Chapter 18
EIGHTEEN
Chantal
Life comes at you fast.
Six months ago, I wouldn’t have been caught dead without a fresh manicure. I had a standing appointment at the Le Cheveu Couture Hair Salon in uptown. My closet gave Carrie Bradshaw a run for her money.
These days, it’s not unusual to find me on my knees in the dirt, pulling weeds in the spring sunshine. It’s not easy work—and it’s work I can stop at any time according to Lochlan—but as I kneel beside Sorcha and watch the garden transform day by day, I don’t mind it so much anymore.
My braids are piled on top of my head in a loose bun, I’ve got dirt smudged across my cheek, and I’m wearing denim overalls I never would’ve been caught dead in, but the weird thing is… I don’t hate it.
I feel a sense of accomplishment from what we’ve done.
We’ve slowly transformed what was a nightmare of overgrown weeds and dead grass into a flourishing garden—or what someday will be.
“You’ve got the technique down now, Chantal,” Sorcha pants. She wipes sweat from her brow and nods at the pile of growing uprooted weeds. “When you first started, you were pulling at the head. You’ve caught on so well.”
“Listen, I’m a quick learner when properly motivated,” I reply, finally wrenching free another stubborn root and tossing it onto the pile. “And by motivated, I mean bored out of my mind with nothing else to do.”
Sorcha giggles, a sound I’ve only started hearing from her in the past week or so. She’s also notably started calling me by my name and finally ditched miss.
It’s such a huge change from how she first behaved around me that it makes me smile. We actually feel like friends.
We’re chatting about how soon we’ll start planting seeds to regrow the once lively flowers that bloomed in the garden when we sense a third presence.
We look up in time to see Robby—the twitchy, lanky henchman of Lochlan who I scratched the hell out of in the Maldives—passing us by.
It seems he’s headed out and has decided to cross through the garden as a shortcut.
“Ladies,” he calls out with a crooked grin. “Looking good out here, Sorcha. You’ve got a real green thumb, you know that? Maybe when this is all over, you can start your own little flower shop.”
A deep blush spreads across Sorcha’s cheeks. “Oh… um… thank you, Robby.”
He winks as he disappears around some of the cracked stone statues that line the entrance to the garden.
The second he’s out of earshot, I raise a brow at my weeding partner. “Girl, what was that?”
“What was what?” she asks. Her gaze has dropped to the dirt, though the rosy blush on her face remains. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Your face is literally the color of a fire truck right now. You look like you’re about to spontaneously combust.” I scoot closer to her as I gasp. “Oh my god, do you have a crush on Robby?”
“No! I don’t—that’s ridiculous—he’s just—” she sputters. “He’s just nice to me, that’s all. He makes jokes and doesn’t look at me like I’m... like I’m...”
“Like you’re what?”
She finally chances a sheepish glance up at me. “Well… like I’m just the help. He talks to me like I’m a normal person. None of the other men do.”
I get what Sorcha means. Though I don’t know the exact details about her past, I do know she’s told me she grew up impoverished, and she alluded to an abusive ex-boyfriend.
I squeeze her shoulder. “That’s because you are a normal person, Sorcha. A normal person who happens to have a giant crush on a twitchy guy with questionable fashion sense.”
“His fashion sense isn’t that bad,” she mumbles, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth. “I… I mean… I do not have a crush!”
I cackle with delight. “Girl, quit playing! I might be an amateur in the garden, but I’m a professional in the dating market. I know that look when I see it. You should talk to him more. Maybe he’ll ask you out.”
“I can’t do that,” she says quickly, shaking her head.
“He’s very stressed. Sometimes when he comes by the kitchen for coffee, he tells me about his son, Mikey.
He’s terribly sick and Robby’s trying to save up for his medical bills.
That’s why he’s here, working for Mr. Lochlan. He needs the money badly.”
The mention of money makes my stomach twist. It’s another reminder of how furious Lochlan’s men were when he reneged on the deal with the Bratva.
Robby had arguably been the angriest.
Even as we made it back to the estate, he was still grumbling under his breath. Ever since, I’ve caught him shooting me pointed looks as if he can’t bother concealing how pissed he is that Lochlan’s kept me.
“Love is in the air, isn’t it?” Sorcha ponders moments later. More aloud to herself than said directly to me. She adds a soft sigh to her Irish lilt.
My cheeks warm as I set down my trowel. “Um… what makes you say that?”
“Well,” she says, smirking slowly, “you and Mr. Lochlan have been spending a lot of time together.”
“That’s not true; we haven’t been—”
“Chantal, I clean your rooms. I make your beds. I know when you haven’t slept in yours, and I know when Mr. Lochlan’s bedsheets don’t smell just of him,” she points out. “But mum’s the word from me. I won’t utter a peep about it.”
I open my mouth to argue what she’s said, but what’s the point?
She’s right. For the past several nights, I have been sleeping in Lochlan’s bed, wrapped up in his arms after we’ve let the passion between us run its course.
We’ve been intimate in ways that go beyond just fucking—staying up late into the night talking and sharing the smallest parts of ourselves that I never expected to share with a man who kidnapped me.
It’s confusing as hell.
Is this real? Are these actual feelings I’m developing, or is this some kind of Stockholm Syndrome on steroids?
Am I falling for Lochlan Callahan because I genuinely care about him or because my brain has rewired itself to see my captor as a source of comfort and safety?
I don’t have answers to any of these questions, and the more I think about them, the more my head hurts.
“I’m going to go wash up,” I announce, rising to my feet. “Try not to pass out if Robby walks by again.”
“Only if you enjoy yourself with Mr. Lochlan tonight,” she fires back.
We share a smirk as I head inside the house.
It’s a cool afternoon with some of the breezy air blowing inside by way of the opened windows. I take the stairs to one of the guest bathrooms on the second floor, ending up in the west wing where I was once forbidden to roam.
The hallway is narrower and lined with built-in wall shelves, the air smelling of lavender and old books.
One of the doors stands slightly ajar, and I push it open to find a bedroom that feels like stepping back in time.
It’s immediately obvious the room belonged to a woman. The wallpaper is floral, and there’s a large canopy bed with sheer curtains gathered around the sides. A vanity table sits in the corner across from a writing desk in the opposite corner.
This must’ve been Grandma Darcy’s room. In past generations it wasn’t totally uncommon for husbands and wives to have their own rooms.
After learning about her love of art, astronomy, and bodice-ripper romances, a part of me already feels like I know her.
I pad over to the wardrobe and draw open the doors to reveal a wide selection of dresses. It takes me only a second to recognize they’re high quality, even if dated.
Evening gowns and cocktail dresses and vintage pieces from fashion houses like Chanel and Louis Vuitton.
Though it’s a completely different style and time period, it still reminds me of my closet back home. The luxurious lifestyle I once lived.
My high-rise apartment in Manhattan meticulously curated to fit my current soft glam aesthetic. My art gallery with its rotating exhibitions. My wardrobe full of Bottega Veneta and Valentino.
Brunch with Simone. Shopping trips to Bergdorfs. Opening night parties where I’d schmooze with collectors and five-star dinners with the businessmen I’ve dated.
To some it might sound like a hollow, shallow existence, but to me, it was life.
…it was my life, and honestly? I miss it.
But even as the longing washes over me, I realize how conflicted I am. How it’s so unsettling that I even could be.
This period trapped at Lochlan’s estate has been hell. It’s been the most difficult time I’ve ever had, but it’s also taken me out of my comfort zone.
It’s forced me to stand on my own, and I’ve learned things about myself I never would’ve otherwise. I’ve come to appreciate hard work like gardening, and I’ve made a friend in Sorcha. But most of all, I’ve found myself drawn to my captor.
I’ve found myself enjoying our time together and wanting more of him.
Which makes me question, what the hell does this mean for the future?
After washing up and sharing a light dinner with Sorcha in the kitchen, I head to the parlor where the art is on display to clear my head. I wind up in front of the Georgia O’Keeffe like always, sighing as I stare up at the intricate petals and how they unfold in beautiful shades of cream and gold.
Mom would’ve gushed about the brushwork and the way O’Keeffe used light and shadow to create depth.
I can’t help wondering what she would say if she knew about the situation I’ve found myself in—held captive by a dangerous and violent man who’s made it no secret what his ultimate plans are.
He’s a man who’s taken me hostage and tormented me and even sold me to the Bratva.
But he’s also a man who stares at me with wolfish hunger and kisses me so intensely it makes my heart flutter twice as fast.
…he’s the man who’s been thoughtful enough to take me up to the roof for a romantic night staring at the stars and actually seemed like he was ready to tear out the jugular of anybody who came for me when we escaped the Vodka Room.
Now I’m spending each night in his bed, and it’s only made things more complicated.
Lochlan Callahan is such a freaking contradiction I’m questioning everything.
“There you are,” he says suddenly.