I look up at her. But the ‘sweet little florist’ look is gone.
“I know what you are,whoyou are, Liam Donovan.” She’s cold now. Composed. “And I really like my body parts where they are.”
Can’t move. My limbs are water-logged noodles.
“Feckin’ hell…Lexie,” I rasp. “Remind me…never to piss off…a girl who reads…about monsters.”
Darkness takes me.
And even as I slip under, all I can think about is how much I’m going to enjoy punishing her later.
Mo Róisín has thorns, after all.
And I’ve always liked a bit of a sting.
CHAPTER 5
Elexia
My hands are shaking so violently, I nearly drop the key.
I am a kidnapper now. A real, actual, federal-offense-level kidnapper.
I stand over Liam’s slumped form, staring at his slack features. Even drugged and half-dead on my floor, he looks sculpted from marble and dark intentions.
Think, Lexie. Think.
I scramble into the back of my closet, digging through theBox of Things I Can’t Throw Away.At the bottom, tucked beneath my old nursing scrubs, is my dad’s service belt. He was a cop, and while I kept them as a memento, I never expected to use the heavy steel handcuffs.
I pull them out, the metal clinking like a prison door slamming shut.
I drag Liam’s arm toward the radiator—the sturdiest thing in the room—and click.
He’s secured. Again.
“What am I doing?” I back up until I hit the wall, running through options.
My first instinct was to contact the police. But now, I’ve drugged him. I’ve kidnapped a high-level mafia boss. And locked him in my apartment.
For all I know, the cops could be on his payroll. And what then? He knows my name. He knows where I live. He knows I work at a flower shop.
If he peeked through my bills, he might even know where Nana is.
My head spins. If he threatened me with a gun for suggesting a hospital, what would he do over a prison cell? Snap my neck like a wilted tulip before anyone gets him out the door.
“I can’t stay here.” I hurry for my jacket. “I can’t think.”
He’ll be out for at least two hours. A calculated dose for one large Irishman.
I bolt out the door, locking it three times.
I drive to the private residence on the edge of the city. Nana’s lived here since her “retirement,” paid for by mysterious savings and my parents’ life insurance. She insisted I use the rest to build my own life. “Flowers are good for the soul,” she’d said.
After checking in with the receptionist, I make my way to her cottage, heart still racing.
It’s prim and beautiful, filled with antique books and even some rare weapons she collects. Her fat orange tabby, Churchill, judges me from the hall bookshelf.
Perfect posture, Nana sits in her wingback chair. Behind her spectacles, her sharp gray eyes lift from her crossword. The silk robe may look grandmotherly, but most miss the hard set of her jaw.
