Chapter 23 - Elexia
Elexia
Every touch of Darragh Donovan feels necrotic. Every movement violates in such a way, it tells me exactly what he thinks I am. A prize. A trophy.
The gun barrel jabs my ribs, forming a cold, circular bruise. Low and guttural, his laughter vibrates against my back, twisting my stomach with a violent, oily nausea. Horror grips my chest.
Liam is still cuffed to the chair, resembling a fallen god, blood running down the side of his face. His eyes burn with a promise of hellfire, but he’s still. Too still.
I know I dropped the barrette in his lap. He must be working it. But we need a distraction.
“You look a bit pale, Elexia,” Eamon says smoothly.
I glance up. He’s standing by the tea service, his hands moving with an elegant grace. He doesn’t seem like a man who just helped kidnap his nephew. No, he looks like a concerned host.
“Perhaps a cup of tea to settle the nerves?” Something there cuts through the polite mask as he slides a delicate china cup across the table to me.
“It’s piping hot, just the way you like it,” Eamon adds.
He doesn’t just slide the cup. He nudges a silver letter opener—honed to a needle-sharp point—along with it, the blade hidden by the shadow of the silver tray.
I register the signal. I guess there is more to him than meets the eye. I reach out, my fingers shaky as I wrap them around the hot porcelain cup, my fingers brushing the letter opener. I palm the blade, sliding it into the sleeve of Eamon’s oversized overcoat.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“That’s a good girl,” Darragh purrs, his other hand tightening around my waist, his fingers digging into the flesh. “See, Liam? She’s already learning her place. She’s far more reasonable than your mother ever was.”
Liam’s jaw steels until I think his teeth might shatter. “Get your hands…off of her,” he growls, low and dangerous. He sounds like he’s agreeing, like he’s breaking. “I’ll do it. I’ll sign the transfers. Just…stop touching her.” I read the act.
Darragh’s energy strangles me like a noose. “There’s the boy I remember,” he hums. “Always willing to trade the crown for a piece of—”
I don’t wait.
In one fluid motion, I twist and throw the scalding contents of the teacup directly into Darragh’s face.
He lets out a howling scream of shock and pain, his hands flying up to his face.
The gun grip loosens for a fraction of a second.
I lunge for it and wrench it from his grasp with a strength thanks to pure adrenaline.
I don’t try to shoot. I know I’d probably miss or get overpowered, so I toss the weapon across the room until it slides under a heavy velvet sofa.
“Liam!” I scream.
The sound of the handcuffs opening snaps like a gunshot.
Liam is out of the chair before Darragh can blink again. He charges like a bull, his massive frame slamming into his father. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury, a raw, primal brawl erupting in the center of the room.
I scramble back, jagged gasps escaping, but I don’t make it three steps before a rough hand grabs my hair and yanks me backward.
“Not so fast, you little slut,” Finn O’Malley snarls in my ear.
Fear and desperation claw up my throat as he starts dragging me toward the heavy mahogany doors of the study.
I thrash, my bare feet futilely, my fists knocking wildly, but he’s too strong.
He knocks open the doors and slams me into the room, the sound of the locks clicking shut echoing like a death knell.
“Liam!” I try to scream, but it comes out as a choked wheeze.
I don’t get the chance to run. Finn moves in, throwing me onto the large leather desk. My lungs collapse as my back hits the hard surface. He’s over me in an instant, his weasel face contorted with a frenzied, disgusting lust.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this,” he pants, his hands fumbling with my silk chemise, yanking the hem upward, exposing me. “The King’s little flower whore. I’m gonna enjoy every second of breakin’ you while he watches.”
A bone-deep terror shivers up my spine as he starts to fumble with his trousers. But it wars with something else. A fury, feminine and primal, rises within me, like fire shaking off ash.
I stop struggling. I lie still, my eyes boring into his, my hand sliding into the sleeve, fingers lighting on the silver letter opener.
“You’re making a mistake,” I warn, steady, my gaze unwavering.
“Oh?” he sneers, his hand groping my thigh as he tries to free himself. “And what’s that?”
“You forgot one very important thing.”
“Yeah? And what’s that, florist?”
“Over three years of nursing school,” I snap.
No hesitation, I drive the letter opener upward, aiming for the femoral triangle. The blade sinks deep into his inner thigh, sliding through the muscle and severing the artery with a sickening, wet thud.
Finn lets out a high-pitched, gurgling scream, his hands flying to the wound as blood begins to spray, hot and dark, across the desk and my own skin. He staggers back, his face turning a sickly gray in seconds.
I scramble off the desk, adrenaline tearing through my veins as I move toward the door.
It slides open, revealing Eamon Donovan holding a silenced pistol. He doesn’t look at me. His gaze locks over my shoulder, and he raises the gun.
That’s when I feel it—the rush of air at my back. The scrape of a shoe. A ragged snarl.
Three muted shots crack through the room.
I drop instinctively as Finn’s body jerks behind me. When I spin around, he’s just feet away, clenching the bloody letter opener, the blade poised for my spine.
His momentum falters. The blade wavers. Then his knees give out.
The letter opener slips from his hand as he collapses in a heavy heap. The twitching fades, then he goes still, his eyes vacant, lifeless.
Disgust curls Eamon’s upper lip. Not at me, but the bleeding mess on the floor.
A faint smile tugs at his lips. “I never cared for that weasel. He lacked…finesse.”
A fog of disbelief overcomes me. My throat squeezes as I struggle to process how the man who kidnapped me just helped save my life.
“Elexia.” Eamon’s tone shifts to severity. “I need to get you out of here.”
Reality snaps back into place.
“Fuck that. Liam!”
Bolting past Eamon, I burst back into the main penthouse room.
The scene is chaos.
Liam is a whirlwind of violence, battling three security guards at once. He’s taking hits, his face a mess of blood and bruises, but he’s not stopping. He’s a juggernaut, driven by an all-consuming rage.
But Darragh is recovering.
On his knees, blood and tea staining his navy suit, Darragh reaches for the gun I’d tossed earlier, the one that had slid under the sofa.
I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I just act.
I lunge for the gun, knees sliding across the polished floor.
Pulse detonating, I close my fingers around the grip.
Darragh’s hand is right there, his thick, calloused fingers scratching at the metal, but I’m faster.
I’m smaller, sharper. I yank the gun toward me, rolling onto my back and bringing the weapon up, gripping with both hands, a strength I didn’t know I possessed.
“Stay away from him!” I scream.
Darragh rushes toward me, his face a mask of scalded rage, his hand clawing out.
I fire. BANG.
The recoil jars my shoulders, the sound splitting my eardrums. The bullet catches him square in the kneecap. He roars in agony, his leg buckling as he hits the floor, writhing, screams echoing. Death burns in his eyes. He tries to get up. I move back.
Beside me, Liam catches the final guard in a headlock.
I raise the gun again—until Eamon strolls into the area, approaching Darragh with an expression of absolute boredom. “Oh, stay down, Darragh. For God’s sake,” Eamon mutters, kicking his brother’s chest, keeping him down.
When two more guards suddenly turn the corner of the nearby hall, Eamon turns the gun on them. They fall before they can even blink.
At the same moment, Liam slams the other guard into a pillar with a bone-crunching thud. He drops the unconscious body, his chest heaving, his face a map of blood and fury.
I don’t wait for anything else. I drop the gun and lunge into Liam’s arms.
He catches me with such force, it nearly knocks the wind out of me, his arms wrapping around me like bands of heated iron.
The frantic, heavy thrum of his heart pounds against my own.
He buries his face in my neck, breathing me in, his body shuddering with residual adrenaline. My nerve endings feel like a live wire.
But even as he holds me, all his muscles coil tight. He pulls back just enough so we may both turn. He glares at Eamon, his hands clenching against my back. It’s a silent, predatory accusation. He wants an explanation.
Eamon shrugs, holstering his weapon, knowing smile twisting. “The wicked uncle is such a tired trope, isn’t it, Liam?”
Liam raises a bloody brow, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “How long, Eamon?”
Eamon smirks, reaching into his vest to adjust his tie.
“I may have set this into motion since I learned your father was alive and had reformed connections with the Old Guard with O’Malley as his inside source.
I fed them just enough intel, baiting the trap because it was the only way to get Darragh—” he observes at the broken man on the floor and leers— “to come crawling out of his hiding hole. It was never my intention for Elexia to be involved.”
I blow out a flustered breath, my head spinning. But I focus on Eamon. “I think you’re more than forgiven,” I say with a small, shaky grin, holding tighter to Liam’s shirt, careless of all the blood.
Liam stiffens. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he growls, his Irish lilt thick and heavy. “But first…”
He turns his attention to the man writhing on the floor. Darragh is bleeding out, his suit ruined, his power evaporated into the cold air. He’s a pathetic, broken thing, but the rot reeking from him is still very much alive.
Eamon nods toward the mahogany doors. “More Old Guard will be arriving soon. I’ll remain at the door and handle anyone who comes through. Finish your business, Liam.”
Eamon starts to walk toward the exit, but I break away from Liam for a second. I rush over, stand on my tiptoes, and give the mysterious “wicked uncle” a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Liam rolls his eyes, huffing his exasperation.
Eamon raises his brows, followed by a grateful nod, before he moves toward the elevator.
Out of the corner of my eye, Liam is approaching a glass display case on the far wall.
The case contains artifacts from the Donovan history.
He clenches his fist and punches through the reinforced glass, pulling out a massive Irish longsword.
The blade is ancient, the steel polished to a mirror finish, catching the glittering lights of the city outside.
Dumbstruck, I watch as he turns back to his father, the sword held low. Liam resembles a king from an old, bloody legend.
“Lexie,” he commands deeply. “Turn around. Or you’ll throw up again.”
I glance at Darragh, then back at Liam. I think about the mother he lost. I think about the thorns he promised to plant in my skin.
I shrug and give him a sweet, sharp smile. “That’s okay. I’ll just throw up on him.”
Liam blinks at me. An adoring disbelief carves through his rage. For a moment, the tension dissipates.
He scrubs his other hand down his face. “By fuck.” Emotion, sudden and raw, floods his voice. “I love you.”
My jaw drops. My heart skips a dozen beats. Hot tears blur my vision. “Really?”
Liam drops the point of the sword to the floor and takes a step toward me, his expression softening into something so vulnerable it hurts to look at.
“I fuckin’ love you, Elexia Carter,” he says in a gravelly whisper. “My Lexie Darlin’. Will ye marry me?”