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My thoughts even go somewhere I never allow them to go—my father. All roads seem to lead back to Marcus Murphy. I wouldn’t even be on Lorcan Quinn’s radar if it wasn’t for him. I wonder if he knows I’m here. If he evencares.
When the sky turns to an inky abyss, a chill creeps over my body. Despite it being summer, the evening wind rolls in, rattling the window frames and creaking the floorboards. I tug my knees to my chest and bury my head in the silk fabric around my thighs.
It’s the perfect setting for a visit from the Devil.
My mind wanders back to our morning encounter. I’ve replayed it a million times in my head today, and a cocktail of white-hot embarrassment and anger swirl in my stomach every time. The way his greedy eyes washed over my bare skin. How he boldly staked his claim on me. The shame rises to my face when I remember how he forced me to look into his golden eyes and tell him I’m a virgin.
He is not going to take that away from me.
Fueled by a fresh wave of determination, I uncurl my limbs and stride to the small en suite, slam my hands against the Thomas Crapper basin and meet my swollen eyes in the mirror.
Girl, wash your face and fight.
I turn on the golden taps and splash freezing cold water on my face, then scrub away the streaks of mascara from my cheeks.
I need an escape plan.
In three strides I’m back at the bay window in the bedroom, grappling at the handle. With a lazy groan, it opens a crack, before being hindered by a child lock. I peer outside and sigh—I must be at least three stories high. Even if I bust this lock open, I’ll snap my ankles on the jump.
Right.
I stomp over to the bedroom door and grapple with the knob. It’s locked with a key from the outside. “Fuck!” I hiss, slamming my palm against the painted panels.
Into the dressing room. There’s a door on the left—I fling it open to reveal a surprisingly plain walk-in closet.
Well, I’m not getting out of here tonight, that’s for sure.
As I scan the dressing room, hoping for a portal to another world to magically appear, I notice the smashed pieces of gold, green, and pink on the floor. A pang of hope beats against my rib cage. I might not be getting out of here tonight, but I can play the long game.
I hastily scoop up the pieces and bring them back into the bedroom, laying them down on the bed covers.
A sickly feeling settles over me as I run my fingertips over the shards. The translucent pale green and latticed rose-cut diamonds. The light and dark pink enamel roses entwined with emerald leaves. Heart in my mouth, I hunt through the pieces that make up the bottom of the egg. And there it is.1907.
With trembling hands, I lay the pieces gently back on the bed.
Fuck.
This is one of fifty-seven known Faberge eggs in the world, and it’sfucking real.The Rose Trellis. I’m holding the shards of one of the rarest pieces of history in my hands. Worth millions and millions of dollars. So rare that it might as well be priceless. And the way the Devil just threw it across the room like he was throwing a soda can in the trash?
Rich. Ruthless. Unhinged.
If he can do that to one of the world’s most famed artifacts then I have no doubt he’ll do the same to me.
But I have no choice. I say a small prayer to Peter Carl Faberge and take the largest, sharpest piece, before carefully putting the rest in the bedside drawer.
It’s pitch black outside now and having secured a makeshift, multi-million dollar weapon and a half-formed plan, I curl up on top of the bed covers and close my eyes.
A fighter needs her sleep.
* * *
It could be seconds, minutes, or hours that passed before I hear the scraping of the lock. Suspended somewhere between sleep and a nightmare, I immediately wake up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. Ready for the Devil.
He darkens the doorway like a demon. The floorboards groan under his heavy footsteps as he makes his way through the darkness towards the bed.
The bedside lamp flicks on, washing its amber glow over him. Immediately, I notice there’s something…differentabout him.
“Good evening,” he grunts, ripping his eyes away from my glare to dip below my collarbone. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
