The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

I wake up to an empty bed and the midday sun beating against the window.

Lorcan’s gone, and the cloak of darkness has come to an end.

Jesus, he must have worn me out for me to sleep in so late.

I roll over and breathe in the scent he left on the pillow. The cocktail of expensive cologne and pheromones drift up my nostrils and swirl around my beating heart.

I lost my virginity.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I bury my head under the covers, drowning out the relentless sun so that I’m alone with nothing but my thoughts. No, I didn’t lose my virginity. I gave it away.

To the Devil.

I wait for it to hit me. For the sinking feeling of regret to crush my chest.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, the butterflies in the pit of my stomach come alive, like they’ve guzzled ten cans of Red Bull and four espressos this morning.

I feel… I don’t know how I feel. Light? Euphoric? Confused.

Blissful.

Yeah, it doesn’t make sense to me either.

There’s a sharp rap, tap, tap, on my door, and when Orna walks through it, I slide back in the bed, making sure every inch of my body is covered, including my face.

“Hey, you,” she says softly, and I hear the breakfast tray clank down on the dresser opposite. “Are you feeling better this morning?”

Oh, what a twisted reality I’m living in. Orna’s concern reminds me that less than twelve hours earlier, I was sobbing as she guided me back to my gilded cage, screaming my hatred for the Devil himself. In the time that passed from her locking me in to bringing me breakfast, I’ve ridden the Devil’s face, had his cock inside of me, and had multiple quivering orgasms at the mercy of his tongue.

And I’m scared my face will betray me.

Her voice is firmer when I don’t emerge from the covers. “Poppy?”

“I’m fine,” I say, begrudgingly emerging from my pit of shame. I brush away the messy strands of hair from my face, but still can’t maintain eye contact with her. “I feel better today, thank you.”

I look in her direction long enough to see her curls framing her face and the warm grin on her lips. “Thank god. If it’s any consolation, I have good news.”

Following the nod of her head, my gaze travels to the door. It’s unlocked.

“Lorcan wants me to let you know he won’t be around for a few weeks. It’s… business.” Her face breaks into a grimace for a split second, before returning to her warm smile. But my heart sinks.

I gave him what he wanted, and now he’s bored of me.

That’s a good thing, right?The voice of reason somewhere deep in my brain consoles me. I did it. I gave him what he wanted. He’ll let me go…

“And there’s even better news,” she announces, extending her hand to me. “Come.”

“Uh…” my eyes travel to the puddle of silk on the floor. “I’m…”

Orna frowns then lets out a laugh, then dips down to pick up my pajamas. “Get hot in the night?”

I have a flashback to Lorcan on top of me, nothing between our bodies but sweat and steam. “Something like that,” I mumble.

She faces the wall as I wrestle with my pajamas under the covers, talking about how hot it is outside today, and about the laundry air-drying in seconds.

When I’m just about decent, she beckons me towards the door. “We’re going out?” I ask, suspicious. “Because I don’t even have a bra on.”

She laughs. “We’re going out of this room, not out of the Museum.”

Keeping my mouth shut, I follow her into the corridor, where she stops abruptly and turns to the door directly to the left of us. “After you,” she beams.

When I regard her with suspicion, which I’m quite right to do given the circumstances of me being in this museum in the first place, she wiggles her eyebrows in encouragement. With a grumble on my lips, I push open the door, revealing a large, open-plan room.

Filled to the brim with antiques.

I flash Orna an awkward grin. “Great, more antiques to stare at?”

What’s that expression again? Too much of a good thing, that’s it. I love antiques, but when you’re locked in a room with them for almost twenty-four hours a day, they seem to lose their magic.

“Yeah, but look—” she wades towards the heap, pulling off dust sheets with a newfound enthusiasm. Then she holds up a mantelpiece clock, not dissimilar to how Rafiki holds up Simba in The Lion King, and a spring pops out and disappears into the pile. Next, she grabs a mirror, flashing it towards me so I can see the broken glass and my scruffy reflection. “I call this place the graveyard. Anything Lorcan’s broken in a fit of anger comes to die here.” She raises an eyebrow, flashing me a knowing smirk. “A lot of the stuff has been broken in transit too.” With force that makes the antique-lover in me shudder, she nudges a Venetian lamp resting against the wall with the toe of her sneaker. “He used to travel the world and collect things, you know? Before…” she trails off, biting her bottom lip.

Before his family was killed. Before he had to take on some real responsibility.

I clap my hands together and say, “Well, this is cool. Thanks for showing me.”

Orna picks up on my less-than-enthusiastic tone and lets out a little chortle. “I’m not finished yet!” As she pushes past me she catches my hand, pulling me out of the room and down the corridor. “Here,” she kicks open the last door to reveal an even larger room.

I step into the space and take a moment to drink it in. In the center sits a large worktable, the surface finished with grid lines and a built-in woodcutter. On the back wall, there’s a row of every tool imaginable—pliers, hacksaws, sanders—and on the left, there’s a floor-to-ceiling unit, full to the brim of paints, varnishes, and stains.

I struggle to find words. Instead, I slowly pace the room, touching every surface, every tool, to see if I’m dreaming.

“Lorcan had it set up a few hours ago,” Orna says, eyes sparkling as she follows me around the room. “He said you like to restore things, and well… there’s a lot to be restored around here.”

Yeah, like my heart breaking into a million pieces.

It can’t handle such a nice gesture. In fact, it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.

“I don’t know what to say.”

Concern creases her brow. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I love it,” I mutter, sucking in my breath. “I’m just… overwhelmed.”

She beams back at me. “It’s nice to see you like this. So happy, I mean. Oh—” I turn just as she’s fishing something from the pocket of her apron.

I recognize the thick cream envelope and the intricate wax seal immediately. She passes it to me and I grumble, “The last time I received one of these, it contained the worst news of my life.”

But Orna falls back, letting me scan through the letter, my heart slamming against my chest.

Miss Murphy,

I won’t be around for a while. Business.

Perhaps you can make yourself useful by doing some restoration.

Lorcan.

P.S. Don’t even think about hiding any of the tools. I’ll be conducting a very thorough frisk search when I next see you.

A ripple of pleasure tears through my body at the thought of Lorcan’s hands all over my body.

“Jesus, you look like you’ve won the lottery.”

Glancing up at Orna’s amused smirk, I realize I’m grinning like a Cheshire cat.

I laugh and shake my head, folding the letter along its crease. Before I can stuff it into the breast pocket of my nightshirt, she swipes it out of my hand.

“No!” I shriek.

“Let’s see what Lorc has to say then,” she says, darting around the room faster than I can catch her.

Her eyes scan the page and she slows to a stop. My heart drops when I realize why.

I’ll be conducting a very thorough frisk search.

It’s obvious that there’s something going on between us. I feel myself cringing, my cheeks flushing even redder than they were last night. Taking in her darkened eyes and sudden scowl, I say, “I can explain—”

“Miss Murphy,” she says slowly, rolling each syllable around in her tongue. Her lips curl upwards. Clearly, my name doesn’t taste that nice.

“Yeah, it’s my father’s name,” I say steadily, watching her.

The atmosphere in the workshop goes from light to dark in a matter of seconds. Orna’s back stiffens, and her eyes drop to her sneakers. “I didn’t realize…”

But she doesn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she hands me the letter and turns to leave the room. “Enjoy the workshop, Miss Murphy,” she says with a strangled tone.

Confused, I follow her out to the corridor and down the stairs. “Orna!” I call after her. “What’s wrong? What’s—”

The slamming of the front door cuts me off, leaving me with nothing but the sound of silence.