The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

“Knock, knock,” a voice chortles through the bedroom door. Whoever it belongs to doesn’t actually knock.

I slide off the bed, sticking my thumb between the pages to mark my place. “Uh, come in?”

The door bursts open to reveal a beautiful blonde woman. She brings in the scent of late summer and Chanel perfume, along with a rack of expensive-looking clothes. “Hey girl!” she chimes, whipping her impossibly long extensions around her shoulders. “You must be Poppy.” Her slender hand appears under my nose. As she dangles it in front of me, she scans the room. “Jesus. A bit creepy in here, isn’t it?”

Yeah. I think I’ll need to make use of my makeshift bookmark for this.

I awkwardly take hold of it before she snatches it back. “I’m J.K.” She pops her gum and her false lashes flutter as she sweeps her gaze from my messy bun down to my paint-covered sneakers. “I’m getting Cinderella going to the ball vibes. Right?” Only when she snaps around, do I notice Orna hovering in the door frame. My heart surges as we lock eyes. She flashes me a meek, apologetic grin. I don’t know whether it’s because she let this Barbie hurricane into the museum to assault my ears so unexpectedly, or because she’s been MIA for nearly a month.

J.K. doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, she grabs the rack of clothes and tugs it across the floorboards, wobbling in her red-bottom heels. “Okay, so, fashion show…” she chirps, snapping her fingers to a beat only she can hear. “Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll go try everything on, give us a twirl, then we’ll decide on the dress that makes you look the cutest. Goddit?”

My mouth opens long enough for a weird, strangled noise to escape before it closes again. “Okay, so,” she purrs, “shall we start with the Lanvin? Or De La Renta? Who’s your favorite designer? I’m pretty sure I—”

“Hey, J.K.?” Orna’s loud voice cuts through this random woman’s ramblings. There’s a firmness to her tone that I really appreciate right now. “Let’s do it a different way. You leave the rack here, we’ll send back whatever we don’t choose. Okay?”

J.K.’s gum almost drops out of her mouth. “Uh, but where’s the fun in that?”

“Oh, believe me, it’s there somewhere.”

We lock eyes and I stifle a laugh, suddenly interested in the beadwork closest to me. Anything to avoid J.K.’s hard stare. “Okay,” she huffs through the silence, “I get the picture. Call me if you need any help, I guess. Or don’t. It’s whatever.”

Orna steps to the side so J.K. can make her dramatic exit, her draped cardigan and endless hair flowing behind her. She follows her down to the lobby, lets her out, then appears in the doorway once more.

The room fills with an awkward silence that makes me wish J.K.’s loud mouth was dominating the space again.

“Sorry about her,” Orna eventually mutters, playing with a chip on the wooden frame. “She used to dress all the Quinn girls for any ball or gala we’d attend. I haven’t seen her in years. Just the mention of her name gives me PTSD.”

Instead of easing into conversation, I pin her with my stare. She meets it and sighs. “Okay, I’m sorry about me too.”

“I thought we were friends,” I say bitterly. “But I guess not.”

Her eyebrows shoot up under her curls. “We were—are. It’s just…” she trails off and bites her lips, offering me a pathetic shrug instead of the explanation I deserve.

“It’s just what? My last name?” I snap. “Please, Orna, tell me. What is it about my last name that is so horrifying, that you fled out of this building like a bat out of hell and didn’t return for a month?”

“I’m sorry, Poppy. It was a shock. I had no idea that you were Marcus Murphy’s daughter.”

“And so what if I am?” I bark back, unable to hide my anger anymore. “He was only a low-ranking lackey, right? One that made a stupid mistake that led to your family being killed. Why am I being punished like this?”

She shakes her head. “Poppy…your father was anything but a low-ranking lackey. He was a pure evil bastard.”

My heart rate accelerates, thumping so loudly, I can hear it in my ears.

Pure evil?

The man formerly known as my father, Marcus Murphy. I always knew he was a bad man, but he wasn’t powerful enough, brave enough—hell, smart enough, to warrant that title.

Orna shakes her head, staring somewhere about my head. “You never knew, did you? You were never meant to know. Donal made sure of that.”

I drop the Chanel gown I’m holding; it sinks to the floor, forming a puddle of tulle and lace. “Tell me,” I choke out, unable to take my eyes off her, “please.”

She chews the inside of her lip, the color draining from her face. “I’ve already said too much.”

“Orna—”

“Stop,” she hisses with a venom that doesn’t match her usual open features and sunny smile. “Please. Like I said, Lorcan’s father swore that you’d never find out who he really was. I can’t, won’t, be the one that betrays him.”

She rises to her feet, unsteady and flustered. “Now,” she says, turning her attention to the rack of clothes. “You’ll accept my apology for ghosting, and we’ll draw a line under the sand. I’ll help you get ready for this dinner—I’ll even bring up a bottle of champagne, if you like—and then we’ll gossip and bitch and catch up on everything we’ve missed over the last month. I understand if you don’t want to accept that apology, Poppy. Tell me to leave and I will. Either way, once Lorcan has told you the truth, then I’ll be happy to answer any questions that you have.” She turns to face me, eyes watery. “Please don’t make my life harder than it already is.”

I swallow her words, feeling numb.

“Champagne would be nice.”

The next two hours are nowhere as awkward as I thought it’d be. It’s easy to slip back into conversation with Orna, and after a few glasses of Moet and a couple of ice-breaker anecdotes on Orna’s behalf, it feels like we’re back to normal with each other.

Well, as normal as my new normal is.

“I think the silver Oscar de la Renta,” she says as I stand in the middle of the dressing room. Her face beams back at me from several different mirrors.

“And I think this champagne has gone straight to my head.”

She lets out a little laugh and lunges over to grab the half-empty flute from my hand. “Jesus, I better get you some water, Lorcan will kill me if he realizes I’ve got you sloshed.”

A warm feeling floods the pit of my stomach. It’s sudden and unexpected and I’m struggling to wade through the champagne fog to find its source.

Lorcan.

His name burns the back of my throat and makes my heart skip a beat. I’m excited to spend some time with him outside of the Museum. Outside of my bed.

I bite my lip and turn my attention back to my reflection. “Is it too much?”

“You look like a Greek goddess. Lorcan will love it. And I can tell by your cheesy grin that you love it too.”

I do. It’s fashioned almost like a toga, with a sweeping single shoulder and a cutaway bodice. It cascades to the floor like a silk waterfall, a dramatic side slit the only relief.

“I bought you those strappy Gucci stilettos with the silver buckle—they’ll pair perfectly,” Orna gushes, taking a step closer to me, stroking the hair falling messily around my shoulders. “We can leave your hair loose in these gorgeous natural waves you have. Add a big braid running through it.”

We lock eyes in the mirror and I feel a tinge of sadness for her. “Did you enjoy going to galas?”

She offers a small smile. “Of course. At least once a month one of the families we had alliances with would throw these elaborate balls all along the East Coast. We’d spend the entire week leading up to it getting our gowns tailored and our hair done.”

“And now?”

“And now, we don’t get invited to those balls anymore,” she says quietly, fussing with the skirt of my dress.

“How come?”

Orna shrugs, still not meeting my eye. “These other families loved Lorcan’s father. But Lorcan… not so much.” As I open my mouth to probe further, she links my arm and tugs me towards the vanity. “Enough with the family politics, already. Let’s get you ready.”

I like having Orna back, even if I still have a million questions, so I keep my mouth closed. After another glass of champagne and thirty minutes later, my hair and makeup are done, and Orna steps back, satisfied. Like an artist admiring their finished painting.

“You look amazing, Poppy. I wish I could stay to see Lorcan’s reaction. But I don’t really want to see the prick right now.” She holds up her hand before I can ask why. “Again, family politics.” With another tweak of my hair and an extra spritz of perfume, she leaves the museum with a cheery wave and some parting advice. “You’ll probably be put on the wives and girlfriends table. Drink enough to put up with their vapid gossiping, just don’t drink enough that you become the center of their gossip.”

Listening to Orna galloping down the stairs, reality kicks in. I have no idea what I’m getting myself into, or how to act. I’m a prisoner. A debt owed. How do I introduce myself? Will Lorcan even let me introduce myself?

“Damn.”

Lorcan’s deep voice from the doorway brings me out of my thoughts with a jolt. I didn’t even hear him come in. “Jesus,” I mutter, clutching my hand to my chest. “You scared me.”

“Nothing new.”

When I whip round to face him, my sarcastic retort is snatched from my lungs.

Lorcan Quinn looks devilishly handsome. The slim cut of his tuxedo clings to every bulge on his body like second skin. It’s made from luxurious-looking silk that has my fingers twitching to touch it. The midnight blue color is interrupted only by a floral bow tie, made up of vibrant colors that pop against his crisp white shirt.

My eyes drag up to his angular face, in time to see his lips twitch with amusement. “I know,” he drawls. “I scrub up well too.”

Before I can respond, he pulls me into his strong arms and spins me around quickly, until my exposed back is against his chest. “Look at us,” he murmurs in my ear as we both stare at our reflection in the mirrors. “We look perfect together.”

The lust escapes my body in one ragged sigh. His fingers burn against my bare shoulder as he sweeps my hair from it, before planting a soft, sensual kiss on my collar.

I swallow the desire in my throat and study our reflection. We do look good together. Despite being almost six foot in heels, I fit neatly between his shoulder blades. His olive skin and jet black hair are a stark contrast against my pale complexion and copper locks. Ice and fire. Night and day.

Neither can exist with the other.

Lorcan’s voice vibrates against my throat. “What’s wrong, China Doll?” Only then do I realize my eyes are shut.

When I open them, I’m staring directly at his eyes in the mirror. They burn amber with all the secrets he won’t let pass through his lips.

Loosened by the five glasses of champagne, the question slips from my tongue before I can stop it. “Who was my father, Lorcan?”

His face instantly darkens and his fingers slip from my waist. “What has Orna said to you?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.”

When his eyes flash with anger and he widens the gap between us, I feel desperation clawing at my throat. “Please, tell me. I know he did more than just hand over the parcel. I know he was more than a lackey—”

“Enough,” he growls, turning away from me. I see his back muscles clench through the tight fabric of his suit, his hands curling into fists.

Another burning question comes to mind. One I’ve wanted to know the answer to since I was nine years old.

Despite my trembling lips, I say softly, “Then at least tell me why you were in his study that night. All those years ago. The night I saw him slit that man’s throat.”

Every muscle and bone in Lorcan’s body stiffens. It feels like an eternity until he says, “You saw me.”

Not a question. And I don’t offer an answer.

When he finally turns to face me, there’s an expression I can’t read contorting his face. “We don’t have time for this,” he says coolly, pinning me with a glare. “The car’s outside.”

He reaches for my arm but I take a step backward to avoid his grip. A freshly brewed cocktail of defiance takes hold of me. “I’m not going.”

Lorcan’s nostrils flare. “Don’t start.”

“No, Lorcan,” I croak, folding my arms across my chest. “All you’ve ever done is take from me. You took my freedom. My life. My virginity. Give me something back.”

There are small things about Lorcan I’ve noticed since spending more time with him. One of them is the vein in his temple that throbs when he’s angry. Right now it’s pulsating a million beats a minute. His jaw clenches, completing his death stare. “I’ll ask you once, Miss Murphy. Pull yourself together and let’s go.” He takes a step towards me. Recently, my body opens up to him when he comes close, but now, it retracts, cowering from his looming silhouette. “If I have to ask twice, then we’ll still attend the dinner. But instead of being on my arm, you’ll be on your back. Providing evening entertainment for every gentleman in the restaurant. Is that understood?”

I hate how calm his voice is. How easily that vicious threat can slip through his pearly white teeth and kiss-me lips.

When I don’t reply, he slowly turns to the door. “Behave yourself, China Doll.”

With my heart in my Gucci stilettos, I remember my place.

I may be on his arm tonight, but to him, I belong in his museum as nothing more than a keepsake. He’ll take me out, show all his friends, then lock me back in my cabinet.