The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher
Poppy
For the first time in a long while, I laugh. It hurts my ribs and gets stuck somewhere in my throat, but it comes out in a hard wheeze.
Orna looks up at me, puffing. “We didn’t think this through.”
We’re on the small path leading down to the chalet’s private beach. Patches of stubborn beach grass push out from the dunes and rocks on either side. As we get closer to the sea, the sand thickens, and the wheels of my wheelchair are lodged a few inches deep underneath it.
“I hate to break it to you, but you might have to carry me.”
She groans, hitching up her shorts and sinking down onto a nearby rock. “No chance. I’m not on duty, you know?”
I look out to the sparkling sea and the gray clouds rolling over it. The salty breeze whips around my face. It’s the first time since I woke up in the white room that I’ve left it.
Daisy, the nice nurse I immediately knew was a Quinn by her dark hair and yellow eyes, finally agreed that I was well enough for Orna to wheel me out into the fresh air. As long as I cover up the cut on my forehead and don’t get my leg cast wet.
“It’s okay, here will do.”
Orna breathes a dramatic sigh of relief, eyes twinkling up at me. After a few moments of listening to the waves lap against the shore, she says, “So, how are you feeling?”
“Surprisingly okay,” I admit. “Those pills your cousin prescribed me have me feeling as high as a kite.”
She smiles. “That’s Daisy for you. Anyway, that’s not what I meant.”
I know what she meant. How I feel about Lorcan using me as bait. About my father promising me to a sixty-year-old Russian mob boss and then shooting me when I tried to run.
What my father did? Broke me, but didn’t surprise me.
What Lorcan did? Left a confused, twisted knot in my chest.
It’s been about a week since I woke up at the Quinn chalet on Martha’s Vineyard, head, leg, and heart all aching. I drifted in and out of medicated sleep for a few days, and every time I woke up, he was there. Reading a dusty book in the armchair. Watching the television on mute. Always silent, but there.
He disappeared when I could sit up again and hold a conversation. Orna filled the void, bounding in with wide eyes and a pack of cards. Between peppermint teas and games of Black Jack, she filled me in on what she knew.
The Quinns decided to use me as bait to lure the Bratnovs into a false sense of security. Only, Antoin betrayed the family and both he and Bratnov are now dead. So are the Regazzis and Rodrigo Mondez. My heart breaks for Nova, and as soon as the dust settles, I’ll give her a call. She told me about Cillian, how he saved Lorcan’s life, and then how their cousin, Donnacha, saved mine.
“It’s a lot to take in,” I say slowly. I reach out and squeeze her hand. “But enough about me; how are you?” I ask softly.
Her eyes begin to brim and she stops the tears from falling with a swift shake of her head. “I’m struggling to understand how Antoin could do this. It’ll take time.”
I nod, still gripping her hand. I know better than anyone that coming to terms with a family betrayal takes time.
I’m one level of consciousness above a hypnotic state, listening to the leaves rustling on the trees above us when the breeze carries in a low voice.
“You shouldn’t be out here without a jacket.”
I snap out of my daydream, and following the voice, I lock eyes with Lorcan.
He’s standing in the middle of the path, the chalet looming behind him. He looks heartbreakingly handsome, in a softer way than usual. Tapered cream chinos and a slate-gray sweater hug his muscular silhouette. His hair untamed, unruly curls framing the hard lines of his face.
The intensity of his stare takes my breath away.
The silence is broken by Orna rising to her feet and letting out an awkward groan. “Well,” she says, clapping her hands together, “I’m gonna go raid the pantry and hunt for my millionth snack of the day.”
I squeak something in acknowledgment but it doesn’t meet her ears. She claps Lorcan’s shoulder as she brushes past him and disappears into the chalet gardens.
Once again, I’m face to face with the Devil. Only this time, I’m not so scared.
He frowns, dragging his eyes away from mine long enough to assess the wheelchair situation. A trace of amusement on his lips and he says, “Are you stuck?”
“Maybe.”
He closes the gap between us and wraps his arms around me. Within seconds, my ass is in the air and we’re striding across the beach, me pressed against his chest, the wind blowing in my hair. “See,” he scowls, glancing down at my teeth chattering, “I told you, you shouldn’t be out here without a jacket.”
Gently, he places me down on a flat bed of rocks, like I’m the most delicate antique in his collection. Then, he tugs off his sweater, revealing a white T-shirt and the sculpted, tanned skin just above his waistband, and tosses it to me. “Put it on.”
I do what I’m told, melting into the touch of cashmere, warmth and faint trace of cologne against my skin. It feels like the most welcome hug in the world.
We sit for a moment, his eyes boring into me. “How are you?”
“Alive,” I bite back. I look out to the Atlantic, because if I look at him, I’ll last half a second before I burst into tears.
I might not look at him, but I feel him. His possessive arms around my waist as he pulls me close. His heart beating hard against my ear as he clamps my head to his chest.
God, his embrace is like a drug.
He murmurs into my hair, “I have something for you.”
I look up as he slides something from his back pocket and presses it into my hands. A letter. A thick, cream envelope that has already been torn open. With a suspicious glance up at Lorcan, I shake out the paper and gingerly unfold it.
My eyes scan over the header, then my name, and home in on buzz phrases like “we’d be delighted” and “return in the new year.”
It’s a letter from the Dean of Stanford Business School, inviting me to pick up my studies where I left off.
I blink, once, twice, refusing to let the tears fall. Lorcan’s face contorts into a frown and he cups his hand against my cheek, studying me. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“How did you get the school to agree to this?”
A faint outline of a smirk on his lips. “The same way I got you disenrolled.”
A million thoughts fight to get to the front of my brain. A hundred words are stuck in the back of my throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
Being careful of my cast, Lorcan turns me around to face him, holding me so close that the tip of our noses brush. He draws in a deep breath and says, “Then I’ll say something. I’m sorry, China Doll. I should have never agreed to use you as bait.” His face darkens. “It was Antoin’s idea, and I’d never have thought he had other intentions. If I ever thought there was even the smallest chance I’d lose you, I’d never have gone through with it.”
I bite the inside of my lip, letting his apology stew between us. “I thought you’d sold me.”
He squeezes his arms around me tighter. “You’re not mine to sell.”
Confused, I look up at him, searching his citrine eyes. He takes a deep breath and says, “Poppy, you’re the perfect keepsake. You’re precious and priceless, and there is truly only one of you. But you don’t deserve to be kept in a cabinet, locked away in my museum for my own pleasure. You’re free, China Doll.”
I’m free.
So why does my heart snap in two and sink to the pit of my stomach?
The realization settles like dust and I twist away so he can’t see the tears trickling down my cheeks. “You always said you’d do it.”
“Do what, China Doll?” He murmurs in my ear. Despite telling me I’m free, his hands lock around me like the iron bars of a cage.
“Discard me once you no longer had use for me.” A bitter laugh escapes me; it’s immediately snatched away by the wind. “That’s what you said, right? Now my father is dead and you have my virginity. I guess I’m no use to you anymore.”
His chest stiffens against my back, and a low rumble vibrates deep in his chest. “Look at me,” he growls. Spurred on by the fury in his voice, I twist around to meet his burning eyes. Anger and pain swirl in his glare. “Poppy, when I claimed you all those years ago, I knew I’d ruin your life. I didn’t realize you’d ruin mine too. I will never be able to look at another woman again without thinking of you. I’ll never run my hands over a priceless antique without thinking of you. I’ll never be able to pick up a fucking paintbrush, listen to that goddamn Beatles song you hum as you work, or even stand in the rain without thinking. about. you.” Lorcan pauses, turning his attention to the sea, nostrils flaring. “Goddamit, Poppy,” he says quietly, “I hate you, and for all the wrong reasons.”
I can barely see him through the tears. “Then ask me,” I whisper.
His warm hands clamp my face and pull it to his. He grits his teeth and says, “Stay,” he growls. “Stay with me.”
“What have I told you about asking questions?”
His hard lips soften into a smile as he brushes them against mine. Voice like velvet and with the touch of an angel, he whispers into my mouth.
“Poppy, will you stay with me?”