Chapter 14 Marlowe #2
Declan’s eyes lock with mine in the mirror. “You like the idea of that door being open, don’t you?” he says softly. “The thought of someone catching you. The danger. You’d let me fuck you against a wall in the middle of a turf war, wouldn’t you?” He pauses. “You could be Helen.”
“Of Troy?” I gasp out. “I’m not—”
“But you could be.” His voice drops. “You’re beautiful enough. And I might be stupid enough to ride into battle for you, Molly.”
Then he grabs my ass, spreads me wide, and slams into me.
For a split second my brain snaps.
I asked for this, demanded this.
Shock thunders through me, but then—
Wait. He’s in my pussy.
Deep.
Hard.
Using the angle to grind against every sensitive place inside me.
He feels enormous. At this angle…me open and stretched wide for him…he feels even bigger, filling me to a point just shy of painful.
Then he pushes two fingers into my ass and the burning stretch is so intense, my vision whites out.
“You really fucking want it,” he growls. “Maybe you’re worth that war after all. But if you’re trying to get me killed, princess, that’s a mistake. Murphys don’t die easy.”
“Just…fuck…me…gobshite.”
He laughs, wild, euphoric, like lust has snapped something loose in him. It does the same inside of me.
He slams into me harder, deeper. My clit grinds against the padded edge of the bench, every thrust a pulse of electric heat. Hate melts. There’s only this—the void when he pulls out, the devastating fullness when he drives back in, the maddening explosion of sensations that follows.
My body clamps around him, desperate to keep him, to take more, to drag him deeper. He groans like the feel of me is breaking him. His rhythm changes. He moves harder and faster, pushing us both up, up, up—
Then I snap.
The orgasm hits like a crushing, turbulent wave, clenching, spiraling, ripping through my core. My pussy grips him, my ass tight around his fingers, everything shattering.
He comes, a low, guttural sound rumbling in this throat, face dark, thrusts turning brutal as he fills me. I feel his cock swell, twitch, and release, heat flooding me.
For a long second, neither of us moves.
My pussy trembles around him.
My ass pulses around his fingers.
Then he slips out, breathing hard.
“Jesus, Mary, and Frank,” he manages. “That…”
I try to think.
Try to breathe.
It’s useless.
How the hell is bench-sex, where I don’t even get what I asked for, so good it could make a poet out of me?
And I don’t even write songs.
My brain snags on something. “Frank?”
“Could’ve been his name,” Declan mutters. He kisses my shoulder, soft, absentminded, far too gentle for a man like him who just did the things that he did to me. Then he stands, fixes his clothes, tucks himself away like nothing happened.
“Get dressed,” he says, voice steadying. “We need to talk.”
A price. On my head. And the only thing keeping it from being collected is a pretend marriage to Declan.
“A price?” I lean forward at the restaurant, a fancy place that doesn’t suit Declan at all, the kind of place Mother loves, the type that makes me suffocate inside.
I hate it.
His brothers are here with their wives. I’m dressed in red. Dark red. Backless. Flowing. A dress that gives Declan an excuse to touch skin whenever he wants.
This place suits both Ava and Lucie, but like Declan, the Murphy men don’t belong.
They could. All of them could.
They’re smart, gorgeous, well dressed, and could fit in anywhere. If they chose to.
But they don’t give a fuck.
Disdain is evident on Callahan’s face, a man Declan looks at with love and admiration, a man who scares the hell out of me.
Seamus, like Declan, looks as if he’s ready to cause trouble at a moment’s notice if he chooses to. Just to cure his boredom.
The wealthy don’t start trouble. They display their shoes. Their watches. Their hollow lives.
But we’re here for the birthday dinner of a woman I’ve seen in the papers—a rich, dangerous criminal queen. A woman with more power than half the donors who support the ballet.
Torin and Harriet are the only ones who blend with the moneyed elite because they’re ghosts. They blend in by disappearing.
But pedigree, wealth, polish…it’s all the same game. A game I grew up inside.
Declan doesn’t fit because he refuses to play. He’d tear this place down for fun if the mood took him.
It’s thrilling.
It’s terrifying.
It’s new.
“A price,” I say again.
“Yes,” Declan murmurs. “A price. On your head. Unless we can cancel it, you’ll have to keep pretending to be my obedient bride.”
“Can you cancel it?”
He shrugs, casual as sin, takes a drink from the waitress hovering at his elbow.
“Depends, Molly, on how well you play your part.”
“My picture gets taken, now there’s a hit out on me, and I’m the one who has to ‘play right’?” I grit out.
He leans in, voice razor-sharp. “I didn’t do a fucking thing. You were caught where you shouldn’t have been.”
“Why are we even here?” I look around.
This isn’t the birthday party. It’s the exclusive pre-dinner. And I know some of these faces—ballet donors, society parasites, people orbiting the world my parents live in.
“Welcome to the new mafia,” Declan says. “Zelda Ortega’s rich, corrupt, and owns half the corporate world. Cal’s aligning interests. And you need to be seen with me.”
“Or?”
He mimes a gun with his hand.
I flinch. “Some of the ballet donors are here.”
He reaches under the table and slides a hand along my thigh. “Just remember which leg you hurt and you’ll be fine.”
“I want to go home. I don’t like being out here. Exposed.”
“Don’t lie, Molly girl, you’re not made for it.”
“Fuck you.”
“Got me some soap for that filthy, dirty mouth of yours,” he says with an arrogant grin.
I lean in. “Fuck. You.”
“See? I knew you had some little kinks there. Danger and exposure. Exhibitionism. A little light spanking. Is there a humiliation kink? Because I’m not really into that, but I can learn.”
“I hate you, Declan.”
“And I love the bitchy way you say Declan, Molly, instead of Dec like everyone else. Like you know you haven’t earned it.” Then he looks at me and stands, holding out his hand. “Dance with me, Molly.”
“You have a drink.”
He downs it. “No, I don’t.”
“My leg.”
“Swaying’s good for injuries.” The hand doesn’t waver. “Come on. Now.”
I take his hand.
And damn me. Heat slips through my blood when he pulls me close. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, anchoring me in a way I don’t want to think about. One song, just one, and I pull back, mutter something about the bathroom, grab my clutch bag from the table, and slip away.
Inside the mirror-lined room, I breathe, try to untangle my racing pulse.
Then my phone buzzes.
Mom: Lunch. Tomorrow.
I glare at the screen, and before putting my phone away, I dial Leon’s number.
Nothing. The call goes to voicemail, and the message sends ice shooting through my veins.
“This number is currently out of service.”
He told me if that ever happened, it meant he was in trouble and had to lie low. There’s a Colombian hole in the wall restaurant uptown where he knows the people, a place he told me he’d use to hide or use as a temporary place to escape his family.
The memory’s vague, one I’d forgotten until now, but in this moment it shines bright. Walking away from his family would be a death sentence, so he does the minimum necessary to stay in their good graces. But what if he can’t? What if I dragged him closer to the edge by asking for his help?
Me: Sorry, I can’t make it.
Mom: Stop being a child. I’ve arranged a doctor’s appointment for you tomorrow, and your spot will be waiting when you recover.
My heart turns to stone.
Me: Not interested.
Mom: You’ll do what you’re told. Do I need to find another bodyguard?
Or have him keep you under lock and key?
You’re safe, and I’m happy, but you won’t let your career slide.
You will dance the moment you’re healed and you will do your best. Meet me at the apartment at 2pm. There’s also a package waiting for you.
I almost hurl my phone at the mirror. My throat tightens. At that moment, I completely understand Leon. The bind he’s in with family. How trapped he feels. And my mother…she’s the worst. I hate her. I hate how she treats me, how she reduces me to a child. I hate—
I stop. Wait. A package? The image of the bird flashes in my mind and my eyes burn.
I push the bathroom door open and nearly collide with two men who don’t bother looking at me since they’re deep in a low conversation that ices my blood.
“If she’s the one who killed the cop or tried to bring Cinco down—”
“The redhead’s with a Murphy. Touch her and you’re dead.”
My heart stutters.
Declan wasn’t lying.
I bolt through the back corridor and shove through the emergency exit, stumbling into the night.
Can I just run?
Disappear?
No. I have to go home first. Get some of my things. Make a freaking plan for how the hell I’m going to pull this off.
I hail a cab to my mother’s apartment. Henry greets me, worry pinching his face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Someone broke in to the apartment. Your mother changed the locks. She didn’t leave your keys.”
Humiliation crawls up my throat, but I flash him a bright smile. “It’s okay. She said there was a package for me?”
He retrieves a small box wrapped in red satin from the back.
The moment it touches my hands, dread coils through me.
I open it with shaking fingers.
My gut knots and nausea ripples through me.
Pointe shoes.
Shredded.
Torn apart with violent intent.
Splattered with red paint like blood.
From a distance I can hear Henry’s voice, but his concern slides off me and I just stumble out of the building, box held tight under my arm. I need to get away, I need…
I need Declan.
My mom kept harping about a stalker but I didn’t believe it…not until the dead bird appeared. And now…these shoes…
Vision blurred, I stumble into the street, heading toward Central Park to flag a cab but there are none around. Jesus, tourists always need rides, so where the hell are all of them?
I finally see one heading in my direction, wave frantically, and miraculously, it stops.
My hand reaches for the door.
A tight, iron-clad grip clamps around my arm.
I’m yanked back, away from the cab, away from safety.
Straight into cruel hands.