15. Liath
LIATH
My trembling hand paused on Alistair’s bedroom door handle as I stood in the forbidden wing, exposed and vulnerable out in the empty corridor.
He only left it unlocked when he was in the house, because who in this house would dare. Which meant I couldn’t wait for one of his business trips. I had to break in now.
And I didn’t have long. Who knew when he was coming back.
Fear sat lodged in my bones. It stuck in my throat, making it hard to breathe.
I had no idea what Alistair would do if he found me here. I only knew it would be… painful. I’d probably wish for death.
For one cowardly second, I pulled my hand back from the handle. Dervla flashed through my mind, hollow-eyed and pale in that ward. I turned my palm over and looked at the thin white pact scar there. The sight of it hardened something in me. I had to do this.
I opened the door and slipped inside.
Wormwood hit me first, herby and medicinal, and the pipe organ note pressed into me, adding to my nerves. Even with the room empty, his scent soaked into everything, his presence in every surface.
His bedroom was furnished in dark wood, his bedspread pulled flat enough to bounce a coin, heavy black and gold curtains shutting out the day.
On the desk, a leather notepad sat flush with the edge beside a pen aligned exactly parallel to its spine, the pages clean and fresh.
Even his bookshelves were neat to the point of compulsion. Not a speck of dust anywhere.
In a dark bedroom almost devoid of color, my eyes were drawn to the large painting that hung directly opposite the bed. It was a portrait of Alistair himself, oil paints in deep grays and furious reds that radiated outward from him like heat off scorched earth. Like fire off a devil.
The artist’s painting style was so similar to Rua’s, but these brushstrokes were wilder.
Rua painted this, and he hung it where he’d see it every night.
The sight of it lodged under my ribs. I gave myself one moment to absorb it, then forced myself back to my dangerous task of snooping.
I pulled open the bedside drawers and rummaged through them, unsure exactly what I was looking for. Just knowing that somehow, I’d know when I found it.
Folded handkerchiefs, corners aligned flush with the drawer edge. A plush tray filled with expensive watches. A Mont Blanc pen still in its holder. I pressed my fingers to the base of the drawer, ran them along the sides, found nothing taped underneath.
Nothing labeled: Evil Plan and How to Thwart It.
A girl could dream.
I pushed it shut and opened the last drawer.
There was only one item inside. A rosary, delicate chain, small wooden beads in pine green, a tiny silver cross at the end.
Of course it was his. Alistair with his chapel voice and his godly veneer. The twisted irony of a man like him fingering beads in prayer almost made me laugh. Almost.
Then I frowned. The chain was broken. So why had he kept it?
I placed it back exactly where I’d found it and closed the drawer.
I crossed to the dresser and opened it one drawer at a time, careful not to disturb the brutal neatness of it. His shirts were folded into exact squares, collars stacked, cuffs aligned, each one smelling faintly of starch and that same wormwood-and-medicine scent that had soaked into the room.
I slid my hand between the layers, checking for anything hidden beneath them, then lifted each pile carefully and set it back exactly as I’d found it.
Socks rolled in matching pairs. Undershirts folded flat.
Even his nightclothes looked disciplined.
Nothing stuffed into corners. Nothing forgotten. Nothing careless enough to help me.
I moved to the bookshelves next and started pulling books out at random, one by one, keeping track of where each belonged before easing it back into place.
Theology. War strategy. Irish history. Latin texts.
Leather spines and gilt titles and the occasional margin note in a hard, controlled hand.
I rifled through pages, looking for anything tucked inside.
A letter. A receipt. A pressed note between chapters.
Paper dust clung to my fingertips as paper whispered under my thumb.
I checked behind the rows too, running my hand along the back panel in case something had been taped there. Then I crouched to search the lower shelves, paging through more books, faster now, pulse climbing with every second I wasted.
Shit. So far I’d found nothing that could save anyone.
Nothing about Magdalene. Nothing about the girls. No files. No ledger hidden between book pages or taped behind the dresser. No evil manifesto.
Either he kept the dangerous things elsewhere, or he hid them well enough that I’d never find them. Christ, why did I think this would be simple?
“What are you doing?”
I spun toward the gravelly voice, heart crashing against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Lorcan was in the room, standing between me and the closed door, my only exit, arms crossed over his chest, his expression freezing into a cold, assessing mask.
I hadn’t heard the door, not a creak, not a step, nothing.
The room seemed to shrink around us. Alistair terrified me. Lorcan came close enough that the distinction barely mattered.
I locked my knees and kept my chin up, because showing fear was practically a confession.
He started toward me, every step deliberate, the slow approach of someone who knew I had nowhere to run.
“Go on…” His voice dropped, almost coaxing. “You can tell me.”
God, he was worse when he was pretending to be friendly.
“Just looking for a book,” I said.
He had me cornered before I’d registered his movements, arms braced to either side of me, the bookshelves cold and hard against my back.
His voice dropped lower. “You’re very bad at snooping. Even worse at lying.”
“I’m not—”
“This is new.” His fingers brushed the lace at my hip.
My thoughts skidded sideways. It was the skirt I’d spotted in a vintage shop window when Nuala dragged me into town. Still black, still Rua’s color, but at least it was mine. Lacy and flowy and pretty, something I’d have chosen for myself.
“Oh. Um, thanks.”
He leaned closer and his scent came with him, whiskey, woodsmoke, and that male musk underneath, and the low broken orchestra of violins swelled through my chest, raw and aching and too loud. “How about we play a game?”
“I don’t want to play with you.”
“You say that like you have a choice.” He leaned closer still. “Or maybe I should call out for Father.”
“No!” The word came out before I could stop it.
Lorcan’s smile was slow and vicious. “Thought so.”
My pulse thumped at the base of my throat.
He had me. He knew it.
The last of my composure gave way without drama. Every lie I’d rehearsed for this moment vanished. My mind emptied itself down to one hard fact: I wasn’t getting out of this.
The only question left was how much he meant to punish me before he was done.
His hand moved so fast I barely saw it. Suddenly he held a knife between us.
Oh fuck. My fingers came up to the thin scab at my throat.
He turned the blade, letting it glint in the dim light.
“I get to ask questions,” he said. “For every lie, I take something.”
My gaze dropped to the knife, then back to his face. “T-take what?”
He didn’t answer. He traced the cold tip of the knife over my cheek, skimming the edge down the side of my neck, along my pulse.
I froze so completely it hurt, every muscle locked, every breath trapped high and useless in my chest, while he studied me.
“What are you doing in this room?”
I swallowed, my dry throat catching. “Looking for a book.”
He went still, his eyes narrowing. “Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“Hold still.”
My heart lurched into my throat, pure animal terror, as he slipped the blade under the collar of my cardigan. I stopped breathing entirely.
He drew downward in one slow pass, fabric parting clean. My cardigan gaped open. Then he cut down from the shoulder along the length of my sleeve, then again at the other shoulder.
The whole thing fell away and the cold air of the room poured over my arms and shoulders all at once, the shock of it immediate and total.
I scanned my body, waiting for the fiery lines of pain where he’d cut me.
But there was nothing, just the goosebumps of cool air against my bare arms and shoulders.
He didn’t just know where to cut but knew how to cut with surgical precision. A psychopath with the finesse of a surgeon.
I repressed a shiver.
His gaze moved over me, and my skin prickled everywhere his eyes landed.
The blade came up again and every muscle in my body clenched as he pressed the flat tip against my sternum, right over my heart, and held it there, the steel cold through the thin fabric.
My lungs forgot how to work.
“What,” he said, announcing each word carefully, “are you looking for?”
“I already told you.” I lifted my chin. “I lent him a book I want back.”
His jaw tightened. He drew the blade down slowly, splitting the front of my top from collar to hem. Two fast slashes and both straps fell, the fabric sliding off me, leaving me topless.
I gasped, crossing my arms over my bare breasts, an instinctive protective reaction. Heat flooded my face as indignation churned in my guts.
Underneath the shame, a different kind of heat began to seep through my body.
Stupid body.
He hadn’t looked away once, his attention so fixed and deliberate it pressed against my naked skin. Was it just me or had his breathing shifted?
He let the silence build until it felt like part of the game, another way of stripping things from me.
He used a finger to tug out my skirt’s waistband, his fingertip brushing against my skin, making a shiver cascade throughout my body. Then he slipped the knife in, cold blunt side against my belly, the material catching on the blade’s edge.
I let out a whimper. No. Please, not this skirt. Not the only skirt in her whole wardrobe that I had chosen. The only skirt that was mine.
“Why are you masquerading as my sister?”
There was no way I was telling him that. No way he would see my answer for anything but a lie.
Goodbye, pretty skirt.
“Lorcan, I am your sister.”
He shook his head as if he was disappointed in me. With one fast slash, he cut a long slit down my new skirt. The lace dropped without a sound, pooling around my bare feet and I let out a small involuntary sob.
I clutched my arms harder around my breasts, my shoulders hunching over protectively as cold air coiled around my bare legs.
A numbness spread everywhere like ice except for the heat in my core pulsing low and unwanted each time his gaze moved across me.
Slowly. Down the length of my body and all the way up, his gaze sending a flush across me like a fever.
Something in his eyes darkened. Something… I hadn’t seen before.
I pressed my thighs together against the traitorous wetness leaking into my panties.
The pause this time was longer, heavier.
Dear God. How many more questions did he have left?
He took half a step closer, my skin prickling at his nearness, my nipples pressing painfully against my forearms. He trailed his knife from my shoulder, down my ribs, my waist, goosebumps chasing it.
Finally, he slid the blade into the hem of my panties, hooked it, and pulled it away from my hip with the flat side.
“Last chance,” he said. But I swear there was the smallest of cracks in his voice.
One more lie and I’d be completely naked in Alistair Lasair’s bedroom.
“Who are you, little imposter?”
My throat closed around the truths I still couldn’t tell. My mind scrambled for a way to get out.
Fuck. I was so screwed.
I couldn’t claim to be Rua. He’d already seen through it. I might as well strip off my underwear myself.
The blade was taut against the last scrap of fabric and I stood there with nothing left.
The only move left was the one he wasn’t expecting.
I dropped my arms, my nipples tightening to painful points against the cold air, but I pushed my chest out like I didn’t care.
His gaze dropped to my breasts. His pupils widened, his jaw going tight. His hand holding the knife faltered, just once, barely, but I caught it.
“You know what I think?” I lowered my voice and leaned into him, just a fraction. “I think you just want to see me naked.”
His gaze snapped up to mine, the frosty blue rings of his eyes so dilated they were almost black. His jaw twitched as something like anger flashed across his face. But it was gone so quickly I couldn’t tell.
Then his gaze dropped to my lips.
My lips opened in a soft intake of air. Was he going to—?
Lorcan’s head snapped toward the door.
Heavy footsteps sounded down the corridor, getting closer. The sound of it went through me like cold water poured down my spine.
Alistair was returning.