Chapter 4 Liam
Liam
It’s unusual for me to be standing in a kitchen wearing nothing but my ruined trousers and a pink apron with butterflies on it, but life has a funny way of throwing things at you.
She had no men’s clothes. Not a stitch. Which tells me no boyfriend is lurking in the shadows. That works quite nicely in my favor.
My side is throbbing like a drum. Every movement feels like a hot poker catching me in the ribs, but I wasn’t about to spend the day being an idle guest. Not when the place looked like a bomb had hit a library and a greenhouse.
I spent the morning tidying. Organized her books by genre, though I had a chuckle at some of the titles. This girl’s mind is filthy, dark, and twisted.
Then I got to work on dinner. Nothing too fancy, given what she had in the fridge, but I’ve always been handy with a potato.
I made a quick Irish soda bread. The chocolate chips and oats I found in the pantry added a bit of sweetness to the second loaf. I boiled the spuds, mashed them with plenty of cheese and seasoning, and fried up potato pancakes with the rest. Even found some bacon to crisp.
I laid a tablecloth over the wee bistro table, lit candles, and poured the last of her red wine into two glasses.
The door clicks open.
I smell her first. Vanilla and lilies.
She stops dead in her tracks when she sees me. Dishrag in hand, apron round my waist, looking as domestic as a housecat despite the stitches in my side.
I smirk, pushing through the ache. “Welcome home, Darlin’. How was your day?”
Her mouth falls open. “What in the hell are you doing?”
I toss the rag over my shoulder, wincing as the motion pulls at my ribs. “I am no freeloader, Lexie. I will earn my keep, even while healing.”
“Ugh…” She rakes her hands through her hair. “Okay, okay, this is not the end of the world. A sexy Irishman who looks like a walking crime scene making you dinner is not the end of the world.”
“Go raibh maith agat,” I say, unsurprised when she blinks.
“What?”
“Thank you,” I translate, playing it low and smooth. “You are quite lovely yourself. But would you care to change for dinner?”
She takes in the room from the neat stacks to the polished surfaces. “What did you—? You organized my bookshelf?!”
“And tidied up a wee bit. Don’t worry. I was tender with Sweet Pea, Fernie, and the rest.” Adorable how she labeled her plants. “Your snow globes are safely tucked in the curio cabinet as well.”
She looks torn between crying and screaming. “Um…thanks.” Then her eyes widen. “Did you go into—?”
She bolts for the bedroom.
I laugh softly as I hear drawers yanked open, followed by a squeal and the slam of a dresser.
A minute later, she marches back out, her face all shades of red—crimson, beet, and everything in between.
Heated amusement ripples through my chest at knowing what she’s found. Or rather, what she didn’t find.
Chest heaving, hands balled into adorable fists, she demands, “Where the hell are my things?”
“What things?” I ask, innocent as a babe.
“You know very well what things! The—the drawer!”
I wave a hand and stroll toward the table. “It was a creative compilation of toys, I’ll give you that, Luv. I particularly admired the glittering pink monster dildo. Quite the statement piece.”
“Oh, God…” She buries her face in her hands.
“I took them away. I assure you, you won’t be needing those anymore, Darlin’.”
“Where are they?” she groans through her fingers.
“Safe. For now. Come, me sweet savior,” I drop the occasional ‘me’. “Eat before it gets cold. Then we’ll have dessert.”
I gesture to the table. She doesn’t change, but she sits, looking like a wee, dazed bird. I pull out her chair, fingers brushing the ends of her hair as she calms. She smells even better up close.
I serve her up a heaping portion of mash and bacon.
She takes a bite and lets out a soft sound of approval. “I can’t believe you did all this,” she whispers.
“Weren’t hard, Luv. Potatoes are an Irish staple. And ye had plenty.”
We both reach for the wine at the same time, fingers colliding. Static electricity.
“So, how was your day at the florist shop?”
Her blush fades into a sharp, calculating look. “Oh, fine. If you like arranging baby-shower flowers while big scary men with gang tattoos interrogate you.”
Instinct has me stiffening, hand straying to the crest ring on my pinky. I twist it, tendons in my arm tightening, blood running hot.
“And what did you tell them?”
She purses her lips and lifts her glass. “Nothing. I told them if I’d seen a bloody man with tattoos outside the shop, I’d have called an ambulance and then the police. Which is true.”
She’s fidgeting. But she’s not lying. It weren’t my lads. But I know they’re looking. And so are the rats who set me up. I can’t reach out to my sources yet.
Leaning back in the chair, I swirl my wine. “You have done me a great service, Elexia. On my honor, it will be repaid tenfold. No harm will come to you in this house.”
She relaxes a fraction and eats heartily of the meal before glancing at me.
“You mentioned dessert?” she asks.
I rise, my side screaming in protest as I move to the counter and uncover the second loaf. “Chocolate chips and oats. Put to good use.”
When I hand her a slice, I can’t resist brushing my knuckles along her cheek. She shivers but doesn’t pull away. Something beyond fear lingers there. Her cheeks redden something fierce, so damn pretty.
Eyes lowered to her plate, she wonders, “Would you like some tea?”
“Aye. It would complement the dessert nicely.”
We sit in a strange silence as the kettle whistles. She doesn’t ask questions. No ‘who are you’. No ‘why were they after you’.
Suspicious, so it is.
She returns with the tea. “I’ll check your bandages after we’re done. Make sure the stitches look healthy.”
“Go raibh maith agat,” I repeat.
I take a long sip. It’s warm, herbal…and within seconds, my head starts to swim.
The room begins to tilt. My vision blurs, and the edges of the world fray.
I recognize the symptoms before I hit the floor.
I look up at her. But the ‘sweet little florist’ look is gone.
“I know what you are, who you are, Liam Donovan.” She’s cold now. Composed. “And I really like my body parts where they are.”
Can’t move. My limbs are water-logged noodles.
“Feckin’ hell…Lexie,” I rasp. “Remind me…never to piss off…a girl who reads…about monsters.”
Darkness takes me.
And even as I slip under, all I can think about is how much I’m going to enjoy punishing her later.
Mo Róisín has thorns, after all.
And I’ve always liked a bit of a sting.