Chapter 8 Liam
Liam
The scent of butter and herbs fills her small kitchen as I plate the last of the breakfast. English muffins, toasted to a golden brown.
Sausages, crisped just right. Hash browns with a bit of rosemary from her spice cabinet.
And the omelet—fluffy, stuffed with mushrooms and tomatoes, folded precisely as my mother taught me.
Mum would have approved of Elexia Carter. Oh, she would have adored her. Not my father. Good thing he’s dead.
Lexie is captivating in a way that catches me off guard. Her responsiveness last night was…magical. At any moment, I was ready for her to battle me. In some ways, she gave me a war. More like a siege, a conquest.
No other woman compares to her. The others held no magic, no secrets, no walls worth climbing.
And while previous lovers expected more from this billionaire mafia boss, Lexie gives me her awe and her disbelief.
The first makes me feel more vital—like I’m a man worth respecting, not a monster worth fearing.
So, I’m determined to show her I’m not just a fantasy pulled from her books.
I set the tray down and glance toward her bedroom door, slightly ajar—a mess of white sheets and a pink knitted blanket tangled at the foot.
The room is small, cozy. More plants hang near the window.
A stack of books on the nightstand. A framed photo of her hugging an older woman—her mother, I’d wager—both laughing.
It was a pleasure to watch her fall asleep before I tended to a few things.
I must tread carefully. If Elexia is living out her fantasies, and the cold, brutal reality of my world strikes her, it could all come crashing down. The blood. The violence. The bodies I’ve buried. The enemies I’ve made…and killed.
So I fully intend to keep the dream alive for as long as possible.
Picking up the tray, I push the door open with my shoulder.
She’s still asleep, curled on her side, one hand tucked under her pillow.
Her golden sunrise hair falls in loose, long curls along the white.
I envy her peace. My side still throbs from the stab wound.
The bruises howl along my flesh. And while it’s a little challenging to breathe, my ribs are only bruised, not broken. I know the difference.
Once I’m healed, I fully intend to fuck her raw until she doesn’t simply see me as her book boyfriend come to life. I’ll make her forget every fictional man she’s ever loved.
First, I set the tray upon the corner table, then cross to the nearby window, and yank the curtains open.
Sunlight floods the room, and she groans, burying her face into the pillow.
“Rise and shine, Darlin.”
Her eyes pop open, and she startles, sitting upright, clutching the sheets to her chest with both hands. She’s still wearing the dress from last night, the corset strings free, showing her bra.
A squeak tears from her throat. “What are you—”
“Top of the mornin’ to ye, too, mo Róisín.”
Her face turns that lovely shade of pink I’m fond of. Messy hair raining down her cheeks and chest.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?”
“You don’t remember…? Why, Elexia, you wound me,” I chuff a laugh.
Picking up the tray, I move toward the bed. Confused and wary, she scans me, scrutinizing, testing.
I lower myself onto the bed and set the tray across her lap with care. “I made you breakfast.”
She stares at the tray. Her nose twitches, smelling the rich and savory scent. “I thought it was a dream.” She rubs her brow. “I’m still dreaming.”
I reach out and pinch her upper arm. Not hard, just enough.
“Ow!” she yelps. “What was that for?”
“Proving it’s no dream.” I rub the tiny sting. “And compared to the marks I left on your lovely ass, that pinch was light.”
Pink to scarlet, the flush spreads, and I imagine the memories are flooding back. Other than her coming apart for me, my favorite moment was when she called me ‘Sir’.
She squeezes her eyes shut, pursing her lips. When she opens them again, she stares at me, blinking, discerning, then…lowering.
I’m wearing the clothes I express-shipped from a nearby boutique shortly after I put her to bed—a gray thin-knit sweater and casual black slacks. Nothing fancy, but clean. Normal. I showered in her bathroom, using her vanilla and floral soap. My hair is still damp.
I look like a man who could walk into a coffee shop and order a latte. Not like the bloodied, broken bastard she dragged out of an alley.
“Where did you get all this?” she wonders.
I reach into my back pocket and pull out her credit card, waving it in the air. Her jaw drops.
“You—” She lunges for it, but I lift it out of reach.
“Don’t be worrying yer pretty head, Lexie,” I scold playfully. “I’ll be payin’ ye back with interest. Generous interest.”
She glares at me, still clutching the sheets. “And what? You have no other source of revenue but mine?”
“Not without endangerin’ myself…and you. Trust me, I’m good for it. I used some of my emergency stash, too. Your card isn’t suffering much.”
Jaw set. Fiery expression. She wants to argue. But the smell of the hash is doing its work, and her growling stomach is louder than her pride.
Sighing, she reaches for a fork, stabs a piece of hash, and slides it into her mouth. “Oh my God,” she moans, lashes fluttering shut.
The sound goes straight through me. Warmth pools low in my gut, jerking my cock.
She takes another bite, and another. Everything is magical. How her lips part, how her shoulders relax. And those whimpers of appreciation.
I’ve never been so jealous of a fork in my life.
Soon, I will kiss her. I know she was shocked I didn’t last night. But she deserves a powerful kiss, dark and deep, meant for the books she loves.
When she finally looks up, I don’t hide my expression, warm, possessive. She’s mine. The thought brands itself in my chest. She will know it. Soon.
“How long do you plan to stay here?” She plucks up a sausage link.
I lean back against her pillows, folding my hands behind my head. The movement pulls at the wound in my side, and I wince. She catches it.
“Until it’s safe,” I finalize.
One brow quirks. “And you have no other safe houses or friends to bunk with?”
I reach for one of the sausages, but her hand darts out, smacking mine away. I stiffen, a muscle in my jaw working.
She pulls the plate closer, clearly flirting. “Mine. This is too good to share.”
I toss her a knowing look before stealing a kiss from her cheek, lingering enough to see goosebumps blooming. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
She glows, trying the omelet next. With one bite, she gushes.
I lie back against her pillows, my hands in my lap now, studying everything she does.
“A man in my position does not have the benefit of friends,” I share. “I may have allies and underlings. But I now have confirmation of a traitor in my midst. I am taking steps to ensure both our safety.”
She sets her fork down, focusing on me. “What steps?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I reach for the mug on the nightstand—I set it there before I woke her—and hand it to her. “Drink some tea.”
She brings it to her lips. The first sip makes her freeze. “This isn’t…” She gazes at the mug, then at me. “What kind of tea is this?”
I reach into her nightstand drawer, where I cunningly tucked the object. Brand-new, expensive, the tin is one she mentioned in her diary from a tea shop she visited with her mother.
Setting the mug down, she snatches the tin, reading the label with reverence. “Oh my God! I love this. The shop closed. And I’ve been trying to find it for years. Where did you get it?”
I tuck a few tendrils of her hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing her cheek. She goes still.
“Now, Darlin, I can’t share all my secrets.”
One of my trusted contacts, who knows where to find anything in this city, tracked it down.
“How did you know?” Her voice cracks.
I rub my lips along her neck. “Your diaries made for informative readin’ material.”
She freezes and turns to look at me, her face flaming hotter than the sun. “You—you read my diaries?”
I pull back, unrepentant. “The pit bull doodles were quite cute. You clearly love them. But you don’t own one.”
She shakes her head, her throat tightening. “Not anymore.” She cradles the mug in both hands, taking another sip. “If you’ve been reading my diaries, you would know she died.”
I skim my knuckles down her arm. “Didn’t get that far yet. What was her name?”
Though her fingers tighten around the mug, her expression softens, the grief rising to the surface. “I named her Maggie.” The words thin at the edges. “After Maggie Smith. My favorite actress. Mom and I were planning a trip to Highclere Castle when…” She trails off. “Well, it just didn’t happen.”
Her shoulders tense, her gaze drifting far away.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your mother. Some losses don’t fade.” A loss I know well…unfortunately.
Her expression flashes with anger first—how dare he—but the tears come, and she blinks rapidly, trying to hold them back. How long since she cried those particular tears?
“H-how much did you read?” She turns away.
But I tilt her face to me with one finger. And brush a tear from her cheek.
“I stopped at the passage where you mentioned the first anniversary of her death.”
I don’t mention the overdue medical bills I found in one of her diaries. Or the entry where she talked about dropping out of nursing school to care for her mother.
She’s not ready for that conversation.
She pulls away, exhaling deeply. More tears hover just beneath the surface.
“I am not talking about my mother’s death with the head of the Irish fucking mafia.” Regret crosses her expression. The words came out sharper than she intended.
I raise my hands. “Just as good as the next guy, Darlin.”
She makes a scoffing sound, but feisty. “Yeah, if the next guy is Dracula.”
“Ouch.” I feign a wounded expression.
She smiles. Real, soft, and genuine. “Thank you for breakfast. And for the tea.”
“I promise to be a proper house guest, Lexie. Even the mafia has standards.”
“Do those standards include bending a woman over a table and taking out your personal offense to mafia literature on her bottom?”
“When it’s a bottom as lovely and worthy as yours…” I wink, then lift a finger. “But I always pay my debts. And I always take care of what is mine.”
She opens her mouth, but no words leave. I hold her gaze, my smile fading into something darker, possessive, and predatory.
Color high in her cheeks, she sets the tea down on the nightstand and reaches for another bite of hash.
Neither of us speaks. She’s intriguing. No anger. No demands. Just…acceptance. It’s unnerving, suspicious. I know she’s holding something back. But if I push, she’ll shut down.
She needs to know this is happening. This is no longer about the life debt. She is mine. Mine to keep, to protect, and to save as she saved me.
And while she had quite the collection of kinky toys, I can’t help but wonder about her experience. Is she all talk and no action? Or has she been with men who didn’t know what the hell they were doing?
I want to savor her. But it’s only a matter of time before the savoring will end, and I’ll need more. Until then, I’ll treat her like the goddess she is to me.
Lexie finishes, sets her fork down, and glances at the clock. “I should get ready for work.”
I straighten. “No.”
She prickles. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“You’re not going to work today.. You’re calling in sick.”
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “I can’t just call in sick. I have orders to fill. There’s a wedding this weekend, and—”
“I don’t care. Those men who came to your shop yesterday? They’ll be back. And I’ll not let them interrogate you more.”
Her expression hardens. “You’re overreacting.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” She slaps the bed. “I’m going to work, Liam.”
I shift closer, dropping my hand to her knee. “I must insist.”
She huffs, “Is this just an excuse so you can get in my pants?”
I tilt my head, my suggestive fingers climbing along her thigh. “Trust me, Darlin’, when I’m ready to get in your pants, you’ll be on your knees begging me to, or pouncing and humping me, or—”
“I got it.” She shoves my hand away. “But I must insist. I’m going to work.”
I shake my head, firm. “No, Luv, yer not.”
She rolls her eyes. “And how do you plan to stop me?”
I just smile.