Chapter 22 Marlowe
TWENTY-TWO
marlowe
If hell had crown molding and a wine cellar, it would look exactly like this place.
Lucie’s family home is a full-on mafia mansion…old-money Italian, stiff and over-decorated, dripping power from every chandelier. It’s perfect for this stupid night.
I don’t want to be here. I want to be fucking Declan until I forget my own name.
Something’s changed with us. And I don’t think it’s the fact that Leon’s left town. He sent me a text saying he won’t be in touch for a while and wishing me the best.
Maybe it’s that this is going to end soon.
Declan will find Daddy, or at least—my throat tightens as I smile at a retired dancer I move past—or at least what happened to him.
Someone, somewhere, has to know. Declan thinks Daddy doesn’t want to be found. So he could be fine. Safe. Hidden.
The reality of it all sinks in.
If Declan killed the stalker and squashed that hit, then this will all end.
It’s one of the reasons I’m avoiding Mom.
What if she says it’s time to pull the plug?
Time to hand me off. Time for me to be married off for real. Time to cut me loose.
Not that she’s said anything like that. When I spoke to her, or rather, when she spoke to me about tonight, she gloated over the move, and only had praise for the little bodyguard business she hired—especially since it comes with the powerful Murphy family attached to it.
Honestly, she turns my stomach sometimes.
I mean, she hasn’t even asked about Monarch.
“What’re you brooding about there, pretty Molly?
” Declan slides in behind me, his hand wrapping low around my hips, fingers spreading over the black dress he chose for tonight.
Heat floods my cheeks at the memory of our fight about whether I can pick my own clothes…
and at the slick little trickle of cum sliding down my inner thigh. A reminder of who really is in charge.
“You and your molesting ways.”
Declan looks delighted and grins, his dimple flashing and blue-green eyes dancing. And in a room of expensive perfume, I try to subtly turn into him and breathe him in.
“You love my molesting ways, Molly girl. And…are you sniffing me?”
I grit my teeth.
“No,” I lie. “I’m thinking how you fucked me hard over the bathroom sink before we left and wouldn’t let me shower again. Or put on panties.”
He gives me a hurt look. “And be late to a thing like this? I’d never.”
“Why didn’t Lucie come?”
“Because my fucking brother’s soft when it comes to her and his weans—”
“His what?”
“Weans? Wee ones? Kids, brats, spawn.”
I roll my eyes at him.
“Also, this is the place where he killed her not-father.”
“He what? And not-father?” I stare at him. Ice slides down my spine.
“Killed the fucking asshole. Also, a long time ago, Harriet shot Torin. And my da’s in prison in Ireland.” He brushes a kiss over my hair. “There. All the family secrets. You owe me for that fuck, by the way. I allowed you to come.”
My head spins, and I focus on the one thing I can.
“You came too. It’s literally dribbling down—”
I stop as he laughs. And I narrow my eyes.
“You suck,” I mutter. “Thank goodness you at least let me wear the garter.”
“No, Marlowe, you suck, which gives me some ideas.” This time he pulls me close. “And the garter’s sexy and smart. You remember which leg’s injured now.”
“Doesn’t matter since I’m stuck doing this.”
He’s the epitome of a loving, attentive husband. It makes my heart flutter, and my stomach jump and spin, even though I know there is steel behind the charm. He’s surveying the room closely. For what, I don’t know. Counting potential threats?
But I’m safe. Right?
“You’re only stuck because you allow it, Molly.” And he kisses me again, the brief brush of his lips striking like a match. “Where did Leon go? And don’t say he wasn’t even here. You know what I mean.”
I try to pull free, but he won’t let me. I think about stomping his foot into dust, but I’m wearing pretty little shoes that won’t do much. And I bet he’s wearing steel-toe boots.
“I don’t know, he just said away.”
A big man comes up to talk with Declan, and he keeps me positioned next to him as they talk about an area in the Garment District the man seems eager to sell.
But I end up getting pulled away by Topher, who’s got a new girlfriend. She’s prettier, but twice as bored. I catch her scouting the room, looking for a better option.
“I should have stuck with you, Mar,” he murmurs into my ear, his hand sliding around my waist as he breathes alcohol fumes on me. I don’t know if he’s drunk or just finished a drink. He can hold his liquor when he wants to. “You’re the only one who doesn’t bore me.”
“Only because I’m not interested.”
Topher pulls me in. “You’re also more fun to dance with.”
“No, I just make you look better.”
He nuzzles my neck as my mother takes us in. She doesn’t want me with Topher; though, to someone like her, he’s still a step up from the help.
From Declan. The bodyguard she can’t own.
She’d never admit that’s why she hates him.
“Stop that.” I try to shake him off subtly.
“I need to send you flowers.”
“Need?” I ask with a forced laugh even though there’s nothing remotely funny about this.
“Want. For…purposes.” I roll my eyes. To look good in the eyes of the board, probably.
Topher usually only does things he wants to, and things he thinks will further his goals.
And with my mother making huge donations that got me named principal dancer, it means more money, more prestige, and more opportunities for me and anyone I’m linked with.
“What’s your address?” he asks. “So I can send you roses. White ones, your favorite. With some red.”
Before I can respond, I smell smoke, dark musk, and expensive whiskey, and Declan’s arm drops over my shoulders, pulling me back against his body. He slaps Topher hard between the shoulder blades, smiling like they’re best friends.
Then he palms a card and slaps it against Topher’s chest.
“My office,” he says pleasantly. “That’s where you send them. And she likes color and wildflowers. Not white. Not red.”
“All girls like red.” Topher gives Declan an amused look. But I note he steps back.
“Not my girl. Not my wife. Not in roses. Not unless I give them to her.”
He may as well push his gun into Topher’s temple and whisper back the fuck off before I end you.
“We need to meet and greet and look like the happy couple,” Declan murmurs in my ear, sending shivers down my spine.
Topher saunters off to his bored date as my fake husband steers me away. It’s a whirlwind of introductions. Mikey’s here, Tony, one of the drivers, is also present. I meet Lucie’s mother and brother, a well-mannered guy with haunted eyes.
Declan’s brothers make the rounds in their own way. With purpose. Talking to the people they want to. But only Declan’s the social butterfly type. He could talk the dead into rising and swooning for him.
It’s a gift, watching men and women fall under his spell as he talks about nonsensical things. Some of the older matrons fan themselves with their pearls.
He’s the other side of the coin to his oldest brother. Callahan watches the door closely and brushes off most people without blinking.
But I don’t ever make the mistake of thinking Declan is soft, just like I don’t ever think Cal can’t be as charming as Declan if he chooses to.
I look for the others because I’m bored with whatever Declan’s talking to some fat cat about. Rich, ugly, privileged—the type who goes to the ballet to be seen, and not for the art of the dance.
Torin is gifted at somehow disappearing even though these Murphy men are all hot as fuck and stick out in crowds. But I know where he is. Because I know where Harriet is.
I wait until Declan’s caught in a different conversation with a white-haired lady, and then slip my hand out of his to look for a quiet place.
I inch down the halls and push open a door that’s slightly ajar.
A thin stream of soft gold light seeps out.
I step inside, close the door, and lean against the wall.
For a moment my heart beats fast and hard.
Because I’m in an office. Oh, hell, was Lucie’s not father killed in here?
Declan jokes. He plays. He wraps his brutality in sugar. But he was telling the truth. Callahan killed the man Lucie thought was her father. I don’t know why yet, but if I know anything, he did it for her.
To protect her. Which means the man was a monster. And the world is better without him.
I reach into my little bag that holds my phone and go still. There’s a piece of paper.
It takes two to tango. But we’ll meet again, my love, I know.
The line’s from the song, Idiot Prayer. I got a mixtape once from a fan. I struggle to breathe in. Or from my stalker. The writing’s similar to the cards and mail I’ve gotten. My lungs seize and I shove it back into the bag.
Am I still in danger? Or is someone playing a sick joke on me?
I take a few deep breaths and look around.
There’s a massive desk in the center of the room.
The kind that curves down to the floor at the front so no one sees what’s going on behind it.
Everything on top is decorative, staged rather than used.
Beautiful books line the far wall bookshelf.
There’s a plush old chair behind the desk, and another one off to the side.
It’s one of those rooms.
Like the ones at home, my real home, designed to look inviting, but never actually used. Rooms for show. For power. For pretending.
I close my eyes. Declan’s right. I’m a spoiled rich kid from Manhattan.
But even that realization can’t scrape away the thing pulsing under my skin.
I want him.
Not just his hands, his mouth, his cock. Him.
It’s never been just lust with him. Not from the first time I saw him. My world tilted and hasn’t steadied since. Declan Murphy makes me vulnerable just by walking into a room. He blows my life apart by existing.
He’s a man I could love as much as I hate.