5. Cormac
CHAPTER 5
CORMAC
LOYALTY'S CHAINS
I slam the door of my private quarters, whiskey in hand, the taste of Aoife Gallagher still on my tongue. Her fire burns through my veins hours after I left her in that penthouse. The way she fought me. The way she melted.
Fuck .
This wasn't part of the plan. Taking her was business—leverage against Patrick, punishment for Liam's theft. Not... this. Not the hunger clawing at my insides.
I drain the glass, welcoming the burn. The clock reads 3:47 AM. Sleep seems impossible with her phantom presence haunting me. The softness of her skin. The sound she made when my teeth grazed her neck. The way her body betrayed her hatred.
"Get it together," I mutter, pouring another drink.
My phone buzzes. Declan.
All quiet at the penthouse. She tried the balcony door twice more. Security holding.
Smart girl. Persistent. I admire her refusal to surrender, even as it complicates matters.
I type:
Double the night guard. She's resourceful.
The Bentley brought me back to Donovan Manor rather than my Dublin apartment. Distance from Aoife seemed necessary after the alley incident. Another minute pressed against her, and I might have taken her against that brick wall. The thought sends blood rushing south again.
I unbutton my shirt, tossing it aside. The mirror catches my attention—scars crisscrossing my torso—souvenirs from my father's lessons in discipline. Twenty years of training to become what the Donovan name demands: ruthless, cold, untouchable.
Weakness gets you killed in this business.
And Aoife Gallagher is rapidly becoming a weakness.
I stretch across my bed, focusing on nothing. Tomorrow, Patrick Gallagher receives my demands: territory along the northern docks, compensation for the stolen shipment, and public acknowledgment of Donovan supremacy over the Temple Bar district.
Fair exchange for his daughter's safe return.
If he refuses...
My mind wanders to alternatives. Keeping Aoife indefinitely. Making her mine in every way. Breaking down that defiance until she begs for my touch.
My cock hardens at the thought. I press my palm against it, remembering how she felt against me. So responsive despite her hatred. So perfectly matched to my darkness.
Sleep claims me between one thought and the next, whiskey and desire pulling me under.
* * *
The study door opens without warning. I straighten immediately, fifteen years old and already conditioned to fear the sound of those footsteps.
"You embarrassed me tonight." My father's voice carries no emotion—the calm before violence. He locks the door behind him.
"I didn't mean to, sir." My words emerge steady despite the cold dread spreading through me.
The charity gala. The ambassador's daughter. A moment of kindness mistaken for vulnerability.
"A Donovan doesn't comfort crying girls." He removes his signet ring, placing it deliberately on the desk. Bad sign. "A Donovan shows no compassion. Compassion is vulnerability."
"She was hurt ? —"
The first blow catches me across the cheek. I don't fall. Falling makes it worse.
"Hurt?" He laughs, the sound empty of mirth. "You think that matters? That girl's father works for the State Department. Information is power, not comfort. You could have leveraged her distress, extracted something useful."
"She's fourteen."
Another blow. Blood fills my mouth.
"Age is irrelevant. Everyone is useful or useless. Nothing between." He circles me like a shark. "Your mother ruined you with her softness. I need to burn it out of you."
The beating begins in earnest then. Methodical. Educational. Each blow accompanied by lessons in power and control. My arms take the brunt of his rage.
"Sentiment is a disease." Crack goes my rib. "Empathy is a liability." Another blow lands across my kidneys. "The moment you care about anyone but family, you create leverage against yourself."
I remain standing as long as possible. It's a matter of pride now.
"Even family becomes liability when they demonstrate vulnerability." He pulls me up by my hair after I finally collapse. "Remember this pain, Cormac. It's nothing compared to what our enemies will do if they sense softness in you."
The signet ring returns to his finger, metal catching light before it connects with my flesh...
* * *
I jolt awake, sheets soaked with sweat. My pulse hammers as present reality comes back with a bite. Manor. Bedroom. Safety.
The nightmare leaves me shaking, echoes of old pain ghosting across my skin. I haven't dreamt of that particular lesson in years. Why now?
Aoife.
Her accusation. "Those aren't from fighting. Not all of them." She saw through me in seconds, recognized the systematic nature of my scars. No one else ever noticed—or dared mention it.
The clock shows 6:19 AM. No point trying to sleep. I shower, letting scalding water wash away the nightmare's residue. Under the spray, my mind returns to Aoife—her defiance when I caught her, the softness of her lips contradicting the hardness of her words. The way she yielded momentarily before fighting herself.
She awakens something dangerous in me. Something my father spent years trying to destroy.
By seven, I'm dressed and in my office. Connor arrives with coffee and the morning briefing.
"The Gallagher operation at the docks has gone quiet," he reports. "No movement since we took the girl."
I nod, scanning the intelligence reports. "And our shipment coming in tomorrow?"
"Route changed as ordered. New security measures in place."
"Good." I tap my pen against the desk. "Have you identified how they knew about the pickup location? It was compartmentalized information."
Connor shifts uncomfortably. "Still working on that, boss."
My instincts scream patterns. The last three Gallagher hits against our operations targeted locations known to only a handful of people. The shipment Liam Gallagher stole—the one that justified taking Aoife—had been rerouted last minute. Few knew the change.
Someone's talking. We have a rat, and I loathe rodents.
"I want surveillance on Liam Gallagher," I say. "Full coverage. Phone taps, locations, associates."
"We're already watching the Gallaghers?—"
"Not like this." I slide a file across the desk. "I want to know who he meets with, especially anyone connected to our operation. Focus on Sean Murphy and David Karney."
Connor raises an eyebrow. "You suspect one of them?"
"I suspect everyone." The pen snaps between my fingers. "Three shipments hit in exactly the right place at exactly the right time isn't coincidence."
"Karney's been with us fifteen years. Murphy's your second cousin."
"Family ties haven't stopped betrayals before." The memory of my father's lessons burns fresh after the nightmare. "Set it up. Discreetly."
"And the girl? Patrick gets our demands today."
My jaw tightens at the mention of Aoife. "No one enters the penthouse without my authorization. Actually no one enters, no one but me."
"And if Patrick refuses our terms?"
"He won't." I stand, moving toward the window. "But if he doesn’t, I want options."
After Connor leaves, I take out my phone. The security feed from Aoife's penthouse shows her pacing, still wearing the clothes from her escape attempt. She hasn't slept either.
My cock stiffens immediately at the sight of her. The kiss in the alley wasn't enough. It merely stoked a fire that now threatens to consume me.
Taking her as collateral was business. Wanting her is dangerous.
I pocket the phone and grab my coat. The message to Patrick Gallagher leaves in an hour—demands accompanied by proof of life. A photograph of Aoife holding today's newspaper, unharmed but clearly in my possession.
Before that, I need to see her again. Test this hunger. Control it before it controls me.
The drive into Dublin gives me time to fortify my resolve. This attraction is merely physical—a challenge to be conquered. Once Patrick meets my demands, she returns to her family. Business concluded. Problem solved.
Unless he refuses.
The thought brings unexpected satisfaction. More time with Aoife. More opportunities to break through that defiance. To claim what responded so sweetly to my touch in that alley.
The penthouse security team stands at attention as I arrive. "Any incidents?"
"None, sir. She's been quiet since you left."
I dismiss them to the hallway and unlock the door. Inside, Aoife stands by the window, copper hair catching morning light. She turns at the sound of my entrance, chin lifting in that now-familiar gesture of defiance.
A purple mark darkens her neck where my mouth claimed her hours ago. The sight sends possessive satisfaction through me, along with a fresh surge of lust.
"Come to gloat about my failed escape?" she asks, voice steady despite the shadows underneath her lashes.
"Come to ensure you're prepared for your photo shoot." I toss a newspaper onto the coffee table. "Your father needs proof you're alive and well."
She makes no move toward it. "And if I refuse to cooperate?"
I close the distance between us, backing her against the window. "Then the photo shows you considerably less comfortable."
Her pulse jumps at her throat. "You wouldn't damage your precious collateral."
"Try me." I trail my fingers along the mark on her neck. "Though it seems I already have."
Color floods her cheeks. Anger or arousal—perhaps both. "That meant nothing."
"Your body disagreed." I lean closer, my lips nearly brushing her ear. "You responded to me, Aoife. Like you were made for my touch."
She shoves against my chest. "I'd rather die than let you touch me again."
"Liar." I capture her wrists, pinning them at her sides. "Your hatred excites you. The danger. The forbidden fruit. It makes you hot—and wet."
"You're delusional."
"Am I?" I press my thigh between her legs, feeling her heat even through denim. "Should I check how wet you are right now?"
Her breath catches. For a moment, pure want flashes across her features—quickly masked by defiance.
"My father will destroy you for this," she whispers.
"He's welcome to try." I release her wrists but don’t move away. "Many have. I'm still standing."
She doesn't move. The tension between us pulses, alive and dangerous. My cock throbs, aching to take her against this window, to make her scream my name while the whole city watches.
I imagine bending her over the kitchen counter, ripping those jeans down her thighs, spreading her legs and driving into her until she shatters. Taking what her body offers even as her mind resists.
With effort, I rein in the savage impulse.
"The photographer arrives in twenty minutes," I say, stepping back. "Clean up. Change if you wish. Clothes in the bedroom should fit."
"And if I refuse that too?"
I shrug. "Then you appear on film exactly as you are—wearing the same clothes from your failed escape, marked by me. Your father will draw his own conclusions about your treatment here."
Her fingers touch the bruise on her neck unconsciously. "You're a monster."
"Perhaps." I move toward the door. "But I'm the monster you wanted to fuck last night. Remember that."
Her defiance, her fire—they call to something primal in me. Something I've spent a lifetime suppressing.
My father was right about one thing: vulnerability gets you killed in this business.
But as I instruct the security team about the photographer, desire courses through me like molten steel. The throbbing between my legs demands satisfaction. Demands her.
Perhaps the real liability isn't my attraction to Aoife Gallagher, but my resistance to it. Fighting nature never ends well.
Liam Gallagher's activities will soon reveal if my suspicions about a traitor are correct. And if they are, the leverage against Patrick doubles. The price for his daughter's return becomes much, much higher.
Perhaps high enough that she stays mine permanently .
The thought sends a dark thrill through me. I could keep her. Break her. Rebuild her as mine.
And if Patrick refuses my terms? Well, that just gives me more time to claim his daughter in every way possible. To fuck the Gallagher defiance out of her until she begs for my collar around her throat. Until she forgets she was ever anyone's but mine.