Chapter 36
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
SORCHA
The walk back to my flat is a strange kind of torture.
I’m alone, properly alone, for the first time in days.
No wall of muscle surrounding me, no possessive hands guiding me, no watchful eyes tracking my every move.
The freedom should feel liberating. Instead, it feels like I’ve stripped off my armour and walked into battle naked.
I make it to the other side of campus, away from the grandeur of the university buildings and Axl’s townhouse, and stand outside my flat building, staring at the peeling paint on the door like it might offer some answers.
The building looks even more decrepit in the drizzle.
I head inside and up the stairs to my flat. The key sticks in the lock, and I have to jiggle it twice before the door swings open with a groan. The stale air hits me first—musty, cold, tinged with damp. I step inside and close the door behind me, my back against it as I survey the space.
It’s as I left it, minus all my belongings that Cillian picked up the other day.
I move to the window and peer through the grimy glass. The campus beyond is quiet, a few students moving to lectures, heads down against the drizzle. No sign of Liam. No sign of anyone watching. But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, making me jump in the cold gloom.
A text from Ciar. You there?
Yeah. All quiet.
He doesn’t reply, but what else is there to say?
I sink onto the saggy sofa, the springs protesting, and stare at my phone, but I’m too nervous to even doom scroll.
What if he doesn’t come? What if this entire plan is a waste of time and I’m sitting here like a fucking idiot while the real threat circles somewhere else?
Or worse—what if he does come, and I’ve underestimated him completely?
I shove the phone back into my pocket and force myself to breathe.
I’ve survived worse than Liam Murphy. I’ve survived Dublin streets that would’ve chewed him up and spat him out.
I’ve survived my mother’s neglect, the violence of the world I grew up in, the constant gnawing hunger that taught me to fight for every scrap.
But sitting here, waiting, feels different. It feels like I’m the mouse in the trap, not the one setting it.
An hour crawls by. I text Ciar. Still nothing.
His response is immediate. Good.
That’s it. Good.
Boring, more like.
The rain picks up, drumming against the window in a steady rhythm that does nothing to calm my nerves.
I lie on the sofa, staring at the damp-stained ceiling, wondering if I’m making a huge mistake.
What if Liam decides to get handsy, and I have to kill him?
What if he shows up with backup? What if he doesn’t show? What if, what if what if?
Another hour ticks by.
I text again. All quiet. Bored as fuck.
That’s the point, sunshine. Boring is good. Boring means you’re alive.
Axl. I almost smile at that.
A soft rap at the door puts me instantly on alert.
“Fuck,” I mutter and sit up, taking a moment to steady my nerves.
Rising slowly, I cross over to the door, trying to look natural, my hand on Bessie’s hilt, behind my back.
I crack the door open and peer out.
Liam.
“Mullen,” he says with that charming, cheeky smile. “You alone?”
I smile and fling the door open so he can see. “Yeah.”
“Good. That goliath clocked me good. Wasn’t looking for round two.” He rubs his face where a massive shiner is already showing.
“He thinks he has a claim on me,” I say, stepping back to let him in.
“And does he?”
“No,” I lie, looking him dead in the eye. “He’s no one.”
He scans the flat, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his hoodie, that old rogue confidence dialled up, like he knows exactly how hot he looks with his hair mussed and his face busted up. But I remind myself why he’s here, and that his visit probably isn’t just to get his rocks off.
He flops onto the edge of the sofa, sprawling like it’s his living room and not the scene of his potential, upcoming arse-kicking. “You want a drink?” I ask, mostly to keep it casual.
He grins. “You offering coffee, or the good stuff?”
I shrug, moving to the kitchen and pulling the cheap bottle of vodka I’m grateful is still in the cupboard. “If you’re expecting a warm welcome, you’ve been gone too long.”
“Just glad to see you in one piece,” he says.
He watches me pour the vodka into two mismatched glasses, a flicker of something I can’t name crossing his face.
His hands tap on his knees, restless. Eyes flick to the vodka, then to my face.
“I thought you’d have skipped town. After what happened with the cops. ”
How did he know about that? “I don’t run.”
He snorts, the sound dry and familiar. “Sure you do, Mullen. It’s what you do best.”
I don’t rise to it. Instead, I shove the glass at him and sit on the coffee table.
He downs the vodka in one go, winces, and then braces his elbows on his knees. “You sure you’re alone?”
I roll my eyes. “What’s got you so twitchy? You show up after months with a bruised ego and a black eye, and now you’re worried I’ve set you up?”
He laughs, edges of the sound fraying as he leans back, surveys me like some ancient, unsolvable polygon. “That’s exactly what it feels like. I’ve seen who you roll with now.”
I shrug. “Not much choice. These people, this place, it’s fucking lethal.”
“Yeah, well…” He trails off, twirling the empty glass in his hand. “That’s not why I’m here.”
I wait him out. The liar’s always the first to fill the silence. Liam almost bursts into the empty space I leave open.
“I need your help,” he finally mutters, and all the bravado leaks out of his shoulders, leaving a hunched and defeated shell.
A laugh bursts out of me. “You show up out of nowhere and what, expect flowers? A parade?”
He shakes his head, jaw clenching, and when he looks at me again, it’s with that wounded puppy expression I once fell for, back when I thought broken things made good pets.
“It’s serious, Mullen. I got in deep with some people.
Real deep. And now I need out. You’re the only one I know who can handle it. ”
There it is. The pitch. There’s always a pitch from boys like Liam. “It’s Gannon now,” I say, simply to make a point. Mullen is dead. I killed and buried her the second I picked up the Gannon name.
His gaze flickers. “Yeah, Gannon.”
“How did you find me, Liam?”
He avoids my gaze.
“How did you find me?” I ask again. “Did you know?”
“Know what?”
“Who I was?”
“What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Something like that. Not many people know who I was, and who I am now. How did you?”
I can see the second he makes a decision.
The second he decides to drop the pretence and I brace myself.
He smiles, but this time it’s less the cheeky chap and more the kind that chills my blood.
He sits back, his confidence soaring into the stratosphere.
“An unknown girl picking up the Gannon name and running with it? Yeah, I know, Sorcha. Everyone who is anyone knows.”
“And you are anyone?”
He lifts the corner of his mouth a bit more, but doesn’t answer me.
“Who are you really?”
“Liam Ahearne.”
The name drop is like a bomb going off.
I rear back, feeling sick.
He smirks. “I see that means something to you.”
“You’re bullshitting,” I spit, but it’s to stall. My brain hasn’t quite caught up with the shit that just hit the fan.
But it’s true. Ahearne isn’t just a criminal surname, it’s a fucking warning.
Old blood. Older brutality. I let a laugh slide out, partly because I can’t process any other emotion, partly because a single wrong move now is the difference between walking out alive and going out in a black bag.
“Congrats,” I say, raising my glass like I’m toasting the dead.
“You managed to string me along for months without me ever catching on.”
“I had to,” he says, and there’s a softness on his face, a realness to it I’ve never seen before.
“I’ve known who you are from the very beginning.
Our dads go way back.” He leans forward, voice dropping to a whisper.
“They’re gunning for you, Gannon. They want you out of the way because you’re the only thing standing between them and picking this city clean. ”
He says it like a prophecy. Like he believes it.
My mind races. If what he says is true, he was sent to me from the start.
He embedded himself in my life like a fucking parasite, then wormed his way into my bed, my world.
The sense of betrayal is almost a comfort, like returning to familiar ground.
“Why are you telling me this? To get me to sidestep like a good girl, or to give me a heads up so I know whose name will be on my kill docket?”
He shakes his head, a genuine laughter bubbling up. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“You’re a fucking arsehole,” I growl. “I should’ve let Cillian smash you into pulp.”
“Ah, yes, Sullivan. Interesting company you’re keeping, Sorcha. The Cerberus Order. Three heads, three heirs, three men who rule St. Bart’s. Their families are old, you chose well.”
“What do you want, Liam?” I snap, standing up. “Why do you want me out of the way?”
“Who said we want you out of the way?” he asks with a frown that I’m not sure if is legit or part of this fake persona I fell for like a fucking chump.
“You called the Garda on me!”
“That wasn’t to get you behind bars, Sorcha. That was to break you free.”
“Except Cian got to me first.”
He scowls. “The big brother act wasn’t expected. Since when are you part of his crew?”
“I’m not,” I grit out.
He leans forward, elbows on knees, that predator smirk back in place.
“Doesn’t matter. What matters is, you’re all anyone in the old world is talking about.
Everyone is waiting and watching to see who claims you, or if you go feral and take your own bite of the city.
Girls in this life are rare, Sorcha. Gannon girls?
They’re fucking non-existent. Until now.
” Something flickers there, a stray note of respect, or maybe just hunger.
“You could call it a turf war, but it’s bigger.
Alliances are shifting, and whatever happens next, it’s going to be bloody. ”
“So you’re here as what? A herald? Or a hitman?”
He shakes his head with a dry little laugh. “I’m not here to kill you, Mullen. If I were, you’d be dead by now, and so would your pet pit bulls. I just want to make sure you don’t do something stupid and get yourself wiped out by someone who is not part of this.”
“O’Shea?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.
“You’re my babysitter?”
“Let’s go with bodyguard,” he says. “Someone has to keep you out of trouble.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s not going to be you. Get out. I’m not interested.”
Time is ticking away. Another hour will have passed soon, and when I don’t check in, the Cerberus Order will be here to flatten Liam, unless he flattens me first.
He stands, looming over me with a lazy grace, all the old smarm burned away and replaced with something a lot more lethal. “You sure you want to do this, Gannon? Go all-in on the Cerberus Order? Because once you’re theirs, you’re never getting out. You know that, yeah?”
I grin at him, mean and wild. “I’m already theirs,” I say, and I watch his face for the tell: the flick of irritation, the narrowing of his eyes.
He shrugs. “Didn’t expect anything less. You were always too stubborn for your own good.”
A heartbeat of calm, then the storm hits. He’s across the room in a flash, his hand gripping my face. His lips crash onto mine, bruising and desperate.
My hands shoot up to shove him hard on his chest. “Don’t,” I rasp as he stumbles back. “I’m not yours and I never will be. Go back to Daddy and tell him this Gannon isn’t for sale.”
He gives me that sinister smile again, his hand flashing up to clamp around my throat. “You sure about that?”
A slice of fear shoots through me, but I push it aside.
He won’t hurt me. He can’t. I’m the fucking prize in a war I didn’t really know was being fought.
I should’ve, though. I should’ve known that when I picked up the mantle that every family in Ireland would be coming for me.
I have no affiliation. No patch. Just a name that reverberates through the criminal underworld as a legacy built on blood and fear.
And I have a womb.
A way to make half Gannon-half whatever babies that will form a super family on name alone.
I curse myself for being so stupid. But it’s too late for regrets.
This is my reality now, and what I do next will shape how the next few seconds, few hours, few days will go.
I hold Liam’s stare, feeling the cold press of his palm against my throat.
It’s not tight—yet—but the warning is written in every line of his body.
There’s a look in his eyes I don’t recognise, something dark and desperate, like he’s daring me to flinch.
I reach around to grip the hilt of Bessie and slam the butt end up into his ribs.
The shock of pain cracks through his grip, and I wriggle out, swinging Bessie up under his chin.
The cold metal kisses him just under the jawline.
“Don’t push me, Ahearne. You want to play at being Daddy’s little monster, try me.
I’ll carve out your tongue and keep it as a pet. ”
His hand drops from my throat with a kind of amused wonder, like he’s rediscovering me all over again. “That’s the Sorcha I remember,” he laughs cruelly.
“You never knew me, Liam. Not really. So get the fuck out of my flat and tell your dad to screw himself. I’m nobody’s bitch, least of all the Ahearne’s.”
“No, just the little fucktoy of the Cerberus Order,” he replies. “They don’t appreciate artistry like yours.”
The thud of the door being kicked open makes me smile. “No? One of them is about to cut your dick off and pickle it in a mason jar for me without me even having to ask.”
His eyes flash as my guys swoop in.
Liam is as fast as I remember. He is over at the other side of the flat by the window in a flash, busting through it, shattering the ancient, grimy glass everywhere as he launches through.
I lunge towards the opening to see him rolling, getting to his feet in a fluid motion, then running off, turning around to mock-salute me.
“You prick!” I hiss as Cillian looms over me from behind, and Ciar throws himself out of the window in hot pursuit of Liam.