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“You know what else belongs to me, China Doll? The untouched flower between your legs. And I’ll take it whenever I feel like it.” He looks down at his thigh, then a cruel smile tugs at his lips. I follow his gaze, blood rushing to my cheeks when I see the damp spot on his thigh.
“And it looks like you’ll open your legs and let me.”
Lorcan
I wake up to the sound of my iPhone alarm. Like every morning since the explosion, I wish I never woke up at all.
Through blurry eyes, I fumble for the snooze button, but when it keeps bleating at me, I hurl my cell against the wall, smashing it into pieces and finally getting it to shut up.
But silence is impossible to come by these days. The hangover beats against my temples like a badly played drum, and it’s not the only thing that’s throbbing. I touch the tender spot on my cheek, and then it comes flooding back to me.
That little bitch.
I leap to my feet and stride across the Persian rug to the window. My bedroom and the study are the only two rooms in the Manor where I have a perfect view of the Museum. A cobbled, three-story outhouse with Victorian windows and sprawling ivy snaking up and across the exterior. It’s been here since my grandfather bought the estate. He used it as a guesthouse for when distant relatives visited from Ireland.
My father used it to stow away his mistresses.
Even though my mother died from cancer when I was still in diapers, he never felt comfortable bringing another woman into their shared home, so whoever was his flavor of the month stayed there. They changed more often than the seasons.
When he died and I moved back to the estate, I transformed it into the Museum. The most expensive, rarest antiques and keepsakes I’ve collected from all around the world live there. With my armed guards surrounding the estate walls twenty-four hours a day and the same security system that they use in the Kremlin, it’s safer than the fucking Louvre.
It’s laughable that Murphy’s little girl thought she could escape. Well, almost. I didn’t find the slash across my face very fucking funny.
As the fog lifts from my brain, the fury seeps in. My hands curl into fists and my heart thumps against my chest.Does this bitch not know who she’s messing with?There’s not a single soul on the East Coast that would dare stand up to me like she did last night. And they sure as hell wouldn’t still be breathing if they did.
She’s lucky to be alive. She’s even luckier that I didn’t take her precious virginity right then and there to teach her a lesson.
My cock tingles at the thought of her warm pussy pressing against my leg, dampening the suit fabric by the second.
No.I swallow the lust building in my throat and head to the en suite. When I break in her pussy, it won’t be out of anger. It’ll be a reward, and I’ll savor every fucking moment.
I want nothing more than to get back into bed with a bottle ofThe Smugglers Cluband block out the rest of the world. But I’ve got a city to run and enemies to make.
I’m a busy man. Poppy Murphy isn’t the center of my universe, only a little speck somewhere in the galaxy. Nothing more than a trophy and a toy. I need to keep my head in the game if we’re to go up against the Bratnovs.
So, I’ll bide my time.
I scrub away last night’s sins in the shower, slip on a fresh suit, then press the buzzer by the bed. I’m slipping on my Audemars Piguet watch when there’s a knock on the door.
“Enter.”
Orna appears in the doorway, eyebrows raised. “Yes, your majesty?” she says, tone dripping with sarcasm.
“There’s a chick in the Museum. See to it that she’s comfortable.”
My cousin’s eyes narrow. “Please, for the love of God, tell me that you’re talking about a bird.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Orna walks around the side of the bed and comes between me and my reflection. “A woman? You have awomanin the outhouse?” She frowns, glancing at the cobbled building outside my window. Poppy’s room is on the other side; I can see the glow when the lights are on, but unfortunately, I can’t see directly into the room. “I’m guessing she’s not there by her own free will.” She eyes my cheek. “What happened to your face?”
I ignore the question. “Then you guess correctly. Now move. I have things to do.”
She folds her arms and her scowl deepens. I take back what I said earlier, about nobody in Boston daring to stand up to me. Orna thinks that because we spent every summer together as kids that she can give it a shot. Sometimes, she forgets that we aren’t in the sandbox anymore. I’m the king of the castle now. Her boss. She’s good for nothing but being the head housemaid, like her mom was before her.
“Jesus, Lorc. How long has she been there? When were you gonnatellme? She must be starving.”
“Two days. She’s fine. She has water,” I grunt. When we got off the jet from Stanford, I sent a housekeeper to give her a robe and leave a glass of water by her bedside.
