9. Cormac
CHAPTER 9
CORMAC
LEGACY'S COST
K ilmainham Gaol holds the ghosts of Irish revolutionaries—men who died for ideals greater than themselves. Its stone corridors echo with two centuries of suffering, the perfect backdrop for Donovan family business. We've held our quarterly gathering here for generations, renting the historic prison after hours through connections in the Heritage Council.
Tonight, walking these cold corridors with Aoife beside me feels like its own revolution.
"You're sure about this?" she asks, voice low as we pause before entering the East Wing where my family awaits. Three days since the cathedral incident, since claiming her on my dining table, against my shower wall, across my bed. Three days of planning what comes next.
"Having second thoughts, princess?" I adjust the cuffs of my tailored suit, armor for battle.
"Wondering if you've lost your mind," she counters. "Bringing me here is tantamount to declaring war on my family. Also, probably treason to yours."
"That war started long before you." I brush a strand of copper hair from her shoulder, savoring the slight shiver my touch evokes. "This is about family, or war."
She wears a dress of emerald silk that clings to every curve I've memorized with my hands and mouth. Not coincidentally, the color matches the Donovan family crest. A deliberate choice to send a message while ensuring she stands out among the black-clad wives and daughters of my associates.
"Your uncle will challenge you," she warns.
"Declan warned you about Seamus?"
"Connor did. While you showered this morning." A smirk plays across her lips. "He worries about you."
The loyalty of my men extends further than I realized if they're briefing my captive-turned-lover about family politics . Interesting .
"Seamus believes himself the rightful heir to my father's empire," I explain. "He's been waiting twenty years for me to fail."
"And you're giving him ammunition by bringing a Gallagher to Donovan holy ground."
"I'm strengthening my position by demonstrating control over an invaluable asset."
Her eyebrow arches. "Is that what I am? An asset?"
Three days ago, I whispered that she was a wildfire I'd let consume me. The admission still burns between us, acknowledged by neither in daylight hours.
"Tonight, yes," I answer, trailing my fingers along her collarbone. "Among my family, you must be nothing more and nothing less than what I claim you to be."
"Your prisoner? Your whore?"
I grip her chin, perhaps harder than necessary. "My conquest. Remember that."
Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb—arousal, not fear. This dangerous dance between us quickens her blood as much as mine.
"And what am I when we're alone, Cormac?" she whispers.
The question hangs between us, unanswerable in this moment. Instead, I press my lips to hers, claiming her mouth with bruising force. She responds instantly, matching my intensity, nails digging into my forearm.
I break away before the kiss consumes us both. "Ready?"
Her chin lifts in that defiant gesture I've come to crave. "Born ready, Donovan."
The massive iron-bound door groans as I push it open. Conversation dies as we step into the cavernous East Wing. Thirty-plus members of the Donovan extended family, and our closest associates turn as one, shock rippling through the gathering at the sight of Aoife Gallagher on my arm.
My uncle Seamus occupies space near the makeshift bar, whiskey forgotten in his hand. At sixty-two, he remains imposingly broad, silver hair swept back from a face marked by the same cruelty that defined my father. His son Ronan hovers nearby, perpetually in his shadow.
"Apologies for our tardiness," I announce, guiding Aoife forward. "Dublin traffic was unforgiving."
Declan materializes at my side, stance relaxed but alert. "Boss."
"All arranged?"
He nods slightly. "Extra security as requested. Exit routes clear."
Seamus approaches with artificial joviality. "Nephew! A surprise to see you accompanied tonight. And by such... a distinctive guest."
"Uncle." I accept his handshake, noting the excessive pressure—a childish dominance play. "You recognize Miss Gallagher, I'm sure."
"Patrick's daughter." He shifts toward Aoife, assessing her with cold calculation. "Last I heard, she was an insurance policy against Gallagher aggression. Not a dinner date."
"Circumstances evolve," I reply smoothly. "Miss Gallagher has proven her value extends beyond mere leverage."
Whispers ripple through the gathering. Aoife remains perfectly composed, her arm linked through mine in a convincing display of willing companionship rather than forced attendance.
"A word in private, nephew?" Seamus suggests, voice hardening despite his smile.
"After dinner," I counter. "Our guests await."
The long tables arranged in the central hall bear the weight of an extravagant meal. I guide Aoife to the head table, seating her at my right—the position of highest honor. Another calculated insult to my uncle, who typically occupies that space.
He takes a seat farther down, fury simmering beneath his congenial facade. Throughout the first course, Aoife carries conversation with surprising grace, deflecting personal questions while charming the wives of key associates.
"Your Italian is impressive," remarks Giovanni Russo, our connection to the Sicilian families. "Where did you study?"
"Florence, for a summer," Aoife replies in perfect Italian. "Though my accent is regrettably Roman."
Russo laughs delightedly, launching into a story about regional rivalries that captivates the table. I place my hand on her thigh beneath the tablecloth, squeezing appreciatively.
She leans close, lips brushing my ear. "Your uncle hasn't moved in five minutes. I fear he might spontaneously combust."
"Let him burn," I murmur, sliding my hand higher, feeling her muscles tense beneath silk. "You're exceeding expectations."
"Don't sound so surprised." Her hand covers mine, stilling its ascent. "I was raised in this world, same as you. I know how to play the part, and read the room."
The reminder sends an unexpected pang through me. For days I've lost myself in her body, momentarily forgetting the generations of blood between our families. The sins of fathers visited upon children.
Seamus rises after the main course, tapping his glass for attention. Protocol dictates I speak first at these gatherings, another deliberate challenge.
"Friends, family," he begins, voice carrying through the vaulted space. "Before we proceed to business matters, I'd like to address the elephant in the room."
Silence falls. Beside me, Aoife straightens imperceptibly.
"The Donovan family has maintained power in Dublin through strength, yes, but also through consistency of purpose." Seamus gestures expansively. "We've survived because our enemies understand our code. Cross us, pay the price. Loyalty above all."
Murmurs of agreement ripple through the gathering.
"Yet tonight, we find ourselves in unprecedented territory." He directs his words toward Aoife. "A Gallagher sits at our table. Not in chains, but in silk. Not as penalty, but as guest."
"Your point, Uncle?" I interject, voice dangerously soft.
"My point, nephew, is that mixed messages create vulnerability." He sets down his glass. "The Gallaghers stole our shipment. Killed our men. And now their princess dines at your right hand? What message does this send?"
I make to stand, but Aoife's hand on my arm stops me. To my surprise, she rises instead, commanding attention with regal posture.
"Mr. Donovan," she addresses Seamus directly, "your concern for family messaging is admirable. Perhaps I might offer perspective that clarifies rather than confuses?"
Seamus pauses, wrong-footed by her intervention. "By all means, Miss Gallagher. Enlighten us."
"My presence here serves multiple purposes," she begins, voice carrying confidently. "First, it demonstrates the complete dominance your nephew holds over the situation. I am here because he wills it, neither more nor less."
Approving nods from several associates.
"Second, it signals evolution rather than capitulation." She gestures to the historic prison around us. "These walls once held revolutionaries fighting against empire. Men who understood that sometimes, to preserve what matters, things must change while principles remain constant."
She lifts her glass. "The Donovan principles—strength, loyalty, consequence—remain unchanged. What's changed is the recognition that old wars sometimes require new weapons."
"Pretty words from a hostage," Seamus counters. "But actions speak louder. My nephew keeps you in luxury rather than leverage. Parades you at family functions rather than using you to crush your father."
"And you believe that demonstrates weakness?" Aoife laughs, the sound echoing off stone walls. "Mr. Donovan, forgive my directness, but that perspective betrays an outdated understanding of power. You’re old, and old me, living by old rules, go extinct."
Tension crackles through the room. No one speaks to Seamus Donovan this way, especially not an enemy's daughter.
"Your nephew didn't bring me here for your approval," she continues. "He brought me to show that he controls every aspect of this situation—including me."
Her hand drops to my shoulder, a possessive gesture that sends heat through my veins.
"The true measure of power isn't how severely you punish enemies, but how thoroughly you convert them to your purpose." Her smile could cut glass. "Ask yourself, which takes greater mastery? Keeping me locked away? Or having me willingly stand beside Dublin's most feared man, serving his interests above my family's? Keep your enemies close?"
Silence falls over the gathering. Even Seamus seems momentarily stunned by her audacity and the undeniable logic of her argument.
I rise then, sliding my arm around her waist. "Well articulated, as always." Turning to the assembly, I add, "My uncle raises valid concerns about messages. Let me clarify mine: The Donovan’s adapt without compromising. We evolve without weakening. And we recognize valuable assets regardless of their origin."
My fingers tighten possessively on her hip. "Miss Gallagher serves my purpose. Anyone questioning that arrangement questions my judgment. Does anyone here wish to do that?"
The challenge hangs in the air. One by one, heads shake. Even Seamus recognizes when he has lost.
"No disrespect intended, nephew," he concedes grudgingly. "Family concerns only."
"Your concern is noted." I raise my glass. "To family—and its growth through new alliances."
The toast resonates through the hall, glasses raised. Beneath the surface cordiality, new lines have been drawn. My authority publicly challenged and publicly reaffirmed, with Aoife as both the catalyst and resolution.
The gathering transitions to business discussions after dinner. I circulate with Aoife, noting how Giovanni Russo and several other key allies seek her out for conversation. Her knowledge of international markets and shipping regulations—courtesy of her family connections—impresses them.
"Your companion is remarkable," Russo tells me privately. "A valuable acquisition indeed."
"More than you know," I reply, sensing her magnetic presence across the room.
My uncle corners her near a display of prison artifacts. His body language radiates aggression despite his plastered smile. Instinct propels me forward, but Declan's hand on my arm stops me.
"Wait," he murmurs. "Let her handle it."
Sure enough, within minutes, my uncle's posture shifts from intimidating to defensive. Aoife speaks animatedly, gesturing to various business associates as she makes some point. By the time I reach them, Seamus appears thoroughly unsettled.
"Cormac," he acknowledges stiffly. "Your... guest was sharing fascinating insights about our Antwerp operation."
"Was she?" I slide my hand to the small of Aoife's back. "And what insights were those?"
"Merely that changing patterns in Belgian customs enforcement might create a vulnerability in your current routing," she supplies smoothly. "Nothing that Mr. Russo hadn't already noticed I’m sure."
Seamus's jaw tightens. "Apparently, Gallagher intelligence extends much further than we realized."
"Indeed." I glance between them. "I trust my uncle has been a good host?"
"Remarkably so," Aoife responds. "He was just explaining the Donovan family succession. Fascinating history."
The barb lands precisely. Seamus has lobbied for years against my leadership, arguing traditional succession should favor his branch over my father's. The fight has already cost him significant standing among our associates.
"Ancient history," he mutters. "If you'll excuse me."
As he retreats, Aoife leans against me slightly. "Your uncle suggested I might serve Donovan interests better under his... protection . Apparently, your judgment regarding Gallaghers is compromised by your father's obsession with mine."
Cold fury surges through me. "Did he now?"
"He also implied that certain associates might question your decision-making since Finn's death." Her voice remains casual, though her body tenses against mine. "Grief apparently clouds rational thought."
"Seamus always did mistake kindness for weakness," I murmur, tracking my uncle's movement toward a circle of older associates. "He won't make another attempt tonight, but this isn't finished."
"Is it ever, with family?" She accepts a champagne flute from a passing server. "Your colleagues seem divided on my being here. The younger contingent—impressed. The old guard—horrified. You are challenging tradition."
"As expected." I guide her toward a quieter alcove, once a prison cell now converted to a display area. "You handled Seamus brilliantly."
"Men like him are predictable," she says, tracing a finger along a centuries-old carving in the wall. "They mistake youth for inexperience, femininity for weakness. Thay truly believe they’re invincible, and that we all should worship them. I bet he has small wrinkle-dick."
"And what mistake am I making with you, Aoife?" I ask, boxing her against the stone wall, my body shielding her from the main gathering.
Her pulse jumps at her throat. "Assuming you're in control of this situation."
"Aren't I?" My hand finds her waist, sliding around to the small of her back. "You played your role perfectly tonight. The conquered enemy, turned willing accomplice."
"And if it wasn't a role?" she challenges, tilting her chin up. "If I've decided cooperation serves my interests better than yours?"
"Then I'd say you're finally thinking like a boss." I lower my mouth to her ear. "But I'd also wonder what game you're really playing?"
Her laugh vibrates against my chest. "Perhaps the same one as you."
The words echo her earlier speech—clever, calculated, and just dangerous enough to send heat curling through my veins. I press closer, pinning her against ancient stone.
"Do you know what I'm thinking right now?" I murmur, lips brushing her temple.
"That you'd like to bend me over that display case while your family watches?" Her hand slides between us, palm pressing against my growing hardness. "Your body betrays your thoughts, Cormac."
"Christ," I growl, capturing her wrist. "You play with fire."
"I told you once—I was born in flames." Her free hand strokes my jaw. "The question is whether you can stand the heat."
The challenge ignites something primal in me. I capture her mouth in a bruising kiss, uncaring who might witness from the main hall. She responds instantly, opening for me, her tongue battling mine for dominance.
When we break apart, her lips are swollen, cheeks flushed. "Your uncle is watching," she whispers.
"Good." I deliberately brush my thumb across her bottom lip. "Let him see exactly who holds the power here."
"And who might that be?" Her smile turns wicked. "The man who kidnapped me? Or the woman who's made him hard in front of his entire family?"
The combination of defiance and desire pushes me dangerously close to the edge of control. "We're leaving."
"Running away, Donovan?" she taunts.
"Making sure I don't take you against this wall," I counter, adjusting my suit jacket to conceal the evidence of my arousal. "Business is done for tonight."
We make our goodbyes, getting knowing glances from younger associates and disapproving frowns from elders. Seamus watches from across the hall, the distaste evident in his stillness. A problem for another day.
Outside, the night air cools heated skin. Declan waits with the car, ignoring the tension crackling between Aoife and me as we slide into the back seat.
"Home," I instruct, raising the privacy partition before turning to Aoife. "You exceeded expectations tonight."
"You expected me to fail? I don’t fail, ever." She settles against the leather seat, dress riding higher on her thighs. "Did I earn a reward?"
My hand is sliding upward beneath silk. "What did you have in mind?"
"Freedom might be nice," she suggests, though her legs part slightly beneath my touch. "A phone call to my father, perhaps?"
"Not happening." My fingers trace patterns on her inner thigh, edging toward her center. "Try again."
Her breath catches as I brush against lace panties. "Then maybe you could finish what you started in that cell."
"Here?" I press against the damp fabric, feeling her heat. "With Declan just beyond that partition?"
"Unless you don’t have the nerve." Her hand covers mine, pressing it harder against her core. "Or the skill to keep me quiet."
The challenge burns through any remaining restraint. I slide onto the floor between her knees, pushing her dress up around her waist. Her black lace panties—purposefully chosen to drive me mad all evening—present one final barrier I remove with a sharp tug.
"If you make a sound," I warn, spreading her thighs wider, "I stop. Understand?"
She nods, pupils dilated with arousal. The car's tinted windows provide privacy from the outside world, but Declan would certainly hear any noise despite the partition.
I lower my head between her thighs, inhaling her arousal before tasting her with a broad stroke of my tongue. Her hips buck involuntarily, a gasped "fuck" escaping before she clamps her hand over her mouth.
"Strike one," I murmur against her sensitive flesh. "Two more and we wait until home."
The threat spurs her compliance. She bites her knuckle as I resume my assault, circling her clit with deliberate precision before sucking the sensitive bud between my lips. Her thighs tremble on either side of my head, muscles straining with the effort to remain silent.
I slide two fingers into her slick heat, curving upward to find that spot that makes her wild. The wet velvet of her inner walls grips my fingers as I pump them in and out, establishing a rhythm that has her writhing against the leather seat. My cock throbs painfully against my trousers, desperate for relief as her scent and taste overwhelm my senses.
Her back arches off the seat, silk rustling as she writhes beneath my touch. The power of reducing her to this state—desperate, silent, completely at my mercy—fuels my own arousal to unbearable levels.
I feel the first flutters of her impending orgasm around my fingers—subtle contractions signaling her approach to the edge. I increase the pressure on her clit, flicking my tongue faster as I curl my fingers more firmly against that swollen spot inside her.
Her hand tangles in my hair, pulling almost painfully as she approaches climax. Her thigh muscles quiver with the effort to contain her reaction, her entire body coiled tight like a spring about to release.
I lift my head momentarily. "Come for me," I command. "Silently."
The permission triggers her release. She convulses around my fingers, thighs clamping around my head as waves of pleasure wash through her. Her inner walls pulse rhythmically, gripping and releasing as I continue working her through each wave. True to command, she remains nearly silent, only the slightest whimper escaping as she bites down on her own forearm.
The knowledge that my uncle, my family, my business associates—none of them know that Patrick Gallagher's daughter is coming apart at my command mere minutes after leaving their presence—sends a surge of dark satisfaction through me.
I work her through the aftershocks before sliding back onto the seat beside her. She collapses against me, body boneless with satisfaction.
"That was..." she breathes, voice still trembling.
"Just the beginning," I promise, guiding her hand to the bulge in my trousers. "Consider it an appetizer."
She squeezes me through expensive fabric, the pressure both relief and torment. "And the main course?"
"Requires more space than this backseat allows." I capture her wrist, bringing her fingers to my mouth to taste her essence upon them. "And fewer witnesses."
Her pupils dilate further at the implied promise. "How much longer until we’re home?"
"Twenty minutes." I straighten her dress, covering the evidence of our activities. "Unless you'd prefer, I tell Declan to drive around the city while I bend you over this seat?"
"Tempting." She adjusts her position, wincing slightly. "But I prefer a bed for what I have planned for you."
The tease in her words sends fresh heat coursing through me. Three days of exploring her body, and still, she surprises me with her boldness, and a hunger that matches my own.
"And what exactly do you have planned?" I ask, voice rougher than intended.
"Proving that your uncle was right about one thing." She leans closer, lips brushing my ear. "I am indeed compromising your judgment. Because tonight, Cormac Donovan, I intend to make you beg."
The declaration, so at odds with her position as my captive, should anger me. Instead, it ignites something darker, more ferral. The shifting power between us—captor and captive, enemy and lover—creates a dynamic unlike anything I've experienced.
"Ambitious," I note, sliding my arm around her shoulders. "Considering who holds the keys."
"Keys only lock doors," she counters, hand resting possessively on my thigh. "They don't control desires."
Her fingers trace higher, deliberately brushing against my erection. I catch her wrist, squeezing just hard enough to remind her who holds the physical advantage between us.
"I've never begged for anything in my life," I tell her.
"First time for everything." Her confidence borders on arrogance. "Unless you're afraid of what I might make you do."
The car turns onto the private road leading to my home. Soon, business will be set aside for pleasure—a temporary reprieve from the complications her presence cause in my world.
Tonight, proved Aoife Gallagher fits seamlessly into Donovan life when it serves her purpose. The question remains whether that purpose aligns with mine or only appears to while serving her own agenda.
As we exit the car, her hand linked with mine in a parody of normal couples, I think about the variables: Seamus's challenge, Aoife's information about Liam's betrayal, the shifting alliances among our associates.
Beneath it all runs a current of uncomfortable truth, bringing Aoife tonight wasn't purely strategic. Showcasing her served my interests, yes, but also satisfied something deeper—a primal desire to claim her publicly, to show my possession not just to my family but to myself.
She's become more than leverage, more than a convenient body in my bed. The realization should terrify me. Instead, as she leads me toward my bedroom, I follow willingly into whatever fire she's kindled.
Some men fear burning. Others, like me, have already walked through flames and emerged transformed.
Let her try to make me beg. Let her believe she holds the power. By morning, she'll remember exactly who commands this dance between us.
As she turns in the doorway, copper hair catching moonlight, my certainty wavers. For the first time in my life, victory feels secondary to the battle. Perhaps we'll both burn before this ends.