11. Elle
ELLE
Tiernan stands by the window, staring out over the darkened city as I lie in bed, stiff as a board, still in this stupid dress, because I can’t relax while he is in the room.
He has no qualms about threats of physical violence, while Lorcan’s are more vague or simply, ‘I’ll kill you’.
Tiernan’s I take seriously. Lorcan I think I could persuade otherwise, especially after this afternoon.
That scares me. A lot. And it should. The thought keeps me awake more than Tiernan’s presence does.
Lorcan Keane is a man who takes what he wants, and I gave it to him without a fight. I told myself it was survival instinct, the same logic that makes a rabbit go still under a hawk. But that’s not entirely honest, and lying to myself has never served me well.
I pull the silk duvet tighter and stare at the ceiling.
The room is too warm, too perfect, too quiet. No radiator that clicks and hisses. No traffic noise bleeding through single-pane glass. No neighbours arguing through the wall at eleven at night.
I hate that part of me wants to stay and never go back to my damp, freezing flat.
“You should sleep,” Tiernan says without turning from the window.
“I can’t sleep with you in the room.”
“Get used to it.”
“It’s too warm.”
He turns then, and the city lights behind him make him look bigger than he already is. Tattoos disappear into the collar of his shirt. His green eyes find me in the dark without any effort. “I’ll turn the thermostat down.”
“Don’t,” I say. “I didn’t say I wanted it turned down.” I might as well enjoy the heat while I’m here. One wrong move and I might be six feet under in the dark, damp, cold earth.
Tiernan’s mouth almost moves. It doesn’t quite get there.
He turns back to the window.
I watch the set of his shoulders and try to work out which version of dangerous he is right now. Not the version that threatened to gut me. That one was sharp, immediate, designed to land. This one is quieter. I don’t trust quiet.
I stare at the ceiling and try to inventory everything I know about this situation, which is depressingly little.
I know Fintan broke into my flat, watched me come, and then fixed my lock like that was a normal afternoon.
I know I’m on the fourth floor of a building I can’t get out of without a security card I don’t have.
I know Lorcan Keane fucked me this afternoon and put diamonds around my throat like a brand.
And now Tiernan is standing in my bedroom like a guard dog while I try to sleep in silk sheets.
I have eight thousand pounds hidden in my backpack, which is still, stupidly, downstairs where Lorcan threw it on the sofa.
“Lorcan said he would be back later. Is he picking me up?”
“No, I’m taking you. Lorcan is busy.”
“Busy with?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
I grit my teeth and think about my jealousy earlier. It wasn’t completely about wanting Lorcan all to myself. That is absurd. It was about protecting myself and not allowing myself to be made a fool of. Again.
“Is he married? Serious girlfriend? Friend with benefits?”
Tiernan doesn’t answer for a moment. He turns to frown at me. “Why do you ask?”
“He fucked me and told me I was his. I want to know if he is involved with anyone else because next time I will insist he glove up.”
He raises an eyebrow. “He fucked you without protection, and you are belatedly worried about STIs?”
“It was sudden,” I murmur, my cheeks flushing. “I’m on the pill, so you don’t have to worry about a little bastard running around anytime soon.”
“I wasn’t. Lorcan is a grown-ass man. What he does is not my concern.”
“Answer my question,” I demand, getting the courage from somewhere.
Tiernan stares at me. The city glitters behind him, indifferent and cold. “No,” he says, finally. “He isn’t involved with anyone.”
He turns from the window fully and moves toward the bed. I resist the urge to pull the duvet up to my chin. He stops at the edge and looks down at me with those flat green eyes.
“Lorcan has decided you belong to us. That isn’t changing. You can make it easy, or you can make it hard. Either way, the outcome is the same.”
“What does being easy get me?” I whisper.
He smirks. It’s as sexy as when Lorcan does it, and I hate them both. “Comfort. It gets you comfort and the illusion of safety.”
“And hard?”
“Pain and the same outcome.”
I hold his stare and try to find a lie in it. There isn’t one. That’s the worst part. He isn’t threatening me to keep me in line. He’s just telling me the truth because the truth is more effective than anything else he could say.
“Why only an illusion of safety?”
“Go to sleep, Elle,” he says, stepping back from the bed.
I turn onto my side, away from him, and stare at the wall. The silk of the pillowcase is cool against my cheek. My eyes burn, but I won’t cry.
The armchair creaks as Tiernan sits.
Silence settles over the room.
I breathe slowly and think about the eight thousand pounds in my backpack downstairs. I think about the stamped receipts in my coat pocket.
“Did this necklace really cost a million pounds?” I blurt out.
Tiernan chuckles softly. “Give or take.”
“Why would he give it to me?”
“Why does Lorcan do anything?”
“You don’t know?”
“He knows,” Tiernan says. “That’s enough. Go to sleep.”
I close my eyes and try. The necklace sits cool and heavy against my collarbone. I reach up and touch the stones with my fingertips. A million pounds around my throat, and I don’t even have a phone to call for help.
I let my hand drop back to the mattress.
The armchair creaks again as Tiernan settles his weight.
I listen to his breathing, slow and even, and try to match mine to it.
It doesn’t work. My brain won’t stop turning everything over.
The ring. The blood on the floor. Fintan in my armchair with his cock in his hand, his eyes never leaving me.
Lorcan’s voice in my ear telling me I’m his as his cock drives into me.
All of us.
I didn’t ask what that meant. I was too shaken to push it, and some part of me didn’t want the answer confirmed out loud.
Now it sits in the dark and takes up space. “Do I belong to you too?”
“Do you ever stop asking questions?”
“Answer me.”
“Yes, you belong to me too. I’m just more patient than my brother. When I fuck you, it will be slow, painfully so. You will beg me for it.”
“In your dreams.”
“No, reality, Elle. You forget where you are.”
I don’t answer that.
There’s nothing to say that won’t make it worse, and I’m too tired for worse right now. I close my eyes and focus on the weight of the necklace, the cool stones against my skin, the distant sound of the city that I can just barely make out through the glass.
I don’t sleep. Not really. I drift in and out of something thin and unsatisfying.
It’s the not-quite-sleep where you’re aware of every sound and every shift in the room, where your brain keeps dragging you back from the edge because it doesn’t trust the dark enough to let go.
Twice I surface to find the room unchanged, Tiernan’s breathing steady from the chair, the city lights still glittering through the curtains.
At some point, I give up entirely.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The necklace pulls slightly with the movement, a constant, expensive reminder of where I am and why.
“Is it time yet?” I ask.
“Nearly. Do you want a shower?”
“With you standing guard over me? No, thanks. I’m fine.”
There’s that smirk again. “Seen it all already. You can wash. I promise to keep my hands to myself.”
“And what about your orders?”
“If I wanted to order you to do something, I don’t need you naked for that, Elle.”
With a huff, I push the covers back and march to the en-suite, slamming the door behind me as the lights and extractor fan flick on automatically, and I reach for the lock.
But there isn’t one.
Clenching my fists, I turn to the shower and rotate the fancy lever to turn it on.
It blasts out water, which turns hot nearly straight away, and I scowl at it.
That’s just indecent. I strip off the black dress and the necklace, leaving them on the counter, and step under the spray before I can think too hard about standing naked in Lorcan Keane’s shower while his brother sits ten feet away in an armchair.
The water is obscene. Pressure and temperature and the kind of steady, reliable heat that my shower at home promises but never delivers. I stand under it longer than I need to and try not to feel grateful for it.
I fail.
I wash my hair with something that smells expensive and clean.
When I turn the water off, the silence rushes back in. I reach for the towel on the rail, thick and white and soft. I wrap it around myself and wipe the mirror with my palm.
I look terrible, so I look away and open the door.
The lights are on.
Tiernan is not where I left him. He is in the walk-in staring at clothes like he intends to pick something out for me.
He does.
He looks over at me and gathers up the items he has chosen and crosses the room to fling them on the bed. His eyes linger on my bare throat. He goes to the bathroom and returns with the necklace and another towel.
“Sit,” he says, indicating the stool in front of the dresser in the corner.
I sit. I’ve lost the will to fight, and he said easier would bring me comfort, not pain. I’m not a martyr. I’m just a girl who wants to survive whatever this is.
He uses the towel to dry my hair, then leans over and pulls a brush from the top drawer.
I sit stock-still like a doll while he brushes the tangles out of my hair and then plugs in the hair dryer.
It roars to life, a sudden wall of sound that vibrates through my skull.
Tiernan doesn’t speak. He uses his fingers to comb through the damp strands, his touch surprisingly steady.
He isn’t gentle, but he isn’t rough either.
He handles me like a piece of equipment he needs to maintain.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, watching his large, tattooed hands move against the pale blonde of my hair.
The heat is soothing. It feels bizarre, having this aggressive, arrogant man who threatened to gut me now drying my hair with the focus of a stylist.
He clicks the dryer off, and the silence that follows is deafening. He sets it down and picks up the diamond necklace.
“Chin up,” he says.
I obey. I feel the cold slide of the metal against my neck again. He fastens it, his knuckles grazing the sensitive skin at my nape.
“Dress,” he says, pointing to the bed.
It’s a red silk slip dress, shorter than the black one, with a low back. Beside it sits a pair of matching heels and a set of black lace underwear.
I gulp, and before I can stop myself, I say, “Help me.”
His gaze shoots to mine, penetrating me in a sexy, intense way. “Do you like that, Elle? Do you like pretending to be helpless?”
“I am helpless against you. Either dress me or get out.”
Tiernan doesn’t blink. He reaches for the black lace on the bed.
I stand up and let the towel fall to the floor.
The air hits my warm skin, but I keep my eyes on his green ones.
I won’t look down. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of the underwear and crouches.
I lift one foot, then the other. He slides the lace up my thighs.
His knuckles graze my skin. My breath hitches.
He doesn’t rush. He smooths the fabric over my hips.
His palms linger on my skin for a second too long.
He straightens up and picks up the bra.
“Are you able to put one on instead of ripping it off?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “Don’t push it, girlie.”
Tiernan pulls the lace over my breasts. I stand still while he reaches behind me to hook the clasp without looking. He looks at my face, watches me struggle to breathe. He doesn’t struggle with the small metal loops. He does it with an efficiency that makes me sick.
He picks up the red silk. It’s thin. It’s nothing. I hold my arms up. He slides the fabric down over my head. The silk feels cool. It clings to every curve Lorcan already claimed. Tiernan smooths the material over my stomach. His hands are heavy. He doesn’t stop until the hem sits mid-thigh.
“Heels,” he says.
I sit back on the stool and slide my feet into the red shoes. They’re high. They make my legs look long. They make me feel unstable. Tiernan stands over me. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of heavy, silver handcuffs.
My gaze darts to them immediately. “What—?”
He clicks one cuff around my left wrist. The cold metal bites into my skin. He clicks the other around his right wrist.
I gasp, the sound of the ratchet clicking home echoing like a gunshot in the sterile luxury of the room. The weight of the steel is cold and uncompromising, a physical tether that anchors me to him. I pull back instinctively, but the chain snaps tight.
“You can’t do this,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I stare at the silver link connecting us.
“I can, and I did,” Tiernan says, his voice flat. He doesn’t even look at the cuffs. He looks at me, and for a second, I see the predator behind the green eyes—the one that doesn’t care about my comfort or my consent. “You’re a flight risk, Elle, and I’m not in the mood for a chase.”
He tugs on the chain, a sharp, dominant gesture that forces me to stand. I wobble on the high red heels, my balance compromised by the weight of the man attached to my wrist. He doesn’t catch me; he simply waits for me to find my feet.
“Let’s go,” he commands.
I stumble after him as he leads me out of the bedroom and toward the lift. Every step feels like a march to the gallows.