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Stockholm Syndrome, the newspapers called it. When you come to like your kidnapper.
I think about how my lungs caved inwards as Lorcan pulled me from the window seat and pressed his hard body against mine. How I involuntarily melted as the hand he used to kill a man just hours earlier grazed against my cheek. And now, here I am, goddamn mascara wand in my hand, ready to paint my face to go to dinner with this monster.
Even against the backdrop of constant fear, the sound of gunshots ringing in my ears, I’m on the verge of having Stockholm Syndrome.
I’m just too weak to fight the feelings right now.
A housekeeper I don’t recognize comes and collects me a few moments later. She has the same thick curls as Orna and the hallmark amber eyes. She’s uncomfortable as she guides me through the gardens, making small talk about the balmy weather and commenting on how much she likes my hair. I can see the visible relief on her face as we pass through a side door into the main manor and she points to the end of the corridor. “The dining room is right there,” she smiles at me.
She has the same pitiful expression as Orna too.
As she clicks the door shut behind me, my eyes are instantly drawn to the ceiling of the hallway. It’s painted with the intricacy of the Sistine Chapel, with pastel cherubs and men in flowing robes smiling down at me. Several gold chandlers light my path to the dining room, and as I pass under their crystal ornaments, I’m overwhelmed with how palatial everything is. It triggers something deep inside me—my passion for antiques. If this wasn’t the Devil’s lair, I’d love nothing more than to comb each section of this house, looking at every relic and keepsake, drinking in all the history.
But dinner with the Devil awaits.
I turn into the doorway of the dining room, and it’s as extravagant as I expected. The same painted ceilings of the corridor carry on into the cavernous room. Underneath them sits a sprawling dining table, upholstered chairs lining each side. The beauty of the dining setup takes my breath away. Dozens of flickering candles perched atop candelabras create a warm glow over the textured wallpaper and oak cabinets.
At the head of the table, Lorcan is leaning back in a chair, watching me.
“You came.”
“I doubt I had a choice.”
Is that a smile tugging at his lips? I scan the table and feel like I’m back in the school dining hall, looking for somewhere to sit. My eyes settle on the chair on the complete opposite end of the table. “Don’t even think about it,” he drawls, dragging out the chair next to him and patting the overstuffed seat cushion. “Sit.”
Holding my tongue, I take the seat. Lorcan’s eyes burn into the side of my head. Eventually, the magnetic force of his gaze is too overpowering, and I drag my eyes up to his face.
I hate how breathtakingly handsome he is. The soft lighting from the million candles flickers against the hard lines of his face, making him look almost human. But there’s no denying the otherworldly presence that he has. Good or bad. His suit fits him like second skin, and I realize that I’ve never seen him in anything else.
Suddenly, I feel embarrassingly underdressed.
A woman that looks like Orna puts a plate in front of me—an elaborate prawn cocktail dish, deconstructed across a marble plate like a piece of art. I’m thinking too hard about how the hell I’m going to eat it when Lorcan’s voice stabs the thick air.
“How did you know the money was fake?”
His eyes search mine, curiosity brewing behind them.
Straight to the point, I see.
I offer my most nonchalant shrug as if I spot counterfeit money in strip joints for a mafia boss every day. “I created the props for the theater productions in high school. One year, the production wasGuys and Dolls.” I can’t help but smile at the ridiculousness of it now. “Lots of fake money to be made. I wanted it to look as real as possible, so I read up on counterfeits. Once you know what you’re looking for, it’s pretty easy to spot fake bills.”
He watches me for a beat, then laughs. Yes, the Devil just laughed. A delicious throaty laugh that throws him back in his chair. A wave of unwanted pleasure washes over me.
“So, you’re good with your hands?” he asks. The way his eyes twinkle tells me it’s a loaded question.
“I’m good at restoration,” I say, stabbing a prawn with my fork.
“Restoration?”
“Antiques,” I mumble. “I’ve done it for years.”
He cocks his head, watching me cram another prawn into my mouth.Damn, this is delicious.
Surprise laces his voice. “You’re interested in antiques?”
I nod.
“Then why didn’t you say?”
