Chapter 5 Elexia
Elexia
My hands are shaking so violently, I nearly drop the key.
I am a kidnapper now. A real, actual, federal-offense-level kidnapper.
I stand over Liam’s slumped form, staring at his slack features. Even drugged and half-dead on my floor, he looks sculpted from marble and dark intentions.
Think, Lexie. Think.
I scramble into the back of my closet, digging through the Box of Things I Can’t Throw Away. At the bottom, tucked beneath my old nursing scrubs, is my dad’s service belt. He was a cop, and while I kept them as a memento, I never expected to use the heavy steel handcuffs.
I pull them out, the metal clinking like a prison door slamming shut.
I drag Liam’s arm toward the radiator—the sturdiest thing in the room—and click.
He’s secured. Again.
“What am I doing?” I back up until I hit the wall, running through options.
My first instinct was to contact the police. But now, I’ve drugged him. I’ve kidnapped a high-level mafia boss. And locked him in my apartment.
For all I know, the cops could be on his payroll. And what then? He knows my name. He knows where I live. He knows I work at a flower shop.
If he peeked through my bills, he might even know where Nana is.
My head spins. If he threatened me with a gun for suggesting a hospital, what would he do over a prison cell? Snap my neck like a wilted tulip before anyone gets him out the door.
“I can’t stay here.” I hurry for my jacket. “I can’t think.”
He’ll be out for at least two hours. A calculated dose for one large Irishman.
I bolt out the door, locking it three times.
I drive to the private residence on the edge of the city. Nana’s lived here since her “retirement,” paid for by mysterious savings and my parents’ life insurance. She insisted I use the rest to build my own life. “Flowers are good for the soul,” she’d said.
After checking in with the receptionist, I make my way to her cottage, heart still racing.
It’s prim and beautiful, filled with antique books and even some rare weapons she collects. Her fat orange tabby, Churchill, judges me from the hall bookshelf.
Perfect posture, Nana sits in her wingback chair. Behind her spectacles, her sharp gray eyes lift from her crossword. The silk robe may look grandmotherly, but most miss the hard set of her jaw.
My Nana didn’t just “work for the government.” She survived it.
“Lexie?” she asks. “Why are you here? It’s not Tuesday, Sweet Pea.”
I shuffle my weight, probably looking like I’ve just witnessed a murder. Or committed one. “I…just needed to see you.”
“Bull, Sweet Pea.” She sets aside her glasses. “You’re flustered, your hair’s a bird’s nest, and you’re still in work clothes. Start talking.”
I cross the space, sit in the chair next to her, and take her hand, her skin cool and papery. “Remember after Mom died? And we promised to always be honest, no matter how bad?”
Nana doesn’t move. That’s worse. “For heaven’s sake, Lexie, just spit it out.”
I take one massive, lung-shattering breath and spill my guts.
“So there was this rain, and my car broke down, and I saw these men in black hoodies beating this guy, and I hid—but then, I had to help him. And he’s all like ‘no hospital,’ and he pulls a gun on me, so I took him home and stitched him up, and he’s hot but also terrifying, and then these scary guys came to the shop asking questions, and I went home, and he made me dinner! ”
One more desperate breath.
“He organized my books, Nana! He cleaned my snow globes, and we ate dinner, and then I drugged his tea because I found out he’s the head of the Irish underworld, and now he’s handcuffed to my radiator!”
Silence. She blinks once. Twice. Churchill jumps down from the shelf and weaves through my legs.
Nana sets her glasses down carefully. “Liam Donovan.”
I nod.
“He made you dinner?”
I nod again. “Irish soda bread, potato pancakes, and bacon.”
“And he cleaned your apartment?”
Another nod.
She folds her hands in her lap. Composed. Almost…amused. “So, cleaning, cooking, and he said you were his savior, and he owed you a debt. And then, you drugged him?”
I bury my face in my hands, the utter stupidity hitting me. “What am I going to do? He’s going to kill me, Nana. Or put my head on a pike outside his Irish castle or whatever they do.”
I peek through my fingers.
Something warm and dangerous curves Nana’s mouth. As if I’ve given her the highlight of her year.
She tips her head back and laughs, loud enough to send Churchill hissing for the kitchen. “Good God Almighty, Elexia Claire Carter. You have gotten yourself into quite the pickle.”
I jerk upright. “It’s not funny! What do I do?!”
Nana grips my hand. Firm. Unyielding. “You’re going to go home. You’re going to wait for him to wake up. And you will apologize for drugging him.”
My jaw drops. “Apologize?!”
“You will go about your routine.” Her smile turns sharp and knowing. “I will reach out to my contacts for next steps.”
“What contacts? Are you calling the FBI? Or the Avengers?”
Nana taps my nose. “You know better than to ask, Sweet Pea.”
“But what about the gun?”
She straightens, expression turning granite-hard. “Liam Donovan is many things, Elexia. Most importantly, he is a man of his word. If he said he owes you a debt, and he has no wish to harm you? It’s true. Donovans are violent and ruthless—but they do not break a blood debt.”
“He wants to stay in my apartment!”
“Would it be so bad?” Her mouth curves. “A walking crime scene who cooks and earns his keep? Even with broken ribs, a man like that has…utility.”
“Utility?” I squeak.
“And virility.”
“What the what?!”
“Good gracious, child. Are you a parrot tonight?”
Cheeks burning, I clamp my mouth shut, shifting my weight.
“What is it now?” Her gaze pins me in place.
“Nothing.”
“Lexie,” she warns.
I cover half my face with my hand. “He…um…he took my special things.”
Nana lifts a brow. Then understanding hits, and she laughs again.
“It’s not funny!” My voice is a pathetic whine. The uncomfortable, hot ache inside me grows. “He said I wouldn’t need them anymore.”
Her laughter fades to something nostalgic. “Not all undercover trysts were unpleasant, Sweet Pea. Especially with the naughty boys.”
“I am not undercover, Nana! I’m not trained for this, any of it,” I gesture wildly at my body with my floral-print sweater, my complete lack of ‘femme fatale’ energy. “What if he—?”
“He won’t,” she cuts me off, firm and sharp.
“How do you know?”
“I know.” A shadow passes over her features. A ghost of the woman who once navigated the world’s deadliest circles. “He may do other things. Things I’m sure you’ll enjoy. But not that. For now, all you need to do is be the charming, sweet girl he can’t help but keep around.”
I leave Nana’s house an hour later, shell-shocked and feeling like the world has been tilted on its axis.
The drive home is a blur with my stomach doing somersaults and Nana’s words on loop in my head.
Sure. I’ll just go in, apologize, and maybe he’ll leave, vanish into the night.
Pulse thumping in my head, I slowly turn the key…and unlock the door.
Oh, shit. The living room is empty. The open handcuffs dangle from the radiator.
My spine prickles, chilled by fear.
“Liam?” I whisper.
Silence.
Suddenly, a large, calloused hand wraps around my waist, jerking me back. My spine slams against a hard chest, and a palm clamps over my throat—not squeezing, just firm enough to remind me who holds the power.
He cages me, his chest a wall of muscle at my back.
“You were a naughty, naughty girl, Lexie Darlin’.” The Irish lilt sounds like a sharpened blade.
Air won’t reach my lungs. The cold, terrible realization that I am no longer in control twists my stomach.
“You thought those wee toys would hold me?” His thumb traces my jaw. “After what you did to my tea?”
My thighs press together on reflex, a treacherous heat blooming in my core.
“Did you know I dedicated years of my life building up an immunity to many a drug?”
Oh, God. Of course he did. When did he wake up? How long was he waiting? Why didn’t he just leave?
I’ve a long memory, Lexie,” he speaks it like a promise, his hand shifting just slightly, his fingers tangling in my hair. “I won’t forget your betrayal.”
He pulls me closer into the darkness of the hall.
“I didn’t—”
“How long until the police arrive?” he snarls.
A sickening certainty jolts through me. If he doesn’t believe me, my life as a simple florist ended the moment I turned that key.