The Devil’s Keepsake by Somme Sketcher

Poppy

I wake up in a dark abyss.

My head is groggy and my throat is dry. I’ve felt like this before after nights of too many Gin Fizzes and Nellie forcing Jagerbombs down my throat.

But it only takes a few moments of being conscious to remember this isn’t a hangover. Rolling over and going back to sleep for a few more hours isn’t going to solve my problem.

Realization and panic flood my body, and I force myself to open my eyes. My arms are too heavy to push myself up, but through the sedative-filled fog, I try to take in my surroundings. With the help of a sliver of moonlight, I can make out the outline of a bedroom. A bedside table and a lamp. I clamber around, finding a switch, and flood the room with a soft amber glow.

Gold. Marble. Mahogany. I squeeze my eyes shut again, willing the blurriness to go away. This time, when I open my eyes I can focus on actual objects, not only materials.

The first thing I focus on is the foot of the bed I’m lying on. The frame is curved in the middle, tapered at the edges and coated in glistening gold. Embroidered curtains hang above it, tied to the pillars on either side with oversized silk ribbons. Beyond the elaborate bed is a chest of drawers with the same curved silhouette and decadence. I can just about turn my head to the left to take in an overstuffed chaise lounge and an oval mirror hanging above it. To my right is a glass cabinet, full to the brim of trinkets and ornaments.

Where the hell am I?

It takes a few attempts, but I eventually prop myself up on my shaking elbows. Looking down at my body, I realize I’m wrapped in a silk robe. Even in my numb state, it feels incredibly expensive and smooth against my bare skin. The shame seeps in.

He drugged me. He took me. He undressed me.

I feel dirty at the thought.

There’s a glass of water on the bedside cabinet, and I greedily gulp from it before I can consider whether it’s poisoned or not.

I need to get out of here.

My legs aren’t cooperating as well as my arms, so I have to shuffle them slowly off the side of the bed. The gold, glitzy room spins around me so I close my eyes to steady myself.

Come on, Poppy. You have to fight this. Get up. Get the fuck up and get out of here.

First things first, I have to figure out where “here” is. There’s a bay window on the other side of the room, that’ll be a start.

I push myself up onto my feet, but my legs collapse underneath me again.

“Fuck,” I croak, cursing myself for being so pathetic.

Suddenly, there’s a scraping sound from the other side of the door and it flies open.

The Devil darkens the doorway.

It’s instinctive to cower. To pull my legs up to my chest and tug the silk fabric around me. He did it. He really did it. There’s nothing about this beast I should underestimate.

He steps into the room and drinks me in. “You’re awake.” My eyes fly to the corners of the room, scanning the intricate ceiling molding for any trace of a camera. “Relax,” he drawls. “I could see the light turn on from the main house.”

Main house?

“Where am I?” I croak. My throat hurts from all of the screaming.

Instead of answering my question, he takes another step into the room, dominating the space with his imposing presence. He looks different today, and I can’t quite put my finger on why. His thick waves are pulled backward, tucked neatly behind his ears, and his tie sits tight under his Adam’s apple.

“Step into the light,” he demands. I don’t move. “I won’t ask you again.”

One thing I’ve learned about Lorcan Quinn in the few interactions I’ve had with him is he’s a man of his word. That, and the growl in his tone, forces me to stand. Unsteady on my legs, I step into the amber glow of the lamp.

“Look at me.”

The lump in my throat swells, threatening to block my airways. Clenching my jaw, I raise my eyes to his. He’s closer than I thought he was, so close that I can smell the cocktail of aftershave and soap lingering on his skin. So close that I can feel his chest vibrate when he lets out a small groan.

“When I claimed you at fifteen, you were nothing but collateral damage. But now, I think I might actually have a use for you.” A smirk tugs at the hard line of his mouth. “Come.”

He strides across the room and opens a door I didn’t even realize was there. My heart hammers against my chest as he shoves it open and flicks on a light. Through the doorway, I’m staring at a dozen versions of myself.

He stretches out his arm to guide me inside, his forearm pushing against the small of my back like a persistent tide.

A French-style boudoir. On one half of the room, five gilded mirrors reflect my shaking body from every angle. On the other side, another chaise lounge and a door that leads to god knows where. China plates, stained glass lamps, and gloomy oil paintings cover every white wall and surface.

The Devil looms over my shoulder.

“Take your robe off. Show me what I own.”

The shock of his words sends me stumbling forward, trying to get away from him. In one swift motion, he grabs my arm and spins me back around, so I have no choice but to stare at my reflection. I meet my own gaze.

I hate what I see. The sheer fear in my eyes. The streaks of mascara staining my cheeks from wailing like a baby at the restaurant.

Don’t be a coward, Poppy. Fear won’t get you out of here alive.

I reset my jaw and turn my gaze to his reflection. His amber eyes bore into mine. “Fuck off,” I hiss with all of the venom I have left.

He takes a step towards me, the fabric of his suit and the solid warmth of his body presses into my back. “You’ll learn very quickly not to talk back to me,” he snarls into my ear. “Now take it off or I’ll have you on your hands and knees, watching me fuck you from every angle.”

Lorcan Quinn is a man of his word,a small voice creeps into my head. Especially the most poisonous ones.

My cards are dealt. With a trembling hand, I tug at the cord and let the silk puddle on the plush carpet.

“Very good,” he murmurs, taking in my naked body. The shame flushes my pale skin pink. It’s hot and prickly, creeping up from the base of my neck, across my cheeks, and down my breasts. “Now lie down and spread your legs.”

My breath hitches in my chest. “No,” I stammer, taking the steps away from him.

“No isn’t part of your vocabulary anymore, Miss Murphy,” he hisses. “Get on the chaise lounge. Now.”

But the urge to protect myself outweighs my fear of the devil. “I can’t,” I manage. And then comes the one word I never wanted to escape from my lips. The one that hands him all the power. “Please.”

It’s enough to make him stop and cock his head. His gaze drags along my curves and ends at the mound of my pussy. “Are you—?”

“Yes,” I say quietly. The shame is getting hotter; I am truly in the furnace of hell.

He makes a swift sidestep and tugs me to face him. “Say it,” he demands, lifting my chin. “Look me in the eyes and say it.”

I have no choice but to meet his gaze. He’s hungry, salivating at the thought.

I hate that I have no choice but to give him the answer he wants. It might be the only thing that saves me.

“I am a virgin,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

Lorcan’s face splits into a demonic smile. He’s drunk with delight and it sickens me to my stomach.

“Then you are even rarer than I thought,” he mutters, “I am a very lucky man.” He traces my collarbone with the rough pad of his forefinger. His touch is surprisingly light, almost gentle. “A princess with an unspoiled flower,” he mutters, more to himself than me. His finger dips below my bone and lingers over the swell of my breast. “I am going to savor every second of this.” The warmth of his hand is a stark contrast to the stone-cold sensation of his ring. They both run over my nipple, and it instantly stiffens.

I clench my jaw, and my eyes shut and I wrap my hands around my chest. But it’s too late. The deep, throaty laugh tells me he noticed.

I’m more than flustered and I’ve reached my limit of embarrassment for the day. I push past him and grab the robe off the floor, scrambling to cover myself. “Why?” I find myself saying, the tears prickling in my eyes are the ones I promised wouldn’t come. “Why did you pull me away from my life? How can you hold a grudge for so goddamn long? Where is your heart?” The desperation claws at my vocal cords but I don’t care. I’m overwhelmed with the injustice of it all.

In my own personal storm, Lorcan remains deathly still, watching me claw at the silk around my chest and drag the tears away from my cheek with a balled fist.

After a few seconds filled with nothing but my sobs, he speaks.

“There’s something you should know about me, my little China doll. I don’t have a heart. I have things,” he says smoothly. He picks up one of the ornaments from the dresser. It’s an intricate, egg-shaped box, covered in delicate flowers and crystals. Even in my distress, I recognize it immediately. A Faberge egg. A replica, no doubt, but still, it’s striking. “Beautiful, shiny things. I collect them. Things nobody else has, that nobody else can have.” He holds the egg up to the light; the rubies and sapphires glisten like stars. “And when I’m done with them, I discard them.” A scream rips from my mouth as he hurls the egg like a football. It misses my head by inches, meeting the mirror behind me with an almighty crack, then smashes into a million pieces on the floor. He smirks at my reaction, before dragging his eyes away from me and to his reflection. He straightens his tie, smooths down his beard and tightens his cufflinks. “Don’t become worthless to me, Miss Murphy,” he says simply, heading towards the door without a second glance back at me. “You won’t like the way I’ll discard you.”

And with that, he disappears back into the bedroom and out the main door, leaving me as shattered as the Faberge egg.