19. Elle
ELLE
I try the windows first. Every. Single. One.
None of them are unlocked. Not even the tiny one in the laundry room, which I couldn’t squeeze out of, even if I tried. I test the handle twice anyway, because apparently humiliation likes company.
I move back into the living area and stare down at London. The city sits far below, busy and uncaring. Cars move through the wet streets. People hurry under umbrellas. Somewhere out there, normal life continues. Rent, work, coffee queues, bad dates, bills, arguments over nothing.
I would sell my soul for an argument over nothing.
With a sigh, I move away from the window and head back through the penthouse, barefoot and restless.
My steps make almost no sound on the marble.
The place is too big for one person. It swallows noise.
Every room looks staged for a magazine, not lived in.
Expensive sofas no one has sat on properly.
Art picked by someone with money and no warmth.
Shelves full of books that look untouched.
I cross to the lift and stare at the panel.
Card access only. The red light glares back at me, mocking me.
I stab the button anyway. Nothing happens.
I glare at the front door. It has a bolt on the inside with a lock.
Grabbing the handle, I pull hard enough to hurt myself, but the door doesn’t budge.
I hurt my hand trying to get the lock to slide back. Nothing.
I truly am trapped.
Turning in a panic, I shove my hands into my hair. What if there’s a fire? Do I just burn? What if someone breaks in and tries to murder me in my sleep for the diamonds around my neck? What then?
Although that thought brings a welcome one. If someone breaks in, it means I can leave via the way they came in.
But it still doesn’t help me. Begging for burglars to rob a Keane penthouse is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, and I’ve walked into a club full of secrets.
I pace the length of the penthouse, my breath coming in short, jagged bursts.
The silence is the worst part. It isn’t peaceful; it’s heavy, like the air in a tomb.
I head back to the bedroom and grab my backpack from the drawer.
I zip it open and stare at the stacks of cash.
It looks like a joke now. What good is money if you’re a bird in a cage made of glass and brick?
I could have eight million, and it wouldn’t buy me the code to that lift or the key to that door.
I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, my fingers tracing the cold edges of the diamonds at my throat.
The necklace is a collar. I shove the backpack back into the drawer and slam it shut.
The sound echoes before the silence swallows it.
I can’t stay in this room. Every time I look at the bed, I feel the ghost of their hands on me, the weight of their bodies, and the terrifying way I stopped fighting.
I need to move, to find something that makes sense.
I walk to the kitchen and open every single cupboard.
Plates, crystal glasses, gadgets I don’t recognise.
I reach the pantry and find it stocked with enough food to last a month.
They don’t plan on letting me go anytime soon.
This isn’t a temporary arrangement while they decide if I’m a snitch. This is a relocation.
I grab a glass and fill it with water from the tap, watching the clear liquid swirl. My hands are shaking. I set the glass down before I drop it and lean my weight against the cold marble counter.
“Think, Elle,” I whisper.
I already know without looking that there won’t be a single device in here that is connected to the outside world.
I look around and spot a vent in the wall.
Chewing my lip, I sigh. I will never get up there, and even if I did, crawling around in a maze of metal tubing sounds worse than standing here with the knowledge that I’m a prisoner.
Back in the living room, I move toward a door tucked under the stairs.
It opens into a study. A heavy desk sits in the middle.
I check the drawers. Locked. I scan the room for a phone or a laptop. Nothing.
My hands won’t stop shaking. I sit on the floor and press my back against the desk and wait.
The afternoon stretches out. I listen for the lift.
I listen for the turn of a key. Nothing.
The silence eventually stops feeling like a threat and starts feeling like an absence. I didn’t know silences had variations.
The clock on the mantle ticks, time keeps moving forward. My back aches from the hard edge of the desk. I haven’t moved in a long time, but I can’t tell if that’s defeat or just exhaustion.
I think about Fintan’s care after Lorcan and Tiernan used me. I don’t want to think about it, but I do. It sits differently to everything else that happened in that room.
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my chin on them.
My heart thumps when I hear the lift door slide open. I launch myself up and out of the study, nearly colliding with the door frame.
Lorcan stands at the lift as it closes behind him and the light turns red. His eyes find me immediately, and the look on his face tells me he knows exactly what I’ve been doing all afternoon.
“How long?” he asks.
“How long what?”
“How long before you gave up trying to get out?”
He stands there in that perfect suit, reading me like a page he’s already memorised, and hot humiliation crawls up the back of my throat. “I didn’t give up. I’m regrouping.”
“Regrouping.” He moves into the room and shrugs out of his jacket, draping it over the back of the sofa.
He rolls his sleeves to the elbow, each fold of fabric precise and deliberate, a slow ritual of preparation that tightens the air in my lungs.
He looks at me properly, a steady, top-to-bottom sweep that takes in the leggings, the tee, my bare feet and the fact that I haven’t done anything with my hair.
His expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in it. “Have you eaten since breakfast?”
“No,” I say.
He says nothing. He turns and crosses the penthouse to the kitchen.
I follow because standing alone in the living room while he cooks feels worse than being near him.
He opens the fridge and scans it with the same efficiency he applies to everything else.
He pulls out a covered dish, checks the label, and slides it into the oven.
I take the same stool I sat on this morning and watch him move around the kitchen. He doesn’t speak. He fills a glass with water and sets it in front of me without looking at me, then leans against the counter and checks his phone.
The sheer audacity of it drives me to the point where I want to hit him. I could snatch it and ring the police.
But then he’d probably take me out back and make me dig my own grave before he shot me.
I drink the water because I’m thirsty and because refusing it is only making things worse.
For me. Not him. I don’t think he gives a flying crap.
But I’m tired, and fighting them at every turn is just pointless.
Maybe I’m going about this all wrong. Maybe I need to be more grateful, more appreciative, more…
everything. Force them to look at me like a fucking person and not a thing.
The decision is made before I can change my mind. With a haste that shocks me, I cross over to him and drop to my knees. He lifts his eyes from his phone to stare down at me with a look of curiosity as I reach for his belt.
Then his gaze darkens into one filled with lust.
“Miss me?” he murmurs, placing his phone on the counter.
I ignore it. It will be locked anyway.
“The question is,” I say, pulling his cock free. It’s stiff already, long and thick. “Did you miss me?” I take him in my mouth greedily.
He inhales deeply. His hand goes to my hair, fingers threading through it without force for once. The shift in him is noticeable immediately. The controlled stillness cracks at the edges.
I take my time. More than I would have two days ago. More than survival requires.
Because this isn’t survival. I made a choice, and choices have a different texture to desperation. I know the difference. I’ve been surviving long enough to recognise the moment it stops being that.
His hips push forward, just slightly, the smallest concession he’ll allow himself. His fingers tighten in my hair.
“Elle.” My name in his mouth sounds different when he isn’t threatening me with it.
I pull back and look up at him. His jaw is tight, his chest rising and falling with a control he’s fighting to maintain. Those blue eyes are dark, focused entirely on me. “Is this pleasing you?” I murmur.
“Fuck,” he groans and presses his tip back to my lips. “Keep going, Elle.”
I smile to myself. This is better. This is better than wasting energy fighting him when I can’t win, when I can’t escape.
Accept that this is my life now, and things will be better.
Easier. I know what that makes me, but I’ve stopped caring.
I graze my teeth down the length of his cock, just enough to make him hiss.
His fingers tighten in my hair, but he doesn’t push me.
He lets me set the pace, lets me decide how much of him I take.
That’s power.
It’s not the kind that comes with a gun or a locked door. It’s power that lives in the space between what he wants and what I’m willing to give.
I pull back and lick the underside of his shaft, like I have all the time in the world. His breath catches unexpectedly, and a tremor runs through his body. I look up at him. He’s watching me suck him off with that cold, controlled expression, but his eyes burn.
“You like this,” I murmur.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. His cock jerks in my hand, and his fingers flex in my hair. It tells me everything.
I take him deeper this time, letting him hit the back of my throat. His hips twitch forward, but he stops himself. I hollow my cheeks and suck hard, pulling back until just the tip rests on my tongue. His breath comes faster, shallow and uneven.
“Fuck, Elle,” he groans.
I smile around him. “Come in my mouth, Lorcan,” I murmur. “I want to taste you.”
He groans, probably louder than he wanted to and thrusts deeper into my mouth.
His hand grips my hair harder, pulling me closer. I don’t fight it. I let him take control, let him fuck my mouth. His breath comes in sharp bursts, his body tensing as he nears the edge.
“Elle,” he growls, his voice rough. “You’re going to make me come.”
He groans again, deeper this time, and his hips jerk forward. I take him deeper into my mouth. His control slips, just a little, and his fingers tighten in my hair. It doesn’t hurt. It grounds me.
“Fuck,” he grunts and spills his load onto my tongue. “Fuck, Elle.”
I swallow and pull back, licking my lips. Lorcan looks down at me, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. His fingers loosen in my hair, but he doesn’t let go. He studies me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve.
“Stand up,” he says, his voice rough.
I do, my legs unsteady. He reaches out and grips my chin, tilting my face up to his. His thumb traces my bottom lip, smearing the last traces of him across my skin. His eyes are darker now, the blue almost swallowed by black.
“You’re learning,” he murmurs.
I don’t answer. I don’t know what to say. The words feel too heavy, like they might tip the balance of whatever this is between us.
He releases my chin and steps back, adjusting himself before tucking his shirt back into his pants. The oven timer dings, and he turns away from me to pull out the dish.