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“Let’s see what Lorc has to say then,” she says, darting around the room faster than I can catch her.
Her eyes scan the page and she slows to a stop. My heart drops when I realize why.
I’ll be conducting a very thorough frisk search.
It’s obvious that there’s something going on between us. I feel myself cringing, my cheeks flushing even redder than they were last night. Taking in her darkened eyes and sudden scowl, I say, “I can explain—”
“Miss Murphy,” she says slowly, rolling each syllable around in her tongue. Her lips curl upwards. Clearly, my name doesn’t taste that nice.
“Yeah, it’s my father’s name,” I say steadily, watching her.
The atmosphere in the workshop goes from light to dark in a matter of seconds. Orna’s back stiffens, and her eyes drop to her sneakers. “I didn’t realize…”
But she doesn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she hands me the letter and turns to leave the room. “Enjoy the workshop, Miss Murphy,” she says with a strangled tone.
Confused, I follow her out to the corridor and down the stairs. “Orna!” I call after her. “What’s wrong? What’s—”
The slamming of the front door cuts me off, leaving me with nothing but the sound of silence.
Lorcan
War is exhausting.
It’s been over a week since I stepped foot on the Quinn estate. Since I slept in my own bed. Ate at my own table.
Since I saw my China Doll.
She doesn’t hear me enter the Museum, nor does she hear me take the stairs, two at a time.
I lean my aching body against the door frame of the workshop, drinking in the view. She’s hunched over the woodworking table, cloth in hand and tongue poking out from the corner of her mouth as she stains a mahogany frame.
My lungs fill with the air I’ve been desperate to breathe all week. It’s filled with paint fumes and dust, but it smells like a bunch of goddamn roses compared to the network of tunnels underneath the city, where I’ve been torturing every Bratnov and anyone even remotely connected to their network that I can get my hands on. I used to relish my time down there; the tangy iron smell of an enemy’s blood, the piercing screams dulled by the heavy concrete walls.
But it’s different now. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and into the sun, to see my Poppy.
When I’ve had enough of looking and not touching, I stroll into the room and pull out Poppy’s earphones. She shrieks at my touch, twisting around and pointing her weapon at me.
I laugh. It feels good to laugh after spending all week barking orders at my men and growling at my enemies. “A paintbrush?” I drawl, nodding to the magnetic tool strip against the wall. “You have more torture devices than I do, and you choose a paintbrush?”
Once the shock melts from her pretty little features, they dissolve into a grin. It’s sheepish, but I’ll take it. “Now I know why you left me this,” she produces the iPod shuffle from the top pocket of her overalls, “so you can sneak up on me without warning.”
My lips twitch in amusement; I’m unable to take my eyes off her.
Or my hands.
“Come here,” I murmur, hooking my hands around her denim straps and pulling her to my body. It’s almost impossible to stifle the groan when I burrow my face in the top of her head. She melts into my body, and I’m pleasantly surprised when she wraps her arms around me too. She leans back, just enough to tilt her chin up to me.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For the iPod shuffle?” I tease. “It’s probably one of the oldest antiques in here.”
She tosses her head back and laughs hard enough for her hair to cascade down her back and brush my forearms. Then she nods to the workstation. “For this. I’ve barely left this room all week.”
I stroke her satin cheek. “Well, it’s not like you have anywhere else to go.”
With a pathetic slap to my chest and a dramatic roll of her eyes, she twists out of my grasp and picks up the frame on the table, like a preschooler showing his mom what he drew in class. “This is lovely.”
“Georgian,” I say, taking it from her grasp and inspecting the intricate carving of the frame. “Early 18th Century. I picked it up at an auction in the English countryside. Belonged to George II himself. Used to hang in my dining hall.”
