m not part of this world. There’s no reason to keep me. Please. Just let me go. Let me—”

The Devil is quick to cut me off, sliding his hand around my neck, moving my hair to expose my throat to him. The sudden move knocks all the desperate air from my lungs.

His lips slide over my throat, leaving a trail of goosebumps. They glide over the throbbing vein in my neck, up to the curve of my chin, and settle below my ear. “Fuck your father, Miss Murphy,” he drawls. My eyes squeeze shut. “Because this isn’t about your father anymore, it’s about you. You. You’re mine. My sweet, rare, China Doll. I collect things, and you’re one of my things now. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to let you go. When I’m done with you.”

His whiskey breath against my ear lobe. His warm, strong hand stroking the base of my neck. It sends an electric shock through my nervous system, and I have to stifle the moan. Stifle the feeling of lust building up inside of me.

Godfuckingdammit, Devil. Have me. Have your wicked way with me and let me go.

But my body can’t overtake that little niggling feeling in my mind.

I don’t know where the strength comes from. “Let me go,” I croak.

I’m suspended somewhere between pleasure and terror for a few moments longer before he unwinds himself from me. I rip myself away and run from the dining room, without looking back.