Liam is still cuffed to the chair, resembling a fallen god, blood running down the side of his face. His eyes burn with a promise of hellfire, but he’s still. Too still.
I know I dropped the barrette in his lap. He must be working it. But we need a distraction.
“You look a bit pale, Elexia,” Eamon says smoothly.
I glance up. He’s standing by the tea service, his hands moving with an elegant grace. He doesn’t seem like a man who just helped kidnap his nephew. No, he looks like a concerned host.
“Perhaps a cup of tea to settle the nerves?” Something there cuts through the polite mask as he slides a delicate china cup across the table to me.
“It’s piping hot, just the way you like it,” Eamon adds.
He doesn’t just slide the cup. He nudges a silver letter opener—honed to a needle-sharp point—along with it, the blade hidden by the shadow of the silver tray.
I register the signal. I guess there is more to him than meets the eye. I reach out, my fingers shaky as I wrap them around the hot porcelain cup, my fingers brushing the letter opener. I palm the blade, sliding it into the sleeve of Eamon’s oversized overcoat.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“That’s a good girl,” Darragh purrs, his other hand tightening around my waist, his fingers digging into the flesh. “See, Liam? She’s already learning her place. She’s far more reasonable than your mother ever was.”
Liam’s jaw steels until I think his teeth might shatter. “Get your hands…off of her,” he growls, low and dangerous. He sounds like he’s agreeing, like he’s breaking. “I’ll do it. I’ll sign the transfers. Just…stop touching her.” I read the act.
Darragh’s energy strangles me like a noose. “There’s the boy I remember,” he hums. “Always willing to trade the crown for a piece of?—”
I don’t wait.
In one fluid motion, I twist and throw the scalding contents of the teacup directly into Darragh’s face.
He lets out a howling scream of shock and pain, his hands flying up to his face. The gun grip loosens for a fraction of a second. I lunge for it and wrench it from his grasp with a strength thanks to pure adrenaline. I don’t try to shoot. I know I’d probably miss or get overpowered, so I toss the weapon across the room until it slides under a heavy velvet sofa.
“Liam!” I scream.
The sound of the handcuffs opening snaps like a gunshot.
Liam is out of the chair before Darragh can blink again. He charges like a bull, his massive frame slamming into his father.They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs and fury, a raw, primal brawl erupting in the center of the room.
I scramble back, jagged gasps escaping, but I don’t make it three steps before a rough hand grabs my hair and yanks me backward.
“Not so fast, you little slut,” Finn O’Malley snarls in my ear.
Fear and desperation claw up my throat as he starts dragging me toward the heavy mahogany doors of the study. I thrash, my bare feet futilely, my fists knocking wildly, but he’s too strong. He knocks open the doors and slams me into the room, the sound of the locks clicking shut echoing like a death knell.
“Liam!” I try to scream, but it comes out as a choked wheeze.
I don’t get the chance to run. Finn moves in, throwing me onto the large leather desk. My lungs collapse as my back hits the hard surface. He’s over me in an instant, his weasel face contorted with a frenzied, disgusting lust.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this,” he pants, his hands fumbling with my silk chemise, yanking the hem upward, exposing me. “The King’s little flower whore. I’m gonna enjoy every second of breakin’ you while he watches.”
A bone-deep terror shivers up my spine as he starts to fumble with his trousers. But it wars with something else. A fury, feminine and primal, rises within me, like fire shaking off ash.
I stop struggling. I lie still, my eyes boring into his, my hand sliding into the sleeve, fingers lighting on the silver letter opener.
“You’re making a mistake,” I warn, steady, my gaze unwavering.
“Oh?” he sneers, his hand groping my thigh as he tries to free himself. “And what’s that?”
“You forgot one very important thing.”
“Yeah? And what’s that, florist?”
