Chapter 8 #3
I polish off my own wine and then pick off the last bits of food from my plate. Silence returns, even more awkward and tense than when our dinner started.
Not that I even care. My stomach’s full and I’m satisfied.
Thoughts about returning upstairs to actually try to get some real sleep are entering my head when Lochlan interrupts.
“I hope you saved room for dessert.”
His tone reminds me of the same disturbing calm from last night when he bathed me. It’s the same icy coolness that sounds civilized at face value. Then you realize the reason it feels off is because of the man using it.
“Actually… I’m pretty full. I ate everything on my plate.”
“Nonsense. It would be rude to refuse dessert from your host.” He snaps his fingers and the dining room doors swing open. “Besides, we have a special guest joining us for this course.”
The same huge, masked guard who I saw in the Maldives and then again last night when he escorted me upstairs enters the room.
For a short second I think maybe he’s the special guest. Then another man appears at the guard’s side as he drags him past the threshold.
I gasp at the sight of him.
His face is a swollen mess of purple bruises and dried blood, one eye completely shut, his lip split so badly I can see the glint of teeth through the wound. His clothes are torn and stained with filth I can’t even identify, and he’s shaking so hard the guard is basically holding him upright.
This was the man from last night; the man whose screams I listened to for hours.
My stomach lurches violently.
The guard deposits him in the empty chair where the third placemat and silverware have been set out.
“Chantal Banks, meet Patrick Dooley,” Lochlan says with a crude twist of his lips.
“Patrick here used to work for me as a double agent. But turns out he thought he could feed information back to the clan about my operation. About what my son, Eddie, was up to. It was because of him that my father discovered our plan and showed up in time to stop the Albanians.” He tsks, shaking his head. “Poor judgment on his part.”
I’ve gone still, a growing sick sensation in my stomach.
Of course this wasn’t meant to be a pleasant dinner! Of course there was a catch!
There always seems to be where Lochlan is concerned. The question is, what’s coming next?
Sorcha appears yet again, carrying a covered silver tray, her hands shakier than usual as she sets it down in front of me. Her eyes briefly meet mine, her frown apologetic. Almost like she wants to warn me but knows she can’t.
I move to push my chair back. “I’m serious that I can’t eat anymore. I’m stuffed and have never been a big sweets person—”
“Stay where you are, Chantal,” Lochlan commands. His eyes have darkened, more obsidian with a vague emerald tint to them than anything. “I’ve gone to such trouble to prepare something special for you.”
He rises from his chair and stalks over to my side of the table, coming to stand behind me. His hand reaches out and grips the handle of the domed silver cover.
“After all, I heard you have a slight fascination with rodents.”
He lifts the cover with a flourish, and I scream so loud my vocal cords vibrate.
Lying in the center of the fine china plate is a dead mouse.
A whole-ass dead fucking mouse with its small stiff body and gray, matted fur. Its beady eyes are glassy and lifeless, tiny paws curled.
Presented like some kind of delicacy to enjoy.
So horrified, so disturbed, I clap a hand to my mouth and fight off the sudden bout of nausea swirling inside me.
Tears have come to my eyes as I stare at the disgusting plate in front of me, and Lochlan roars with laughter.
“Pretty sure I ordered mousse, Sorcha. Not mouse.”
The cruel joke prompts another laugh out of him as nobody else dares react. Sorcha stares at the floor while I damn near gag in my chair.
The dead mouse has a sour, rotten stench to it that only makes it that much more sickening. That much harder to keep down the dinner I just devoured.
“Anyway,” Lochlan goes on darkly, “here’s the deal, my little bratty captive. You eat that mouse—wormy tail included—and Patrick here gets to live. Simple as that. Sound fair?”
I stare at the mouse, then at Patrick’s ruined face, then back at the mouse. Tears have blurred my vision, my whole body tense and heart pounding inside my ribcage.
I’m physically ill at the thought. Just from being inches away from the dead rodent.
This is inhumane; this is some form of psychological torment.
Exactly what tonight was all about. It’s sooo obvious at this point!
I can’t even eat escargot, and caviar has never been a favorite. Yet Lochlan thinks he’s about to force me to eat rodent for dessert?
It’s cruel and intentionally distressing.
“I can’t,” I whisper, throat hoarse. I shake my head profusely. “Please, I can’t do that.”
“Tick tock, Chantal. Dig in or Patrick won’t live to see another day.”
“That’s… that’s not fair. You can’t—”
He leans forward, bowing his head so it’s next to mine. “But I can, Chantal,” he says. “I can. I can do whatever the fuck I want, and I will. If there’s one lesson you should take away from this evening, it’s that.”
More tears slip down my cheeks as I cover my face with my hands and mutter, “Please… I don’t want to do this anymore. Please just… let me go back up to my room.”
“Sounds like you’ve made up your mind,” he sighs. He straightens up, gaze snapping to the swollen, bruised Patrick a few chairs over. “You hear that, Patty? I tried. I really, really tried to save you.”
“Lochlan, don’t do this!” the man cries out, words muffled by his split, bloated lips. “I’ll do better—I swear I’ll do right by you!”
But Lochlan’s not listening.
He strides over, abandoning his place by my chair to reach Patrick only a second later. His fingers wrap around the steak knife that’s been set out in front of him and then he slashes away at Patrick’s throat so quickly it’s a blink-and-miss-it moment.
Patrick goes from pleading in his chair to his jugular severed in half, blood splattering across the dinner table.
“Oh my god!” I scream in horror, pressing my hands over my eyes again. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
Patrick slumps forward in his chair, thumping against the mahogany wood, leaking a pool of blood on the fine china.
The mess is of no concern to Lochlan, who calmly sets down the slick steak knife and then uses the dinner napkin to wipe a spot of blood off his sleeve.
You’d think he’d just finished cleaning a drop of wine the way he’s so casual about it.
…more like he’s so completely fucked in the head! A real psycho!
“If it makes you feel any better,” he says, “he was going to die regardless. I just thought I’d do it during our dinner to make it more entertaining.”
Then he grins at me, obviously amused by the horror he sees staring back at him.
I can’t stand another second. I spring out of my chair and dash from the room, fleeing as fast as I can as his cruel dark laughter echoes after me.