The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Lorcan

Taking Poppy was my first mistake.

Falling for her was the second.

The consequences of being an irrational hot-headed prick claws at my throat and it’s stopping me from breathing. I couldn’t breathe when I left her splayed out on my bed, her copper hair framing her angelic face like a halo. I couldn’t even breathe as I put the distance between us and stalked to my office. Only when I reached the bottle on my desk, rip off the cap and let the bitter, brown liquid slide down my throat do I feel like I’ve found the oxygen tank, just before my lips go blue and my brain goes numb.

Falling for my treasured keepsake wasn’t part of the plan. And it certainly won’t help me win the war against the Bratnovs. She’s a distraction. A beautiful distraction that I don’t need.

Clutching the bottle like it’s a newborn, I stride to the window and stare out at the ever-growing storm.

For the first time since I held her limp, drugged body in my arms at Le Papillon restaurant, I consider letting her go.

It’s nothing more than a fleeting thought.

More whiskey in. It burns the back of my throat, sears my chest and flows through my veins. Bringing me back to life.

A manic laugh escapes my lips. It’s strangled and strange and gets snatched away by a sudden howl of wind.

Poppy is my China Doll.

Mine.

My rare and most treasured keepsake.

The only difference between her and the rest of the pieces I own is that she has the capability to love me back.

Let her go?

Over my cold, dead body.