3. Cormac
CHAPTER 3
CORMAC
COLLATERAL & CONFLICT
S he stands across the study, wild and untamed. Ferral with fear, and anger. Aoife Gallagher—the crown jewel of my enemy's empire—now in my house, under my control. The taste of victory fills my mouth.
"Sit down," I command, motioning to the leather chair.
"I prefer to stand." Her chin lifts in defiance.
I circle her, savoring each moment. The whispers about Patrick Gallagher's daughter failed to capture her essence. Her beauty carries an edge—sharp cheekbones, full lips pressed into a hard line, hatred radiating from her. Not some fragile socialite, but a woman forged in the same hell-fire as me.
"As you wish." I return to my desk, pouring two measures of Redbreast. "Drink?"
"Go fuck yourself."
A laugh escapes me. "Such vulgarity from the Gallagher heiress. What would Daddy say? Did you kiss your dead mommy with that mouth?"
Her nostrils flare. Every reaction reveals another layer—fierce, unbroken despite the terror she fights to conceal. The purple mark forming on her jaw sends rage through my veins. My orders were explicit: deliver her untouched.
"Your accommodations aren't ready," I tell her, taking a sip. "So, we have time to discuss our arrangement."
"There's nothing to discuss." Her voice remains steady. "You kidnapped me to provoke my father. How original. Hardly an arrangement, just predictable thug behavior."
I lean back, taking her in. The gold pendant at her throat catches firelight—a Celtic knot, ancient and intricate. She touches it unconsciously, revealing her attachment to it.
"Your brother destroyed property worth a quarter million," I say. "Debts must be paid."
"And I'm the payment?" She laughs bitterly. "Typical man, targeting a woman instead of facing Liam directly. Cowardly move."
Her taunt misses its mark. My reputation stands on direct confrontation, unlike her brother who cowers behind minions and schemes.
"You're insurance," I correct her. "A reminder that the Donovan’s can reach anyone, anytime. Even Patrick Gallagher's precious daughter."
I rise from my chair and approach. She tenses but remains motionless—admirable, if foolish. Her scent hits me—vanilla and whiskey with an undercurrent of fear. My body responds with unexpected hunger. Power and desire tangling together in my blood.
"My father will hunt you down," she whispers. "He'll butcher everyone you care about."
"Looking forward to it." I take her cuffed wrists in my hand. The metal has left angry marks on her skin. Another failure from my men.
I produce a key, unlocking the restraints. "These won't be necessary inside. My security won't let you leave without permission."
She rubs her wrists, never breaking eye contact. Then, unexpectedly, her attention drops to my hands. Something shifts in her demeanor—a flicker beyond hatred.
"Your knuckles," she says quietly.
I examine them. Yesterday's fight left fresh bruises alongside older scars. White lines cross my skin in patterns no boxing match could create. They tell stories of bottles broken against bone, signet rings splitting flesh, cigarettes extinguished on tender skin. My father's lessons, permanently carved into me.
When she looks up, understanding dawns. For an instant, the antagonism between us transforms into an understanding far more complex.
I pull back. "Occupational hazard."
"Those aren't from fighting," she says, perception cutting too deep. "Not all of them."
"Enough." I turn away, discomforted by her insight. "Time to go."
I press the intercom. "Bring the car around."
While waiting, Aoife wanders toward the bookshelf, inspecting titles with false nonchalance. She's searching for weapons, exits, anything to gain advantage. Her resourcefulness ignites a reluctant admiration in me.
"Fan of Russian literature?" she asks, trailing her hand along the spine of Crime and Punishment .
"Dostoevsky understood moral ambiguity better than most."
Her mouth quirks. "A philosophical gangster. How unexpected."
"We all contain multitudes, Miss Gallagher." I move closer, forcing her retreat. "You'll discover that during your stay. I am not just a fighter—I have other talents."
A knock interrupts us. Declan enters, keys in hand. "Car's ready."
"Escort Miss Gallagher downstairs." I retrieve my coat. "I'll join you momentarily."
After they leave, I open my desk drawer, removing her file. Twenty-six years old. Master's degree in Celtic Studies from Trinity College. Fluent in Gaelic and French. Relationships with several diplomats' sons, none lasting longer than three months. Having met her, I now know why. Allergic to penicillin. Blood type A negative.
I know facts, but the woman in my study contains contradictions no dossier has captured—vulnerability beneath bravado, perception behind beauty. Something unexpected stirs in me—a hunger not just to possess her body, but to unravel her mind. Unravel her completely.
Downstairs, Declan waits by the Bentley, Aoife already inside.
"Any trouble?" I ask.
"Nothing major. She tried to bribe Jenkins with her watch." Declan smirks. "Worth more than his yearly salary, but he isn’t an idiot, he declined."
"Loyalty matters more than money." I clap his shoulder. "You drive. I'll sit with our guest."
Aoife shrinks against the door as I slide in beside her. In this confined space, and her presence intoxicates. The car pulls away from the estate, passing through security gates.
"Where are you taking me?" she asks, breaking the silence.
"Somewhere secure."
"A dungeon? Warehouse? Shallow grave?" Her sarcasm masks genuine fear.
I turn toward her. "A residence befitting your status. I'm not a barbarian, Aoife. And shallow graves get you caught, six feet or more is the only way to bury a body."
Her name feels intimate on my tongue. She notices, jaw tightening.
"Not a barbarian, just a kidnapper, murderer, and extortionist," she retorts.
"Criminal, yes." I shrug. "But one with standards."
Dublin passes outside our windows—pubs spilling patrons onto cobblestone streets, bridges spanning the Liffey, history embedded in every corner. My city. My territory. Aoife tracks it all, mapping our routes, memorizing turns.
"Your father's men will tear the city apart," I tell her. "Wasting time and resources while we negotiate."
"He doesn't negotiate with terrorists."
"Every man negotiates when something precious is at stake."
My hand lands on her thigh, feeling her heat through denim. She flinches but doesn't pull away—a careful calculation that fighting me in a moving vehicle offers poor odds.
"Remove your hand or lose it," she threatens, voice low.
I squeeze instead, moving higher. "You're not in a position to make demands."
The car turns toward the river, approaching Ha'penny Bridge. We pull into an underground garage beneath a restored Georgian building.
"Welcome to your new home," I say as we stop. "Temporary accommodations until our business is wrapped up."
Security meets us, four men stationed strategically. Overkill perhaps, but the Gallaghers aren't known for subtlety. If they do find her, they’ll come at us full force.
The elevator ascends to the penthouse level. Declan unlocks the door, stepping aside for us to enter.
Aoife pauses on the threshold, taking in the space. Floor-to-ceiling bulletproof windows showcase Dublin's skyline, Ha'penny Bridge visible below. Expensive furnishings, artwork, luxury throughout.
"Your gilded cage," I announce. "Guards outside 24/7. Windows bulletproof and sealed. No phone, no internet, no contact with the outside world." I pause. “It’s soundproof, so don’t yell like baby.”
She walks to the window, pressing her palm against glass. "So, I'm your prisoner indefinitely?"
"Until your father meets my demands."
She turns, assessing me. "And if he refuses?"
I cross to her, invading her space deliberately. Her breathing quickens—fear mixed with something she'd deny if I asked her.
"Then our arrangement becomes permanent." My voice drops lower. "But don't worry. I'll ensure you're well cared for."
My fingers trace her collarbone, a possessive gesture meant to unsettle. Her skin burns against mine.
"Don't touch me," she hisses, jerking away.
I grab her wrist, yanking her against me. Our bodies press together, her softness against my hardness. "You'll need to adjust that attitude." I capture her chin, forcing her to meet me. "Your comfort depends entirely on your cooperation."
A pulse flutters at her throat. Hatred battles attraction as I hold her. The tension shifts, electric and dangerous. My cock hardens against her hip, and her sharp intake of breath tells me she feels it.
"I'll never cooperate with you," she promises.
"We'll see." I release her, noticing the flush spreading across her skin. "You'll find clothing in the bedroom. Dinner arrives at eight. Any dietary restrictions, tell Declan."
"I want to speak to my father," she demands. "Prove I'm alive."
"All in good time." I move toward the door. "Rest. Tomorrow, we can discuss your terms."
"Cormac." My name from her lips stops me. "This war between our families... people will die."
I turn back. "People always die in war, Aoife. The question is which people die first?"
Her fingers twist the Celtic pendant nervously. "And if I'm one of them?"
The question hangs between us, honest vulnerability piercing her armor. For a moment, I picture her lifeless—copper hair spread across blood-stained concrete, vacant and cold. The image disturbs me more than it should.
"That outcome benefits neither of us," I reply. "So, you’d best ensure your father understands what's at stake."
I step closer again, unable to resist. Her back hits the window as I cage her with my arms. "I can think of much better uses for you than a corpse."
Fear and disgust flash across her face, but underneath lurks something else—a flicker of forbidden interest her body can't hide. I lean in, my lips brushing her ear.
"Your father wronged me, Aoife. And I take payment in full." My hand slides to her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my palm. "Every. Single. Debt."
I bite her earlobe, hard enough to make her gasp. The sound goes straight to my groin. For a heartbeat, I consider taking her right there against the window, showing all of Dublin who owns her now.
Instead, I step back, savoring the conflict in her posture—hatred warring with unwanted arousal.
"Sleep well. Tomorrow we can begin your education."
I exit before she can respond, instructing the guards as the door locks behind me. Declan waits by the elevator.
"Four-hour rotations," I tell him. "No one enters except medical personnel if necessary. Food delivered on schedule. No communication devices, no exceptions."
"Understood." He hesitates. "The Gallaghers will retaliate. Hard."
"I'm counting on it." The elevator doors close, sealing us in. "Their desperation will make negotiations simpler."
Declan studies me. "There's another way to handle this. Less messy."
I know what he suggests. A bullet solves many problems. But Aoife Gallagher dead creates more issues than it resolves.
"She's worth more alive," I say. "For now."
As we descend, her image lingers—defiant yet vulnerable, hatred masking unexpected depth. The pendant against her throat. The flash of understanding when she saw my scars.
I flex my damaged hands, feeling phantom pain where my father's ring split skin years ago. Aoife saw what few ever notice. The weakness beneath my armor.
That makes her dangerous.
For now she belongs to me. And I'll take pleasure breaking her, piece by piece, until she begs for mercy—or perhaps for something else entirely.