Chapter 3
Elexia
The first thing I notice is the heat.
It’s a heavy, radiating warmth that feels like a weighted blanket, only far more alive.
I’m groggy, my mind floating in that soft, hazy space between dreams and reality where everything feels safe and solid.
A rough texture strokes the back of my hand, knuckles dragging with a slow, possessive pull. It finds its own rhythm.
It feels…amazing.
A low hum vibrates against my back, and I press closer to the source of the warmth.
A tight ache grows in my center, like lightning sparking and diffusing down my thighs.
My nipples harden against my soft pajamas, and for a blissful second, I think I’m finally living out one of my spicy book chapters.
Then I feel it. Something very hard, very thick, pressing against the curve of my butt.
Holy shit. I know what that is.
My eyes snap open.
I’m not in a book. And I’m definitely not alone.
Bare masculine arms surround me, corded with sinew and ink. The kind of throbbing veins women would lick. And a tapestry of dark tattoos that belong in a true crime thriller, not in my apartment.
I jerk away, my heart tap-dancing against my ribs. I tumble off the couch, knocking paperbacks everywhere before spinning around.
He’s sitting there. The scary man from last night.
Shirtless and bandaged. Pure terror jolts through me. Because he’s completely free. The green zip ties are lying on the floor, snapped like damp spaghetti.
He waves lazily with a dark smirk. “Top of the mornin’ to ye, Darlin’.” A few curls of dark hair fall over his cheekbones. Like they were purposefully designed to be illegally attractive.
“How—” I back up, grabbing the nearest object. My fingers close around my pink wool throw pillow, and I hoist it like a shield. “Stay back! How did you get out? I secured those!”
A low and gravelly sound leaves his throat. “You left a variety of methods for me to escape, Darlin’. And you weren’t exactly tight with the tension. Amateur hour, so it was.”
“I’ll—I’ll hit you!” I threaten.
“With a pillow?”
Right. A pillow is not ideal against a man who looks like he eats glass for breakfast.
I drop it and lunge for the nearest heavy object, my prize-winning Variegated Monstera, aka Sweet Pea. I lift the pot, ready to swing, until I notice her delicate leaves shimmering in the morning light.
“No, no, no,” I refuse. “You cost eighty dollars, and you’re finally putting out a new leaf.”
I set her down and grab the next best thing: a thick, hardcover mafia romance. I brandish it like a hatchet and swipe my reddish-blonde curls from my face.
He tilts his head, icy blue eyes tracking the cover. “A mafia title. How quaint.” He chuckles softly, and my stomach flips. “You won’t be needing that, Luv. Put it down before you pull a muscle.”
I refuse to let his Irish accent make my girl parts swoon. Even the bruises on his face look unfairly beautiful. And…well, everyone knows scars are sexy. Four silver marks slash the left side of his jaw, two longer ones across his forehead.
Just imagine his hands strangling you, and not where they may have been when you were asleep.
Not helpful.
“Are you going to kill me?” I demand, but it sounds more like a brittle squeak. “Are you going to chop me into tiny pieces and put my body parts in jars?”
He leans back, gaze flicking to my chest—where my nipples are embarrassingly obvious—then back to my face. Slow, predatory hunger radiates from him.
“Why would I kill my savior? Doesn’t sound very polite, Darlin’. And for the record? I prefer your parts right where they are. Much more useful that way.” He winks.
Heat creeps up my neck. “You pulled a gun on me! In my car!”
He reaches between the couch cushions and pulls out the cold black steel of his pistol. Wags it like a finger. “This gun?”
The blood drains from my face. “I put that in the freezer!”
“I woke up hungry in the night,” he says, accent thick and smooth as velvet. “Found the pea-shooter next to the frozen peas. Thought it’d be safer within reach. In case your ‘comfort shows’ turned into a lifestyle.”
Oh God. He was awake. How much did he hear?
“I—I have to go to work,” I blurt out, glancing at the clock. Nearly eight. “You have to leave. You’re healed enough to move. So move. Out.”
“I’m not leaving quite yet.” Steel under velvet now. No room to argue. “It hurts to walk. And I find I quite like the view from this sofa.”
His eyes roam.
“I don’t even know who you are!”
“Liam. That’s all you need for now.” A pause. “And you?”
I hesitate, voices warring. He will easily learn my name, especially if he’s staying here.
“Elexia.”
He lifts a brow. “Like the AI?”
“That’s Ah-lex-ah. I’m Eh-lek-see-uh—with two e’s. But…” I sigh. “Most people call me Lexie. With an ie.”
“Lexie,” he repeats. The name sounds like both a prayer and a threat. “The less you know about me, the better for your health. We’ll keep it that way. Go to your flowers, Luv. I’ll be right here when you get back.”
I want to argue. I want to scream. But my survival instinct wins.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But don’t touch my plants. Or my books. And for the love of God, don’t look in my bedroom.”
I bolt to my room, throw on work clothes, and rush out the door, heart frenzied.
I swear I hear him utter, “No promises.”
Georgie’s Flories is a cozy little storefront owned by a portly, cheerful old man, naturally named Georgie.
Whitewashed brick walls. Hanging ferns cascading from exposed beams. The constant scent of roses and eucalyptus.
Everything gives off a vintage, quaint vibe. Usually, it feels like a sanctuary.
Today it feels like a prison.
I’m arranging a massive pink-and-blue display for a baby shower, hands shaking so badly I nearly decapitate a dozen hydrangeas. Every time the bell above the door rings, I jump three feet.
My mind races. Is Liam still there? What if he’s stalking around my apartment, lying in wait, ready to press a knife to my throat as soon as I walk in? My hands stay calm for most of the morning.
Around noon, it happens.
Two men enter the shop. Not the guys from the alley, but they’re built the same way—like brick shithouses with expensive suits and cold, hollow expressions. A tattoo of a snake coils around one’s neck.
“Can I help you?” I ask coolly, “Do you need funeral arrangements?” Or a black-market organ operation? Flowers would spruce up the place, make it smell better, too.
Snake-neck leans over the counter, smelling of cheap cologne and cigarettes. “We’re looking for a guy. Tall. Dark curls. Might be hurt and bloody. Homeless guy said he saw a man in an old, gray car driving away.”
Ice floods my veins. I straighten the counter displays to prevent my hands from trembling.
“You didn’t see a bloody guy with tattoos hanging around?”
I give him my best vacant florist smile. “Sir, if I’d seen a bloody guy with tattoos outside my shop, I’d have called an ambulance. And the police. Obviously.” True statement.
They stare for a long moment.
“Right,” snake-neck grunts. “If you see him, call this number. Don’t call the cops. Unless you want your shop to become a funeral parlor.”
They leave, and I nearly collapse on the cash register.
The second they’re out of sight, I’m on my phone. Liam didn’t have ID, but I saw that ring. The gold crest on his pinky finger. A Triskelion with a Claddagh symbol topped by a crown.
I do a rough search of Irish Mob rings.
Results flood the screen from news articles to photos of crime scenes.
And then, a face.
Liam Donovan. Heir to the Donovan Syndicate. Head of the North Side Irish Underworld.
The screen blurs, and I bury my face in my hands. “Oh god…oh god…oh god. I saved the head of the Irish underworld.” Making the sign of the cross won’t even help me. “I’m going to hell.”
I take a deep, shaky breath. “He’s going to kill me. Or worse, he’s going to stay.”