8. Lorcan
LORCAN
The flat is cold enough to make the windows fog at the edges. The radiator doesn’t even pretend to work, or maybe it does, but she can’t afford for it to. Damp blooms near the ceiling. The paint flakes near the sill. The whole building needs to be condemned, sold, stripped, and rebuilt.
I’ll add it to the list.
“Don’t look at my flat like that,” she says, finishing off her food and pushing the plate away.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to burn it to the ground.”
“I do, but that is a later problem. Go pack.”
She rises and takes her time clearing away the plates, washing them under the tap while she makes me wait.
No one makes me wait.
It fascinates me that I allow it.
Elle stands at the tiny sink with her back to me, scrubbing a plate that is already clean because she needs control over something. She keeps her spine straight, but tension sits in every inch of her.
“You’re delaying,” I say.
“I’m washing up.”
“You own two plates.”
“And now they’re clean.”
“Fine,” I say, rising. “I will pack for you.”
That gets her moving. She turns the tap off with more force than needed, dries her hands on a towel that has seen better decades, then turns to face me. “You can’t just move me into one of your rich people towers because I walked into a fight club and saw you hit someone.”
“I can, and there is more to it than that.”
“This other guy?”
“Sort of. He is irrelevant if you are under my lock and key.”
“Excuse me?” she bursts out.
“Figuratively speaking,” I lie. “The point is, I usually kill people for walking into places where they don’t belong. You… I can’t kill you.”
“Why not?” she asks, and then realises the absurdity of her question.
“Never mind.” She brushes past me and enters her tiny bedroom.
It’s even colder in here, if that’s possible.
She drags a backpack out of the wardrobe and starts neatly folding stuff to place inside.
She opens a drawer and turns her back to shield whatever she is hiding in it.
She stuffs it in the backpack and then shoves some underwear on top of it.
I watch her closely as she moves to the bathroom and grabs a few toiletries.
I’m surprised by this compliance. I expected more of a fight. Or more crying and screaming. She truly is putting on a brave face and has experience with it.
I will find out who hurt her, and when I do, I will peel their skin off inch by inch.
“Stop staring at me,” she mutters as she returns to pack her pyjamas. None of this matters. I have already bought everything she will need. I just wanted to give her some control in a situation where she has none.
“That’s impossible,” I state. “Give me a name.”
“For what?” she asks, shaking her head.
“Who hurt you.”
She lets out an angry huff. “Stop. Just stop acting like a fucking caveman. I am not yours to vindicate, for fuck’s sake.”
“Wrong, Miss Langley. You were mine the second you stepped into my club uninvited.”
She stops moving.
The backpack hangs from one hand, half-packed and pathetic. She turns slowly, blue eyes bright with anger now. Good. Anger suits her better than fear, even if both make me want to put a wall of men between her and the entire world.
“You don’t get to say that,” she says.
“I just did. You fail to understand the power I have, Miss Langley. I want something, I take it. No one stops me.”
“Please don’t do this,” she whispers. “I won’t say anything, I swear.”
I move closer and cup her face. “I know you won’t, because you will be where you won’t even see the housekeeper to gossip with.”
“Please.” Her hard exterior cracks, showing me that it is all a facade. This is what I want. It makes my cock hard. I breathe in the scent of her and move my hand to the back of her neck, applying more pressure than she is comfortable with.
“Please, what?” I murmur.
“Please forget about me,” she says.
Not a fucking chance.
I keep my hand where it is for one second too long, then release her and step back. Her breath shakes. She doesn’t run. She stands there with the backpack in one hand, face pale, eyes wet, chin lifted like she hates that I saw the crack.
“Finish packing,” I say, colder than I need to be, but cold is safer.
Elle looks at me as if she expects another demand, another humiliation, another test.
I give her none.
She turns away and shoves the rest of her things into the bag. She zips it up with trembling hands, and now I feel we’re getting close to the crying and screaming.
She sets the backpack on the bed and wipes under one eye with the heel of her hand before a tear can fall.
Pride again.
I hate how much I like it.
“You won’t need your phone,” I say. “Get it and give it to me.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“No,” she says, her hand going to her coat pocket, which she hasn’t removed since we entered her flat.
I close the distance between us in two strides and reach into her pocket. She tries to stop me. She can’t.
I pull it out of her pocket and slip it into mine.
“You arsehole,” she growls.
I simply smile at her and take the backpack from her. “Let’s go.” I grip her elbow with my free hand and guide her towards the front door.
She goes rigid next to me, and then asks about the chicken. “We need to take it.”
“Clark will take care of it.”
She blinks but says nothing.
We move down the stairs in silence. The bulb above flickers hard enough to irritate me, and I make another mental note of every person who allowed this building to decay while taking rent from her.
I have entire companies built for this exact sort of problem.
We hit the pavement, and I lead her to the car. Clark, my driver, is waiting patiently and opens the back door. She glares at him. He gives her a cool look back, then ignores her completely.
That’s what I pay him for.
Elle slides into the car without help, clutching her coat around herself as if it can protect her from me.
I place her backpack in beside her and get in after it. Clark shuts the door.
When the car pulls away from the kerb, she stares out of the window, jaw tight, fingers working against the hem of her coat. She doesn’t ask for her phone again. Clever girl. She knows when a wall won’t move.
“You can stop sulking,” I say.
“I’m not sulking. I’m being kidnapped.”
“You got into the car.”
“You stole my phone and marched me out of my flat.”
“I didn’t march. I guided.”
Her head turns slowly. “Do you hear yourself?”
“Constantly.”
She stares at me with open disbelief. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m very believable. That’s why you’re in the car.”
Her lips press into a thin line. She looks back out at the wet street. People hurry through the rain with their heads down, unaware that the city keeps moving because men like me decide which parts get to burn and which parts get protected.
Elle Langley now sits in the protected category.
She should be grateful.
She won’t be.
That might be why I can’t stop looking at her.
“Are you going to kill me when we get to this fancy flat?” she asks suddenly, still staring out of the window.
“Why do you ask?” I’m intrigued by her question.
“You seem to brag a lot about killing people, to a stranger no less, who could go to the police and tell them what you’ve said. Usually, that means that you aren’t arsed about me telling because you plan to kill me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Usually? You have been in this situation a lot, have you?”
“Don’t be a jerk,” she mutters. “You know what I mean.”
“I don’t plan to kill you. I plan to keep you. That means I can tell you exactly what I want without fear because you are now mine, and you need to know that I will hurt anyone who even breathes in your direction.”
“That is disturbed. I am not yours.”
“You are. The sooner you accept it, the better.”
“I will never accept it. I’m not a fucking psycho who finds all of this a turn-on.”
“Pity. I was hoping for a blow job on the way there.”
That gets her to face me in an absolute rage. Her hand comes up to slap me, but I catch her wrist.
I hold it there between us, her pulse hammering under my fingers.
Keeping my gaze on hers, I move her hand down to my cock, which is raging after this exchange.
She hisses and tries to yank her hand back. I tighten my grip. “See what all your hissing and fighting does to me, Miss Langley?” I whisper, pulling her closer.
“Stop,” she says quietly. “Please just stop.”
I cup her face with my free hand, increasing the pressure of her hand on my cock. “Never. You have my attention now, Miss Langley. That won’t go away just because you beg me.”
“I don’t want your attention,” she says, pulling against me.
“Shouldn’t have walked into the wrong club then, should you?”
“That was an accident,” she snarls, yanking hard enough to hurt herself. I let her go, and she scoots back as far away from me as possible.
“A lucky one for me.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Because I want to.”
“How do you get away with saying this like that? Do all billionaires act that way?”
“Mostly. But I’m not like most billionaires.”
“Bet that’s what they all say.”
“I don’t think they do.”
“Are you in some billionaires club or something, and you sit around and talk about it?”
I chuckle. “No. The people I associate with are not the usual kind of people.”
She blinks. “Meaning?”
“Nothing for you to worry about.” I sit back and stare forward. I’m not divulging our connections. Not yet. I’ve already said too much.
The silence in the car settles between us, heavy and deliberate. Clark navigates through the wet London streets, calmly and efficiently.
Elle sits as far from me as the seat allows. Her hands are in her lap, still. She has stopped fighting the situation, which doesn’t mean she’s accepted it. It means she’s thinking about it. I watch the small movements of her face as she processes. She doesn’t look at me.
I should use the time to answer messages. I have three from my solicitor regarding the GrantsCorp deal, two from Tiernan that I’ve ignored, and one from a number I don’t recognise that my security team will have already pulled apart by now.
Instead, I watch Elle Langley’s reflection in the window.
She knows I’m watching. Her chin lifts a fraction.
“What happens when we get there?” she asks.
“You live a life of luxury.”
“A prison, you mean.”
“For now.”
She clenches her jaw tightly. “You can’t do this. I have a job, bills to pay.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You aren’t living on nothing.”
“Neither are you anymore.”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not taking your money.”
“You will. It will be required.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” she snaps.
It’s a good question. I’m not entirely sure.
All I know is she cannot be left to roam around freely, telling people what she saw.
Not a fucking option. We have spent too long and too much money, bribed too many officials, to have it all come crashing down due to a stripper with a big mouth.
“You won’t be telling anyone anything,” I say.
“And in return, you’ll be comfortable. Safe. Provided for.”
“You make that sound like a kindness.”
“It is a kindness. The alternative is far less pleasant.”
She turns her head to look at me, and I can see the calculation in her eyes. She is weighing the threat against the reality, working out what her actual options are. I watch her reach the inevitable conclusion.
There aren’t any.
“For how long?” she asks.
“Until I decide otherwise.”
She looks back out of the window. Her reflection shows me the moment she stops arguing in her head and accepts the situation. It doesn’t look like peace. It looks like someone swallowing glass.
She is a fighter, but she will break, and when she does, it will be brutally beautiful.