AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I’m stupefied on the bed as he brushes his lips against my forehead. Then, he stands up, strides across the room, and closes the bedroom door with a quiet click.
Lorcan
Taking Poppy was my first mistake.
Falling for her was the second.
The consequences of being an irrational hot-headed prick claws at my throat and it’s stopping me from breathing. I couldn’t breathe when I left her splayed out on my bed, her copper hair framing her angelic face like a halo. I couldn’t even breathe as I put the distance between us and stalked to my office. Only when I reached the bottle on my desk, rip off the cap and let the bitter, brown liquid slide down my throat do I feel like I’ve found the oxygen tank, just before my lips go blue and my brain goes numb.
Falling for my treasured keepsake wasn’t part of the plan. And it certainly won’t help me win the war against the Bratnovs. She’s a distraction. A beautiful distraction that I don’t need.
Clutching the bottle like it’s a newborn, I stride to the window and stare out at the ever-growing storm.
For the first time since I held her limp, drugged body in my arms atLe Papillonrestaurant, I consider letting her go.
It’s nothing more than a fleeting thought.
More whiskey in. It burns the back of my throat, sears my chest and flows through my veins. Bringing me back to life.
A manic laugh escapes my lips. It’s strangled and strange and gets snatched away by a sudden howl of wind.
Poppy is my China Doll.
Mine.
My rare and most treasured keepsake.
The only difference between her and the rest of the pieces I own is that she has the capability to love me back.
Let her go?
Over my cold, dead body.
Poppy
“Hate me.”
It’s been seven days since those two poisonous words slid from Lorcan’s lips. Seven days since I’ve seen or heard from him.
Numb, I stared at the cavernous ceiling of his bedroom until the rain died down and the sun shone through the curtains. Waiting for him to return, but he never did. The timid knock on the door belonged to Orna, and when she peeked her head into the room, her sheepish smile and offer to let me back into the museum made me feel like a fool.
There’s been a large shift at the Quinn estate in the last seven days too. The grounds feel eerily quiet, even though the security detail has doubled. Now, I can’t glance out of the window without seeing bulletproof vests and rifles and balaclavas. Hell, there’s even one of them permanently stationed outside the museum now. I have to wiggle past him with an apologetic smile every time Orna lets me out to go for a walk around the grounds.
Speaking of Orna, she’s stressed to the next level. From the workroom window, I always see her and her sisters running up and down the hallways of the main buildings. Platters and drink trays in hands. It’s like they are always entertaining.
And Lorcan? I’ve only laid eyes on him once. Three days ago, I passed the back of the manor on my walk. When I glanced in one of the windows, Lorcan was in what looked to be a drawing room or a library, along with a handful of men I didn’t recognize. Even with the thick sheet of glass between us, I could feel the tension swirling around the room. He looked up, locked eyes with me and shook his head.
Go.
I scurried along the path, my heart beating in my mouth.
Today, the crisp air creeps through the window of my workroom, a welcome relief from the paint fumes I’ve been basking in all morning. The sky is a gloomy shade of gray, and the leaves on the trees outside are showing hints of orange and browns. I’m thankful when Orna comes an hour later to let me out.
I tug on a cashmere sweater and a beanie hat for good measure to walk the gardens. No matter how big and how sprawling the grounds are, I’ve settled into a daily routine, creating a well-beaten track for myself. Orna and I chatter lightheartedly for a few moments before she hears my stomach rumble and darts into the main house to make lunch.
Then, I walk the route. I trot around the perimeters first, starting from the entrance of the museum and finish at the gates that section off the grounds from the front of the estate. Then, I move onto the paths. The narrow, snaking lanes that lead to small pockets of the gardens, gardens within gardens, and of course, the rose garden itself. That’s where I usually end up. Basking in the solitude of there being no cameras or microphones or security men twisting their heads to watch me pass by.
As my boots crunch against the wet grass and the earthy smell drifts up my nose, a sudden wave of nostalgia hits me.
