Chapter 12 #2
“I met Mr. Lochlan by chance in a pub. He was looking for people to hire. He offered me a job and even helped sort out my work visa. Turns out he knows someone in the immigration office. Made it so I didn’t have to return to my boyfriend.
” She finally finds enough courage for a glance up at me.
“I know what he is. I know what he’s done.
But he saved my life, miss. Whatever else he is, he did do that. ”
Her words are met with more silence on my end.
I pretend I’m way too distracted by a giant tangled knot of old extension cords that I’ve pulled out of the storage closet.
But really I’m trying to fight off the urge to roll my eyes. Sorcha expects me to believe the asshole who bullies me for sport is also the man who rescued her from an abusive relationship and gave her a job to support herself?
Sorry, but it just doesn’t track.
It doesn’t fit into the category I’ve sorted him into, which is labeled “Lochlan Callahan: Irredeemable Psychopath.”
“Um, listen… I need to pee. Mind if I take a small break?” I ask, waving away the dust bunnies floating in the air between us.
Sorcha checks her wristwatch then nods. “Sure, miss. But only five minutes. We don’t want to fall behind on our work.”
“Of course not. Then what would Mr. Lochlan say?”
The question comes out a lot more bitter and mocking than I mean for it to, though Sorcha gives me a pass, simply shaking her head.
I leave her where she is at the storage closet and head to the nearest bathroom on the second floor of the west wing. There’s a guest bathroom halfway down the hall that’s only marginally less nauseating than the one in my room.
As I walk the halls, it occurs to me I’ve slowly started to learn the layout of this place. I’m more or less able to navigate the house without getting lost, and I’ve even memorized where certain rooms are. A huge improvement from that day I tried to escape.
Trying again has crossed my mind a million times. Then I usually spot one of Lochlan’s armed, equally psychotic henchmen, and I lose my nerve.
…what would he do if I tried to escape a second time? Something tells me it would be even worse than the fork incident.
Still, it doesn’t mean I won’t try again. It doesn’t mean I’m not looking for opportunities.
It means I’ve decided to be smarter about it.
Besides, call it mental self-preservation, but I’ve accepted that this is my present situation. As miserable and exhausted as I am, I’m learning to search for any positives in what’s a horrible situation.
I’ll admit while the estate is old and decayed and riddled with rodents and cobwebs everywhere, there’s also a certain… charm about it.
If properly renovated and taken care of, this place could be peak vintage Gothic luxury. If I was still the old Chantal with my many resources, I could turn this whole place around within a few weeks.
More fresh flowers and natural sunlight. Less vermin and blood splatter. Refreshed furnishings and a new coat of paint.
It would actually be inhabitable.
One of the property’s gems calls to me as I walk down the hall and come up on the guest bathroom. It’s the door on the opposite side, slightly ajar and giving a peek into the parlor.
The same parlor with some impressively high-value artwork lining the walls. Mom would’ve loved this room.
The O’Keeffe especially.
She was her favorite. Mom could study her work for hours, and often did. I did too, right alongside her. It was one of our few shared rituals outside of retail therapy and spa treatments.
I creep closer to the parlor and peek inside. My gaze travels over the dusty floral accent chairs and small round table between them to the giant window overlooking the garden and then the framed art on display around the room.
I could almost picture Mom here.
“Good bones,” she’d say if she saw this room. “Just needs some love.”
A small nostalgic smile comes to my face. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m slipping into the room. I’m drawn toward the O’Keeffe hanging beside the built-in wall shelves.
My heart aches from how much I miss her. It has for years, even if I rarely let myself recognize the feeling.
It’s much easier to focus on the luxuries and perks my life has to offer than to think about how she’s gone.
If she were still alive, she wouldn’t stop until I was found. I would know without a doubt she would be doing everything she could to bring me home.
I sigh and remind myself Dad probably is too. He wouldn’t leave me here to suffer… right?
“You must think the rules don’t apply to you.”
A sharp shiver runs down my spine at the husky voice coming from behind me.
I spin around so fast I bump into the end table next to me, nearly knocking over the antique vase perched on top of it.
Lochlan’s in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame as if he’s been watching me for a while. From the moment I wandered into the room.
His eyes are heavy lidded, his posture less rigid than usual. A glass tumbler with liquid the color of rich gold dangles loosely between his fingers.
…has he been drinking?
My pulse beats faster, and I take a preemptive step back.
“Oh… uh… this is in the west wing,” I stammer. “I thought I was allowed—”
“You’re allowed where I tell you you’re allowed,” he interrupts. He stands up straight from where he’s propped against the doorframe and takes a long, generous gulp of the golden liquid, draining the last of it.
Then he takes a step into the room, using his leg to kick the door shut behind him. He ditches the empty glass tumbler on a nearby table, setting it down with a hard clink.
“After everything… you still haven’t learned your lesson,” he says.
I shrink back as he advances forward.
Suddenly dazed, I blink a few times and search for what to say. It’s just hard now that Lochlan’s pinning me with his heavy dark gaze.
I gesture weakly at the O’Keeffe on the wall.
“I just came by to look—”
“You just came by to look,” he repeats almost mockingly.
He takes more steps forward. I take even more back, finally running out of space. My back bumps against the built-in wall shelves in the corner, and I realize I’m screwed.
This man—this absolute psychopath—is still coming toward me.
Ugh, where’s the lipstick tube of mace I keep on my keychain when I need it!
“What’s the big deal?” I ask. “It’s just a room.”
“The big deal is that you don’t listen!” he spits. His features contort in anger as he closes in on me, and I’m literally backed into a corner.
Not the first time, and unfortunately a predicament I’ve found myself in more times than I’d ever like.
I move to sidestep around him, but he mirrors me, blocking any possible escape.
As close as he’s gotten, I smell it—the whiskey on his breath as he looms over me and glares as if I’m his worst enemy.
You’d think I was his brother, Ronan, or his dad the way he’s staring at me so hatefully.
It’s like he wants nothing more than to tear me to pieces.
“I’ll go,” I offer. “No need to be so angry.”
I move to step around him again, only for him to erupt in more rage. He releases a snarl that’s vaguely reminiscent of a beast. His hand flies out to seize hold of me by the wrist, pushing me further back against the wall shelves.
“Lochlan!” I squeal. “Don’t—”
“Maybe it’s time for some real fucking consequences,” he growls into my face. “Maybe it’s time I ought to teach you a real lesson!”
Another squeal leaves me as he whips me around so that we’re back to front.
My back trapped against his front. Me boxed into a tight corner where he braces himself all around me like a human cage.
His fingers dig into my flesh as he pins me there and then uses his other hand to grope at my body. He starts with my breasts then travels down my stomach, squeezing at my waist and hips.
I squirm in his hold and push back against him. It’s hopeless, his grip too unforgiving. He’s way stronger than me, and it’s not even close.
More panic explodes from within as his hand tugs at one of the buttons on my jumpsuit—the same button that’s positioned right over my pelvis.
“Wait, what do you think you’re—”
“I told you,” he hisses into my ear. He bites at the shell of soft flesh. “I’m teaching you a lesson. Maybe it’ll finally make you understand.”
My body bucks desperately against his to no real success. He still has me right where he wants me as he holds me in place and starts undoing the button.
“Lochlan… don’t!” I blurt out between gasps of air.
I twist in his hold as his hand slides into my pants, and I’m finally able to slip partially free. As soon as I’ve gained more freedom to move, I use what I can.
Anything to make him stop.
My nails slash at him as I half turn around and then shove at his chest.
“Argh!” he howls, stumbling half a step back.
I’ve managed to scratch him up on his cheek pretty good. Almost as good as I had his guard when they took me in the Maldives.
“You fucking brat!” he yells a split second later. He rears forward like he’s about to strike. As if he’s about to truly unleash his anger on me.
I recoil, my eyes snapping shut as I prepare for the hit.
…but it doesn’t come.
Not the harsh slap across the face or other kind of strike I’m expecting.
I crack one eye open to realize he’s gone still. His chest is heaving as he breathes raggedly, dark gaze set on me.
But the look in them has changed—the rage has faded and been replaced by another emotion I can’t place. It’s almost as if he’s… come to his senses? He’s realized what he was about to do and stopped himself?
A few seconds go by where neither of us moves a muscle, and we’re left staring at each other, lost as to what’s going on.
How we’ve wound up like this, and what was about to happen.
Then Lochlan runs a hand through his untamed hair and drags his gaze from mine. He turns away and starts for the door without a look back.