Chapter 8 #2
It makes the situation even weirder. This house is decrepit and old, practically falling apart at the seams. So what exactly is there to get dressed up for?
Besides, it’s not like Lochlan Callahan strikes me as the type to indulge in fancy dinners.
The Lochlan Callahan before Sing Sing? Maybe.
We’re not exactly familiar with each other, but I know of him—I’ve attended events in past years where he was in attendance, charming the wealthy elite as if he wasn’t an Irish gangster.
Everyone knew what kind of sketchy business the Callahans dealt in. But they turned the other cheek so long as their presence was advantageous to them.
A kickback here. A lucrative partnership there.
The Lochlan Callahan from those days is nothing like the Lochlan I’ve seen since he unmasked himself. I mean, yes… he’s always been a violent and unsavory gangster doing bad things.
Back then he at least put up a front. He played the game everyone in wealthier circles plays, especially as he ingratiated himself and his family with politicians and other public officials like the NYPD police commissioner.
Now he seems… over it. Beyond any care for reputation or rules.
My stomach twists with nerves as Sorcha shows up and leads me downstairs to what seems like a once-formal dining room.
It’s no different than the rest of the house—gothic and Victorian and decayed over time. More peeling wallpaper and cobwebs in corners. Floorboards that creak, and heavy, dark wooden furniture that’s about a century out of style.
But while nerves twirl inside me like an aerobics routine, my stomach also rumbles. It whines like a dying car engine as it begs for food.
It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper meal I can’t bring myself to care much that it’ll be my captor who I’ll be dining with.
A long mahogany table dominates the formal dining room, old candelabras strategically placed at the center. Fine china and silverware for three have been set out, polished to the best possible shine after decades of disuse.
As my gaze pans the room, I quickly realize I’m not alone.
Lochlan’s already here, dressed once again in all black, though slightly more formal than usual.
A long V-neck sweater and some pants, his dark reddish brown hair pushed away from his face.
If possible, his beard has grown even thicker since last night, framing a jawline that’s naturally hard and angular, but more so since Sing Sing.
I realize it’s because he’s dropped some weight. I guess being behind bars sometimes does that to you too.
He rises from his seat when I enter with Sorcha. She bows and mutters something about fetching our courses, then scurries from the room.
I’m more distracted by the predator holding me captive under his gaze. Lochlan stares at me unblinkingly, face impassive as he moves from his spot at the head of the table to meet me in the doorway. I’m not sure what I’m expecting, heart picking up in its pounding beats.
…definitely not for him to offer his arm.
He holds it out like we’re at some debutante ball and he’s my gentlemanly escort for the night.
So stunned by the gesture, I blink and then accept his arm, looping mine through his.
He guides me toward the opposite end of the long table, where the second placemat and set of silverware has been laid out. I’m obedient as I let him, quiet as a mouse.
We’re touching again, my hand at rest in the crook of his arm that feels so firm it might as well be steel. He might’ve lost a few pounds in Sing Sing, but there’s no doubt Lochlan Callahan’s still a solid man.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says. “I’m glad the dress fits you so well. The color suits you like I thought it would.”
A sharp frisson of sparks ignites its way down my spine and almost make me shudder. As if our physical proximity and touch wasn’t startling enough.
Now we’re adding flattery to the mix.
It’s so immediately confusing I stammer out a thank you, and Lochlan pulls my chair back for me. I sit down and he tucks me in like he’s a true chivalrous gentleman.
Yet I know he’s not. I know exactly what kind of man Lochlan is.
This is a man who’s kidnapped me! He’s dropped cash on me like you would some limited-edition Porsche he just had to have. He’s told me he plans to sell me again as if I am that Porsche and he’ll be ready for a newer model.
I can’t let small glimmers like this affect how I view him and the situation I’m in.
Lochlan returns to his seat at the other end of the table.
Sorcha reappears with a bottle of wine that she pours into our glasses. Then she’s retreating again, returning to the kitchen to presumably fetch our meals.
I draw a shuddery breath and busy myself with fiddling with the cloth dinner napkin. My glass of wine remains untouched even as Lochlan reaches for his and takes a long drink.
“You know,” he says, a dark glint of amusement in his gaze, “it’s safe to consume what you’re given. It hasn’t been laced with anything.”
“Sort of hard to take your word for it when you drugged me in the Maldives,” I point out.
“You’re just gonna have to take the chance, aren’t you? Considering, for the foreseeable future, you’re stuck with me.”
My cheeks warm as Sorcha returns before I can think up a rebuttal. She’s pushing a dinner cart with cloche-covered plates that are only revealed once she’s set them in front of us.
The silver dome is removed to reveal seared filet mignon, pink in the center, with crusted herbs and roasted fingerling potatoes and asparagus drizzled in hollandaise.
I swallow so hard it’s practically a damn gulp. I’m lightheaded with hunger as I peer down at the delicious freshly cooked meal, and my stomach rumbles.
The ravenous hunger must read on my face because the corner of Lochlan’s mouth quirks.
“Something tells me you’ll stop worrying so much about what’s laced in your food,” he says, picking up his fork and steak knife. “Since you’ve been so particular about the food here, we’ve offered you only the best. I advise you eat every bite.”
All moral grandstanding vanishes. My hardhead softens and any backbone melts away.
I’ve got no damn leg to stand on, and I’m okay with that in the moment.
I need sustenance—a girl has got to eat!
My fingers wrap around the cutlery, and I dig in with as much restraint as I can after days without real food. But it’s paper thin as I slice into the expertly prepared filet mignon, and then it melts on my tongue and earns a moan out of me.
Soooo good!
Fucking orgasmic after how I’ve starved.
I’ve barley swallowed the first bite before my knife and fork are slicing into the steak for more.
Lochlan does the same across the table, except with growing amusement. It seems funny to him how quickly I’ve abandoned my hunger strike.
He must’ve guessed correctly that I would; that a meal like this would be enough to make me cave.
I’m not even going to lie. He was one hundred percent right.
But the food immediately nourishes me, chasing away any lightheadedness and aching hunger in my belly. It’s only within a few minutes that most of the filet is gone and I’ve attacked the potatoes and asparagus too, dragging them through the hollandaise sauce.
Ughhh, sooo good… Sorcha sure can throw down in the kitchen!
For a while, the only sounds in the formal dining room are those of my utensils scraping against the fine china and my greedy chews and small moans that slip out. I’ve even added a few sips of wine in between, shaking my head at how deliciously it pairs with everything else.
“Tell me about your gallery,” Lochlan says suddenly. Casually enough it catches me off guard.
I pause mid-chew, eyeing him warily. “Why do you care?”
“Humor me. I’m curious what the senator’s daughter does with her time when she’s not shopping on Fifth Avenue and vacationing in the Maldives.”
The fact that he knows specific details about my life makes me want to throw wine in his face, but I swallow my irritation along with my bite of herb-crusted steak.
“I curate contemporary art. Mostly emerging artists, people who deserve a platform but don’t have the connections to get gallery representation on their own.
” I shrug, keeping my tone cool despite the ache of homesickness that attacks me from the inside.
“It’s not just a vanity project, if that’s what you’re implying. I actually know what I’m doing.”
“I don’t doubt it. I’m sure you’ve worked very hard at the gallery.”
Every word feels like a backhanded compliment—or maybe I’m just hypersensitive right now.
“You’re smarter than you let on,” he continues, taking another leisurely sip of his wine. “Most people in your position would’ve fallen apart by now.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
“It’s an observation.”
My gaze drops to my almost empty plate where only scraps remain (that I fully intend on eating, not going to lie).
But I spend a second thinking on his so-called observation. Then I decide to show him it’s true that he hasn’t gotten to me.
…or at least I don’t want him to know he has.
“Why would I fall apart?” I ask coolly. “I know my father and friends will come for me. They’ll get me out of this.”
“Is that really what you think or is this more of your fake confidence?”
“Fake confidence as in…?”
He doesn’t even bother hiding his crooked grin this time, polishing off his glass of wine and setting it down so roughly it teeters as if about to tip over.
“You were very proud stripping for your bath.”
“Why wouldn’t I be proud? I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I know I look damn good. You seemed to think so.”
He cocks a brow but says nothing in reply, which only makes me press harder. It makes me smirk in the same way he’s so tauntingly grinned.
“You want to talk about fake? Don’t even try to pretend. I saw the way you were looking at me.”
His jaw clenches, the muscle in his masseter visibly hardening. He doesn’t look so amused now.
Ha!