Page 70 of The Devil's Obsession (East Coast Devils 3)

Romy

As we approach the crowd lingering in front of the glass dome, my heart quickens, and anticipation makes my mouth water.

Donnacha’s arm snakes around my hips and pulls me into his hard chest. “You okay?” he says, stooping to meet the shell of my ear.

I nod, but the sight of all these people makes me nervous. I was born in the shadows and have lived there ever since. I’m not used to being around so many people at once.

Suddenly, white lights flash, blinding me through the rain, and I bury my face into Donnacha’s chest on instinct. “Reporters,” he mutters, moving his hand from my waist to the space between my shoulder blades. “Smile and wave.”

I don’t. Instead, I clutch onto Donnacha’s shirt and let him propel me forward, past the wall of guards, who part like the Red Sea for us, and into the dome.

The air changes instantly, like we’ve breezed into a tropical summer. I blink, steadying myself, and look around. “Welcome to the Garden of Eden,” Donnacha says, brushing my hair from my shoulder.

“Whoa,” I murmur. My senses are assaulted by a kaleidoscope of colors that extend beyond the fairy lights. Rich reds, yellows, and blues burst out from exotic plants lining a dimly lit cobbled pathway. “What is this place?”

As he answers, Donnacha guides me forward down the path. “Cillian Black is a plant fanatic. I’m sure there’s a more sophisticated word for it, but that just about sums him up. This whole joint”—he gestures with the hand that isn’t around me—“is a glorified greenhouse. A microclimate that allows him to grow the rarest and most exotic flowers from all around the world.” He lowers his mouth to my ear again, tickling the sensitive skin there. “For the love of god, please don’t touch anything.”

The path opens up to the main dome, a cavernous structure crafted almost entirely from glass. Against the back wall is a rocky cliff face, shimmering water fighting its way down the cracks and bursting into a gushing waterfall. In turn, it leads into a river that winds through endless flower beds and disappears out of sight. Guests on either side of the bank are laughing and joking in intimate circles, their noise just loud enough to drown out the gushing of the waterfall.

“I forgot how fucking humid this place is,” Donnacha grunts, plucking out the handkerchief from his top pocket and mopping his brow. Then he steers me left, where two men are standing by a wooden bar.

One of the men immediately catches my attention. He has that gravitational pull that some men in power simply ooze. He’s tall, tanned, and when he looks up from his glass to glare at me, I notice his eyes are the same color as Donnacha’s

Immediately, I recognize him as Lorcan Quinn.

“Lorc, Cill,” Donnacha grunts, hand on my lower back. “Meet my wife, Romy.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. The rock on my finger feels heavy. Despite the rushing water and the laughter and the violin playing softly somewhere in the distance, our little corner of the garden is uncomfortably silent. But I refuse to look away, pinning Lorcan Quinn with a blistering stare of my own. Eyes still trained on me, he holds his hand out to his side. A server immediately puts a flute of champagne in it. He hands it to me and drawls, “Welcome to the family.”

His tone is anything but welcoming. In fact, his hostility toward me can probably be seen from space. “Thank you,” I say thickly, feeling my back go up. I look over at the man next to him, Cillian. He’s tall, broad, and dark. Cheekbones that could cut glass. “Thank you for inviting me, Cillian.”

He nods in response, then takes a sip of his liquor.

Geez, tough crowd.

“Donnacha! Romy!”

Poppy emerges from a bush, waving at us. For a woman I’ve met just once, she’s a welcome interruption right now. When she reaches us, she plants a flowery kiss on my cheek and slashes a glare to Donnacha.

“You look beautiful,” she says warmly, taking both my hands in hers. “Love the dress.”

She looks beautiful too. Like an ethereal being in a floating pastel pink dress, a flower crown woven into the thick red braid cascading down her back. “Helena from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, right?”

Her face cracks into a dazzling smile. “I’m impressed.” She links her arm in mine and steers me away from the men. I steal a glance back at Donnacha, mainly because I can feel his laser-like glare burning into the back of my head. A warning, no doubt. “Come, meet Lottie. She’s also Helena,” she mutters, dropping her tone as we pass gaggles of partygoers who stare at us unashamedly. “But I couldn’t kick up a fuss because it’s her party, and she’s also like, a million weeks pregnant.”

Lottie is hard to miss. I spot her on the other side of the riverbank, clutching a large bump through the pink tulle fabric of her dress.

“Lottie, this is Romy.” When Poppy introduces us, Lottie’s eyes widen with a mix of surprise and delight. Her plump mouth opens, then closes again. Like she was just about to blurt out something she shouldn’t. Instead, she smooths her silky black hair and looks up at me through her thick lashes.

“Oh my goodness, I’m so glad you’re here. I mean, if you’re happy you’re here? Obviously, you’re probably not here because you want to be, but uh, I hope that you can enjoy yourself anyway. Sorry, Poppy told me what happened, uh, I’m not prying but—”

Poppy slips her hand into Lottie’s and squeezes. “You’re rambling, darling.”

Lottie lets out an easy laugh, one that makes her sea-glass eyes sparkle. “I’m sorry. This whole Mafia don kidnaps unwilling bride is all quite new to me.” She rubs her bump absentmindedly and adds, “Don’t know how I ended up getting knocked up by one.”

“Join the club,” Poppy grumbles half-jokingly, eyes scanning the crowd. They light up when she spots someone she knows. “Sorry, ladies, Nova just walked in. I’ll be right back.”

When it’s just us, Lottie flashes me a girlish look. “Donnacha is treating you good, though, right? Blink once for no, twice for yes.”

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