Thy Kingdom Come

One in particular fascinates me; it’s just a white canvas with charcoal lines, but the way in which those lines are sketched, I find myself lost in the silence while also deafened by the noise. I wonder who the artist is.

The furnishings and appliances are what you’d expect to find in most homes, but considering Punky shares these grounds with a castle, it’s modest in comparison, and I like it. He doesn’t show off his wealth. Everything in here has a place.

The mystery of Puck Kelly just continues to grow.

There is a beautiful chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, and I peer up at it, mesmerized by the sunlight streaming in from the windows and catching the low-hanging jewels. They send mini rainbows across the carpet, giving off the illusion that everything isn’t fucked up beyond repair.

Digging into my handbag, I run a finger over the rose brooch, not missing the similarities of it and the one tattooed on the back of Punky’s right hand. I can’t read what is written across his knuckles, and I have a feeling this was done with intent.

His tattoos are for him and not for the world to see. And I like that.

I’m about to leave the brooch on the kitchen counter as this was a bad idea and I’m clearly insane for even being here, but suddenly, it’s too late. The world is about to eat me whole.

The hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and the room is filled with a spine-tingling spark, threatening to electrocute me where I stand. Just as I’m about to spin around, a pair of muscular arms wrap around my waist and draw me into a warm, hard, heaven and hell.

“See anythin’ ya like, Babydoll?” His voice is hoarse, honeyed, and goddamn, goose bumps prickle every inch of my skin, especially when I hear him use the nickname he’s pegged for me.

But I’ll be damned if he knows that.

“No, not particularly,” I reply with bite as I struggle to free myself. “Let me go.”

“Ack, I think not. What ye doin’ in my home?”

“I got lost,” I quip, ignoring the heat of his bare chest pressed against my back. “But I’ll be on my way.”

Punky laughs in response, hinting I’m not going anywhere.

He towers over me, and God knows, I should be frightened being held prisoner in his arms, but I’m not afraid. I’m aroused.

He tightens his hold around me, making it near impossible to breathe. Turning over my shoulder, I get a glimpse of a silver barbell in his nipple and script writing, which looks Latin, inked across his chest. Both have me biting the inside of my cheek to stop my whimper of approval.

“Yer not going anywhere until ya answer my question.”

His deep, honeyed Northern Irish accent does things to me that heat my cheeks, but I can’t be distracted. I’ve established that I’m incredibly attracted to Punky, but that shouldn’t deter me from the fact he is a downright arsehole who I want to slap half the time.

I know he won’t let me go until I tell him the truth, so I open my palm and show him the brooch. “Here, sorry I took it. Who does it belong to, anyway?”

I don’t want to make a fuss, so I play nonchalant. His grip on me slackens when he sees the offering.

“Ya wee thief,” he says, clucking his tongue but not answering my question.

“Sticks and stones, now let me go.” I struggle once more, and this time, he loosens his hold so I can break free.

Spi

“What happened to your face?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

“That’s none of yer concern,” he replies, gesturing with his hand that he wants the brooch back.

I give it to him, wishing he’d tell me what happened.

His hard, angry exterior is replaced with what I can only describe as genuine relief and a flash of happiness. It’s gone a second later.

“Why’d ya take it then?” he asks as if remembering I’m still here.

“You’re welcome,” I smartly reply, ignoring his naked, defined chest and abs inches away.

His hair is mussed, his long fringe flicked to the high heavens. I must have woken him even though I was quiet. He clearly sleeps with one eye open as nothing slips past him.

“I’ll not tell ya again,” he warns, not in the mood to play games.

“Why’d you think I took it?” I declare, hating how weak my admission makes me sound. “I’m the Duffys’ fucking servant, for Christ’s sake. Do the maths and spare me the fucking lecture.”

He seems caught off guard by my response, as I can imagine most wouldn’t dare speak to a Kelly this way. But I’m not most.

“How’d ya know where I live?”

“It’s not exactly a secret,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “I know how to use Google.”

Punky’s lips lift into an amused grin. “If that’s true, ya know all about the Kelly name then?”

I swallow subtly, my bravado soon fading. I know all about the Kellys. Some pieces of information I wish I didn’t know. But I play coy.

“Not really. I don’t care, to be honest with you. I came here because I wanted to do the right thing, and now that I have, I’m leaving and plan on never returning. Good day.”

I turn in vain because we both know I’m not going anywhere.

Punky seizes my wrist, drawing me into his chest. I put my arms up, a defensive move to protect my chest from being pressed to his. But sadly, all that it does is allow my hands to touch his warm, hardened flesh.

A sigh escapes me in betrayal, and I curse it, and this illogical response I have to him. I need it to stop. But when his heartbeat thumps beneath my fingers, I know stopping is nigh on impossible.

His scent is comparable to a warm summer’s day, but on the flipside, I can smell an approaching thunderstorm beneath the surface. He has one hand wrapped around my wrist, but with the other, he cautiously brushes a strand of hair from my cheek.

The simple action has the ability to leave me breathless.

We’re inches apart, and the world soon fades into the background so it’s merely us. It’s quiet here.

I take a moment to examine him unguarded because I need to know why I’m so drawn to him. The silver hoop in his bottom lip emphasizes its fullness, and the one in his nose draws attention to how elegantly straight it is—or was before he was beaten to a bloody pulp. It’s slightly upturned, which just adds to the air of arrogance he owns with each breath he takes.

His jawline is chiseled, a sprinkle of dark scruff hinting he hasn’t yet shaved. His body is muscular, but lean. Every muscle is defined, taut, and when my gaze drops to his rock-hard V-muscle and dusting of hair leading from his belly button into the sweats which sit low on his tapered waist, I need to remember to swallow.

He is bloody beautiful.

“Why aren’t ya afraid?” he queries, watching me with those astute eyes.

“Afraid of w-what?” I question, my heart beating madly, threatening to break free as I peer up at him from under my lashes.

He licks his bottom lip, his tongue brushing over the ball in the hoop. “Of me.”

His question isn’t cocky. He seems genuinely curious as to why I’m not recoiling from his touch. If only he knew the truth.

“Because there are nastier things in this world than you, Punky,” I reply, saying more than I should.

He cocks his head to the side, appearing to weigh my confession. “I doubt that,” he counters heavily, still watching me as if trying to work me out.