The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Lorcan
Between the sun setting and the sun rising, Poppy hasn’t left my mind, not for even a second.
Not when I signed the contract with the Peruvians and toasted to the streets of Boston no longer being dry.
Not even when I sent Donnacha off with the emerald four-leaf clover to give to Igor Bratnov.
The Quinn family symbol of war.
I should be in the trenches preparing for the imminent battle. Instead, I’m acting like the king of the castle in my study, looking out to my princess’s ivory tower.
I’m surprised when she comes into view, walking in step with Orna. I scowl and crack my knuckles, wondering what she’s doing.
Orna disappears out of view and comes back with a bagful of laundry. I turn my attention back to Poppy. Because that’s all I can see. Not her father. Not a token of revenge or a rare keepsake. Just Poppy.
The other thing that hasn’t left my mind all night is the kiss.
Not just the feeling of her soft lips against mine and her soft, silky hair wrapped around my fist. But the feeling of my cold, dead heart cracking.
My mind is a goddamn mess and not just because of the two bottles of The Smugglers Club I’ve knocked back to numb the feeling.
She looks like an angel in that billowing white dress. Gesturing wildly as she talks to Orna, who’s laughing at whatever she’s saying. Then she dips into the laundry basket herself and pulls out a towel, folding it and placing it in the bag at her feet.
I should be out making calls and working with Antoin to secure the city in preparation for Igor Bratnov’s attack, but I can’t take my goddamn eyes off her.
A movement in the corner of the garden catches my attention. One of my men, Martin. He twitches again and it takes me a couple of seconds to realize he’s tugging at the fabric around his dick. Then I follow his eye line and realize he’s staring at the dress riding up Poppy’s ass as she bends over to pick up a sheet from the laundry basket.
The rage is all-consuming. I don’t think twice about storming out of my study, picking up the Glock from my desk as I go, and stalking out into the grounds.
A shot rings out, the bullet narrowly missing Martin’s head. Instinctively, he reaches for his rifle as he ducks, before realizing that the bullet came from me. Even under his helmet, I can see the surprise on his face. I close the gap between us, a growl brewing deep in my chest. “If I ever see those fucking eyes even glancing at my girl again, then I’ll gouge them out with a spoon.”
His mouth opens and closes in a weird sort of quiver. But he knows better than to protest. “Now get out of my sight.”
He does what I say in record time.
When I turn to face Poppy and Orna, they both have very different expressions. Poppy has a sheet clutched to her chest, eyes wide and slacked jawed, whereas Orna is scowling her signature scowl, hands on her hips and lips pursed. “Are you trying to give us a heart attack?” she barks at me.
“I’ll give you more than a goddamn heart attack,” I snap back, joining them at the patio. I grab the sheet from Poppy’s quivering hands and toss it back in the basket. “Why is she out here doing your fucking job for you?”
Orna rolls her eyes. “Because otherwise, she’ll blow her brains out from the boredom of staring at your musty antiques twenty-four-seven.”
A laugh from the other side of me. I turn to see Poppy’s dazzling grin. I grit my teeth to keep my level of anger at its peak, but I can’t help how my heart softens and my blood melts from a boil to a simmer. “You think that’s funny?”
She lowers her lashes but is unable to hide her smile. “No.”
“That’s what I thought,” I grunt. “Now stop folding fucking sheets.”
She pouts. “And do what? Stare at those musty antiques?”
Now it’s Orna’s turn to laugh.
“I’ll lock you both in there if you aren’t careful.”
Poppy cups a hand to her forehead and looks up at me. “Sounds like a great idea. At least I’ll have some good company.” Then, she leans over and picks a bit of lint off my suit, flicking it into the wind.
I can’t concentrate on her sassy remarks or think of the right punishment to deal with them. My shoulder burns from her touch and my mind races with the ease at which she did it. Like I wasn’t her captor and she wasn’t my keepsake.
Like I wasn’t even the Devil at all.
I swallow the swell in my throat and turn away without another word.
This is a slippery slope, and I make a vow right then and there that I’m not going to fall down it.
My armor goes back up.
And my heart—my stupid fucking heart—needs to turn back to stone.