Chapter 33 Sorcha
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SORCHA
We step out into the weak autumn sunlight, the library doors swinging shut behind us with a soft thud.
Cillian’s question hangs in the air, a poisonous cloud I don’t have an answer for.
How did Liam find me? He isn’t just a ghost from a past I torched; he’s a loose end I had hoped wouldn’t come back to bite me on the arse.
I glance up at Cillian. His jaw is a hard line, his shoulders tense.
The jealousy was hot, but the silent, simmering rage is something else entirely.
It’s a promise of violence on my behalf, a claim that sends a fucked-up thrill straight to my clit.
Axl and Ciar appear from around the corner, their expressions grim.
They take one look at Cillian’s face, then mine, and I see the same question in their eyes.
The game has changed again. The threats aren’t just faceless snipers anymore.
They have a name. Whether or not it’s the right name, that remains to be seen.
I watch Axl’s face darken as Cillian finishes, his green eyes narrowing to slits while Ciar crosses his arms, that familiar storm brewing in his gaze.
The air between us crackles with tension, the kind that makes my skin prickle.
Nobody speaks for a beat, like they’re all chewing on the same bitter pill.
“Old flame?” Axl finally says, his tone casual but edged with that indifferent bite he wields like a weapon.
“More like a fuck buddy that didn’t get the memo when it was time to part ways,” I mutter, shoving my hands into my pockets to hide the way they’re trembling from the frustration of loose ends I thought I’d severed clean.
“We hooked up a few times back in England. I ghosted him when I left for here. Figured that was that.”
Ciar grunts, his massive frame shifting like he’s already planning how to dismantle the guy. “And he just shows up? Kisses you like you’re still his? Bold move for a nobody.”
“Stupid move,” Cillian corrects, his voice a low thunder that vibrates through me. He’s still got that possessive fire in his eyes, promising a reckoning.
I shrug, trying to play it cool even as my mind races. “He called me Mullen. That’s my old name, from before I claimed Gannon. If he tracked me down, someone must’ve fed him intel. Or he’s got connections I never knew about.”
Axl nods slowly and pulls out his phone. “We’ll dig into him. Background, affiliations, the works. If he’s tied to the snipers or that fake photo, he’s done.”
“He’s done anyway,” Cillian mutters under his breath.
The certainty in his voice steadies me a fraction.
These guys don’t make empty threats. They deliver.
But the thought of Liam knowing my every move twists something ugly in my gut.
I built my walls high for a reason, and now they’re cracking under the weight of all this shit.
The campus blurs around us in a haze of autumn leaves and oblivious students.
Liam’s reappearance isn’t just a blast from the past—it’s a warning bell, clanging loud in my head.
If he’s here, sniffing around, it means my old life is bleeding into this new one, and that could unravel everything I’ve clawed my way towards.
Cillian steps closer, his hand brushing my elbow. “You should’ve let me snap his neck in the library.”
I snort. “And explain a body to the librarians? No thanks. Besides, I want answers first. If he’s part of this mess, I get first crack at him.”
He nods, his blue eyes locking onto mine with that intensity that always makes my pulse jump. “Fair enough. But you’re not facing him alone next time.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Axl cuts in before I can. “Agreed. We’re done playing defence, and this could all be an unwelcome distraction. Annastasia? What happened with her?”
“We didn’t get that far,” I say. “It was mostly posturing. She was pissed I chose you over her grand revolution, kept dropping hints about how I’d picked the wrong side.” My gaze drifts between the three of them. “She thinks you’re using me, that you’ll discard me when I’m no longer useful.”
“Is that what you think?” Ciar asks, his voice dangerously low.
I meet his stare head-on. “I think she’s a snake trying to plant seeds of doubt.
But I was getting somewhere. I could feel her starting to crack, ready to spill something, anything, just to prove she knows more than me.
That she is better than a bastard with nothing to her name except her name.
” I let out a harsh breath of frustration.
“Then Liam showed up, and the whole thing went to shit. She practically ran out of there.”
“So we’re back to square one,” Axl says, though he doesn’t sound surprised. He sounds like he’s already moved on to the next plan. “With a new piece on the board we need to remove.” His eyes gleam with that familiar, violent promise. “Permanently.”
The word hangs in the air between us, a death sentence delivered with casual indifference. A part of me, the part that survived the Dublin streets, nods in grim agreement. Loose ends get you killed. Liam Murphy is a loose end I should have cut clean.
“Before you go carving him up for souvenirs, I need to know how he found me. Who does he know that knows I’m here under Gannon?”
“We’ll get it out of him,” Ciar says, the promise of violence a low rumble in his chest.
“No,” I insist, stepping closer to him, forcing him to meet my gaze. “You’ll beat it out of him. I need to ask him. He’ll lie through his teeth if he thinks you’re just going to kill him anyway.”
Axl’s lips curve into a slow, appreciative smile. “She’s got a point. Fear is a decent motivator, but the promise of survival? That can make a man sing more.”
Cillian watches me, his expression unreadable, but I see the flicker of something in his eyes. He understands. This isn’t just about neutralising a threat; it’s about reclaiming my past, about understanding who is pulling the strings.
“First, we find him,” he says. “Then we’ll talk about interrogation techniques.” He puts a hand on the small of my back, a firm, possessive pressure that steers me towards the main building of the university. “It’s getting late. Lectures start soon.”
“Should we be acting all normal?” I ask.
“It’s the best thing we can do,” Ciar answers before Cillian can. “Show them we aren’t fazed.”
“Come,” Axl says, holding out his hand. “Time to do some physical exercise.”
I throw my head back and groan. “Really?”
“Did you not even look at your timetable?” he asks. “We have cross country.”
“Cross country?” I spit out. The thought of running for miles and miles right now really does not appeal to me. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.” I stare at Axl like he’s just suggested we take up competitive knitting. “Running? Through the woods? After someone’s been taking potshots at us?”
“Think of it as training,” Axl says, that infuriatingly charming smile never leaving his face. “Moving target practice.”
“Hilarious.” I roll my eyes, but I’m already taking his hand and letting him pull me along. Cillian and Ciar fall into step around us. It’s a formation I’m getting used to, a human cage of muscle and ink that feels both oppressive and ridiculously safe.
“We’ll be with you,” Cillian says, his voice a low rumble beside my ear. “No one’s getting near you.”
“You have this class too?”
Ciar nods. “The whole student body does.”
“Great. Just great.” I glance around at the sprawling green lawns that lead to the woods.
The trees are a dark, dense wall against the horizon.
It feels exposed. A perfect sniper’s nest. My stomach clenches, a knot of unease tightening in my gut.
This isn’t just about avoiding exercise; it’s about survival, and right now, a competitive jog through the forest feels like the stupidest move we could possibly make.
But defiance is a luxury I can’t afford.
So I just nod, letting them lead the way towards the changing rooms.
“I don’t have a kit,” I point out.
“You will be supplied with one,” Axl says. “It’s a very serious thing here at St. Bart’s. We go up against St. Brid’s in two weeks.”
“And St. Brid’s would be?”
“St. Brigid’s College. They are the real-world version of us. Elite, rich, the bright future of Ireland without the weapons and violence,” Axl explains.
“They’re legit?”
“So are we,” he points out. “On the surface.”
“Let me guess, they are as competitive as fuck, and if we don’t win, we will be ridiculed forevermore?”
Axl smirks. “Ridiculed is putting it mildly, sunshine. Reputations are made and broken on that course. It’s a blood sport with fewer visible weapons.”
“Fantastic. Just what I needed. More blood sports.”
We reach the gymnasium, and I’m herded away from the guys to the women’s changing room, which is a cavernous space of dark wood lockers and the scent of chlorine from the nearby pool.
A stern-faced woman who looks like she eats nails for breakfast hands me a folded kit with a pair of brand-new running shoes on top.
It’s a plain black top and shorts, emblazoned with the St. Bart’s crest. Understated.
Expensive. A statement. I change quickly, in a cubicle, also taking the opportunity to sort out a fresh tampon.
I highly doubt the higher-ups would take “I’m on my period” or for one to bail due to mismanagement of feminine hygiene products as an excuse to cut this class.
When I emerge, the guys are waiting, already changed into matching black kits that do obscene things for their muscular frames and definitely separates the boys from the men.
Ciar’s eyes rake over me, a slow, possessive heat that makes my skin tingle. “Ready to run?” he asks, his voice a low murmur meant only for me as we head outside into the cold morning that has clouds gathering and looks like it’s going to rain.
I look towards the field where students are already gathering.
Beyond the pitch, the woods wait, dark and silent.
A shiver I can’t suppress runs down my spine.
This feels like a trap. A perfectly opportunistic trap.
Call me paranoid, but I’m not. I’m a realist. My life has taught me that the moment you let your guard down is the moment a knife finds your back.
A whistle shrieks, cutting through the low murmur of the crowd.
A burly man with a face like a bulldog barks instructions, outlining the course that snakes through the woods and back again.
I tune him out, my eyes scanning the tree line, searching for any flicker of movement that’s out of place. Every shadow seems to hold a threat.
The other students are a sea of focused faces, stretching and bouncing on the balls of their feet, their energy a sharp, competitive hum. They’re worried about winning. I’m worried about not getting a bullet in my skull.
We are not the same.
We move towards the starting line, a mass of black-clad bodies.
Cillian takes my left, Ciar my right, Axl a step behind me.
A perfect, impenetrable box. It’s so blatant, so possessive, that whispers follow us, eyes tracking our every move.
It makes me vastly uncomfortable that so many eyes are on us, but the guys don’t seem to be too concerned.
The bulldog-faced coach raises a starting pistol. My entire body tenses, every muscle screaming at the sound that’s about to come.
“Don’t leave me,” I blurt out, suddenly very aware that I’m not exactly the fittest member of this group.
Cillian nods, taking me seriously and not making me feel like an idiot.
He knows, they know that their natural stamina will outpace mine tenfold.
Throw in the fact that they are all in great shape, I feel quite intimidated and embarrassed.
I never claimed to be the strongest, just faster and more skilled at fighting after years of practice. That doesn’t help me now.
The gun cracks, the sound echoing the shots that have haunted the last twenty-four hours. The crowd surges forward, and we run across the grounds, aiming for the woods a quarter mile or so at the edge of campus.