Lachlan
Sitting at the end of the long, teak dining table, I drummed my fingers on the table. I couldn't remember waiting so impatiently for anyone, especially a woman. But all afternoon, I'd been anxiously awaiting this dinner like I was some unexperienced teenager.
At long last, the sound of soft footfalls on the marble floors signaled her arrival. I couldn't suppress a predatory smile as I inhaled the sweet scent of her perfume, a subtle blend that beckoned me to her like a siren's song.
She entered the dining room with slow steps, her eyes adjusting to the candle light. The gown she wore was a simple, elegant affair - a deep navy number that hugged her curves and fell in a graceful cascade to her knees. A thin strap of crystals slung over one shoulder the only thing holding the top of the dress in place. My lips curled at the sight of the rapid pulse point at her throat as I stood to greet her.
"Mr. McIntyre," she said, her voice a soft murmur in the hushed space.
"Lachlan," I corrected her.
"Lachlan," she echoed and, damn me but I enjoyed the way my name rolled off her tongue.
"Please, join me." I motioned to the chair to the right of me, pulling it out for her to sit.
She glided toward me, her every movement graceful and enthralling, and I fought the urge to pull her into my arms and claim her lips. Instead, I pushed in her seat and returned to mine. I watched as she settled herself, the candlelight dancing along her features, throwing into relief the delicate bones of her face and those enticing lips. Her throat bobbed before she gave me a tentative smile. "Thank you. And thank you for the lovely dress. Obviously, I wasn't expecting to attend a dinner party."
I chuckled. "It's hardly a party, but I hope you'll enjoy it none the less."
Claude appeared before she could respond, placing soup bowls before each of us. "Grilled Octopus with Papaya Salsa and Tahitian Lime Aioli," he said in his deep, smooth island accent.
"Thank you, Claude. And may I introduce you to my guest, Quinn Pearce."
Claude's bright white teeth shined bright against his dark brown skin. "Good to meet you, Miss. Please enjoy."
"Thank you. It looks delicious."
The chef placed a hand briefly over his heart in thanks before returning to the kitchen. Picking up a fork, I turned my attention back to my beautiful guest.
"You look beautiful tonight, Quinn," I said, keeping my tone low and intimate.
A faint blush tinted her cheeks, and she looked down, her lashes sweeping her complexion like a caress. "Thank you, Lachlan. You're quite the host. How did you have a dress in exactly my size?"
I chewed, thinking over my answer. In the end, I decided to go with truth. "It belongs to my wife."
Quinn stiffened at my confession, pushing food around her plate. "I hope she won't mind me borrowing it. Will she be joining us for dinner?"
Letting the heat of my whisky burn down my throat, I again tried to decide on what I should disclose. "Doubtful. She's been missing for ten years."
Quinn coughed, her hand dropping her fork and covering her mouth. "Missing?" she croaked.
I nodded, schooling my expression into my normally implacable mask. "Yes."
She watched me, waiting for me to continue. When I didn't she broke the gaze and picked up her fork again. "Care to elaborate?"
"Not particularly, no," I answered, returning to my food.
Clearing her throat, she sat up straighter. "So, you're just going to drop that bomb and not tell any more of the story? I've never even found any evidence that you were ever married and now you tell me you're not only married but she's been missing for ten years and I'm not supposed to ask any questions?"
"I didn't say that." I wiped my mouth and placed the napkin next to my plate, leaning back and meeting her narrowed gaze.
Her brow furrowed at my answer. "What kind of game are you trying to play here, Mr. McIntyre?"
One side of my mouth quirked up at her return to the use of the more formal name. "No game, Ms. Pearce. I'm simply stating facts. Journalists like facts, don't they?"
"Yes we do," she stated, her voice steady but with a harder edge than I'd heard before. "But I believe you're being purposely provocative."
I steepled my fingers under my chin, trying to discourage the smile that wanted to bloom across my face. She was feisty. I liked that. A lot. "Not at all, Ms. Pearce. But why don't we save the delving into the dark corners of my past for the formal interviews. Claude has gone to a lot of trouble on short notice with this meal, and I'd like to enjoy it."
Her posture relaxed slightly and the sharpness in her eyes softened somewhat. I'd won this round.
"I can agree to that. But don't think I will forget to bring it up again at our next formal meeting."
"I never doubted it. And, please, call me Lachlan again."
Just then, Sims arrived with our second course--Mahi-Mahi with Pineapple Beurre Blanc and Taro Mash. "Chef Claude is working on the desserts, Mr. McIntyre. He asked me to present your mains."
After setting the plates on the table and lifting the silver cloches to present the food, Sims filled our wine glasses. "Anything else, Sir? Miss?"
Cutting my eyes to Quinn, she shook her head. "Thank you, Sims. That will be all for now."
"As you wish, Sir," the man intoned in his bored, upper crust voice before leaving the room.
"Is there anything that man doesn't do?" Quinn asked, a slight snark to her voice.
"Not that I've discovered yet, though I've never asked him to shampoo my hair for me," I said flatly.
A very unladylike snort escaped the lovely journalist's throat, and her hand shot to her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. I flashed her my most charming smile. Round One--me.
The air on the island felt different now, heavy and charged, as though the approaching storm wasn’t confined to the sky. The once serene paradise had become a pressure cooker, the weight of it pressing down on Quinn’s chest. She stood by the tall windows of the villa’s living room, the horizon marred by dark clouds rolling in from the sea. The wind had picked up, rustling the palm fronds outside and carrying the salty tang of the ocean through the slightly open windows.Behind her, Lachlan paced like a caged lion, his phone pressed to his ear as he issued crisp, controlled orders. Yet, even in his attempts to exude calm authority, Quinn could see the signs of strain—the way his fingers flexed open and closed at his side, the tension in his jaw as he ground his teeth. His shirt, usually perfectly pressed, was rumpled, and his hair stuck up in places from where he’d clawed his fingers through it repeatedly.“Double the security at the perimeter,” he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut
The study was steeped in shadows, the late afternoon sun filtering through heavy blinds and casting fractured light across the room. The scent of old books mingled with the faint tang of salt carried on the sea breeze, but the air inside was heavy, suffocating.Lachlan stood behind his imposing oak desk, a figure carved from granite, while Clara lingered by the window, her silhouette fragile and waif-like against the glow. Quinn hovered near the doorway, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her mind caught in a tangle of questions she couldn’t yet untangle.Lachlan’s voice cut through the silence, low and sharp. “Start at the beginning. How were you kept from me? Why didn’t I know you existed?”Clara turned from the window, her eyes soft but resolute. “You have to understand, Lachlan, our mother wasn’t like other mothers. She made choices—choices she believed were necessary. Choices that tore us apart.”“Necessary?” Lachlan’s voice rose, his composure cracking. His hands gripped t
Quinn"I'm here to see Lachlan," the woman announced, a musical lilt barely imperceptible in her soft voice.I stood there, rooted to the spot, as Sims' thin lips tightened into almost invisibility. We all stood like statues staring at each other for several breaths before Sims finally ushered the woman inside. She moved with a grace that belied her frail appearance, her eyes darting around the grand hallway as if she took in every detail. It didn't look like she was familiar with the place.I couldn't help but stare at her, my mind racing with questions. Who was she? how did she know where this place was? Did Sims know her or not? I couldn't tell. And why did she seem so familiar?Sims led the woman to the formal drawing room, instructing the maid who had been lurking in the doorway there with a tray and coffee, to fetch Lachlan. I followed despite the austere butler not inviting me, my curiosity piqued. The woman sat down on the edge of the sofa, her hands clasped tightly in her lap
QuinnThe seaplane landed smoothly, the water spraying up like tiny crystals under the sunlight. I'd been surprised when Lachlan had shown me to the small plane as we watched the yacht turn into a small dot on the water the morning after the traumatic ritual I'd witnessed."I need to get home as soon as possible and I'm sure you want to get back to work." His answer had been taciturn and not at all fulfilling when I'd asked, but I'd let it go. At that point, all I wanted off this island as soon as possible and didn't really care what Lachlan's reasons were.Once back on Lachlan's home island, he helped me out of the plane, his hand lingering on mine for a moment longer than necessary. As we walked in silence towards the grand house, the waves crashing against the shore the only sound accompanying the slide of our footsteps, I wasn't sure whether I should feel relief or trepidation in returning to the now familiar spaces. With as few words as possible, I retreated to the beautiful roo
QuinnAfter our encounter on the island, we'd come back to the yacht and the gentle rocking of the ocean had lulled me into a state of drowsy contentment as I lay nestled in the plush bedding, the remnants of Lachlan's scent clinging to the sheets. The events of the past few hours swirled in my mind, a chaotic mix of horror, confusion, and a strange, unsettling arousal.The image of the woman on the altar, her lifeless eyes staring up at the moon, the blood dripping from the sacrificial dagger…it played on repeat in my memory, a macabre slideshow that continued to send shivers down my spine. Lachlan's explanation, his insistence that it was all a charade, a necessary deception to maintain control within the Order of the Serpent…it echoed in my ears, a desperate plea for understanding, for trust.And then there was the knife. He had shown me the prop dagger. I had held it in my hand and it had collapsed allowing it to seem to stab but not really. But it was still sharp. My skin pebbled
**Reader warning - This chapter involves consensual knife and blood play. If this is disturbing to you or not your yum, move on, you won't miss any major plot points. If you thinks it's hot, or if you're a little curious, read on dear reader! Don't yuck the yum before you read it! :) xoxo**Lachlan Quinn's body trembled under my hand but she nodded, her eyes never leaving the blade. I smiled to myself. "I need your words for this, my love." "Green, sir," she breathed, and relaxed against the cool wood making my cock jump in anticipation. Jesus, the surrender made me harder than the acacia wood I had her laid."Oh, mo chroi, what a good girl you are," I growled, trailed my free hand through her hair and down her bare back. "Now stay very still unless I tell you." I slipped my fingers under her loose pants followed by the sharp edge of the blade and a second later, they fell to the floor with her shirt leaving her perfect body bare before me spread over my desk. It was a sight I'd co