Chapter 7
The first thing I noticed when the sun set was that she was already awake, sitting on the edge of the bed with one of my shirts drowning her small frame.
It should’ve pleased me, the sight of her in my clothes, but instead it made something primal in me coil tight with frustration.
She had nothing here. Nothing of her own.
That was on me.
I moved to her side, brushing my fingers over the sharp line of her shoulder. “We can’t go tonight until I fix this.”
Her brows pulled together. “Fix what?”
“You don’t have a single thing in this house that belongs to you,” I said simply, already pulling my phone from my pocket. “And that won’t do.”
She blinked at me, her eyes hazy with disbelief, as though clothes were the last thing she cared about, as though survival alone should be enough.
It twisted something in me, the way she looked down at the oversized shirt she wore like she wasn’t entitled to anything better. Like she expected nothing.
I didn’t give her the chance to argue. My phone was already at my ear, my voice sharp, clipped, the tone that made men move fast or risk blood.
“I want deliveries within the hour. Dresses, coats, lingerie, shoes in every cut, every size until we find what fits. Jewellery. Makeup. Everything. Spare nothing.”
The servant on the other end stammered an affirmation. I hung up before they could breathe twice.
She stared at me, lips parting like she wanted to protest but didn’t know where to start. I didn’t let her. I stepped closer, crowding her, my hand brushing her jaw until her gaze snapped up to mine.
“You will not walk into my world wearing scraps that remind you of chains,” I said, low, each word carved with determination. “You will not look in the mirror and see a victim staring back. You are mine now, Sorcha. And mine does not look broken.”
Her breath hitched, a faint tremor in her hands before she curled them into fists, trying to reclaim some ground. “They’re just clothes,” she whispered.
“No,” I corrected, the edge of a growl in my chest. “They’re armour. And I’ll see you armoured in nothing less than the best. When people look at you, they’ll see strength. They’ll see what I see.”
The confusion in her eyes clashed with a flicker of something else, wariness, maybe even defiance, but under it all, a glimmer of something that looked a hell of a lot like hope.
And I swore right then I’d drown out every memory of rags and manacles until the only thing she remembered was silk against her skin and my mark on her throat.
“Come,” I said, brushing my fingers lightly down her arm, guiding her to the dining room. Food had already been set. There were roasted meats, fresh fruit, bread still warm, pitchers of juice. A spread designed to tempt someone who hadn’t had the luxury of choice in far too long.
I watched her eat, slow at first, as though suspicious it might be taken away, but then hungrier, need clawing at control. My chest tightened at the sight. No one would ever starve her again. Not while I breathed.
By the time she pushed her plate away, deliveries had begun to arrive, there were cartons and garment bags carried in by staff who moved quickly, bowing their heads in my direction.
Silks, satins, leather jackets, shoes in black and scarlet, delicate lace lingerie folded into boxes that gleamed with designer insignias.
Accessories in velvet trays, gold, diamonds, pearls.
Her eyes went wide, disbelief written all over her face. I didn’t say anything. I simply leaned back in my chair, watching her fingers trail over fabric like she wasn’t sure if it was real.
“Try them,” I told her, and when she hesitated, I added, “All of them.”
She bit her lip, but curiosity won. Soon she disappeared into one of the side rooms with the maids, arms full of clothing and a faint flush warming her cheeks.
It was only then that I left, knowing that she would be busy for the time that I needed to meet with my brothers.
Roman’s mansion was quiet when I arrived, but I could feel the thrum of life within.
The guards nodded me through without question.
I found Roman in the sitting room, not as the feared Mafia Don, but as a man with his family.
Layla was curled against him on the couch, their son in his arms. A tiny thing, impossibly small, his fist gripping Roman’s shirt like it was the only anchor in the world.
And Roman, my brother, my ruthless king, looked down at him with eyes softer than I’d ever seen.
It caught me off guard, the thought hit me like a blade to the chest, what would it look like if Sorcha ever carried my child.
If her belly swelled with life we’d made.
If I held a son or daughter with her dark fire in their eyes.
“Lucien,” Roman’s voice broke through my thoughts, dragging me back. He rose, handing the boy carefully to Layla, before striding toward me. Viking was already in the room, boots up on the table, and Draugr leaned against the wall, arms folded, silent as ever.
“You’ve found her then,” Viking said, grinning, his sharp eyes glinting. “Your mate.”
The word hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.
I didn’t deny it. “Sorcha.”
Viking let out a low whistle. “Didn’t waste any time, did you? Roman broods for centuries before he finds Layla, and you stroll into an Irish shithole and walk out with yours.” He smirked at Roman. “Guess you’re not the golden boy anymore, brother.”
Roman’s eyes cut toward him, sharp enough to make most men fold, but Viking only leaned back in his chair, smug.
Draugr’s mouth curved faintly, the closest thing to a laugh I’d ever seen him allow. “Next thing you know, Volken will find his, and then you’ll really be old news, Roman.”
Roman’s jaw ticked. “Careful,” he growled, though there was no real venom in it. “Might just be you next.”
“True,” Viking shot back, eyes glittering. “But hopefully not too soon as it makes you whipped. Just ask Layla.”
Roman’s growl deepened, and Volken chuckled a low, gravelly sound. “She has you wrapped, brother. Admit it.”
Roman didn’t answer, just reached for the glass at his side like the conversation wasn’t worth acknowledging. But the muscle in his jaw gave him away.
Viking leaned toward me next, grin sharp. “So, Lucien what’s it like, finally caught in the trap you swore you’d never walk into?”
I met his stare, unflinching. “It’s not a trap when you want the chains.”
That shut him up for half a heartbeat, then he barked out a laugh. “Hell, you’re worse than Roman. At least he pretended he had control for a while.”
Roman gave him a look that could’ve stripped flesh from bone, but I ignored them both, but inside, the claim burned through me like iron. Sorcha was mine. No teasing, no jabs could touch that.
“What are you boys whispering about?” Roman stiffened instantly. The rest of us turned to see Layla leaning over the side of the couch, arms crossed, her lips tugged into a knowing smile.
Viking sat up straighter, grinning like a wolf. “Just talking about how your man here is completely whipped.”
Layla’s brows rose, and then she let out a laugh. “Completely? Try utterly. He won’t even let me reach for a glass of water without hovering over me like I might collapse.”
Roman’s glare snapped to her. “Layla.”
“What?” she asked, mock-innocent. “It’s true.
You’re bossy, overprotective, and very, very controlling.
But…” She stood up laying the baby in his pram, she then turned and walked up behind him, sliding her arms around his waist from behind, her chin resting lightly on his back. “you’re mine. So, I put up with it.”
The brothers erupted, Viking laughing loud enough to shake the windows, Volken with another rare chuckle, Draugr’s mouth twitching in the faintest ghost of a smile.
Roman closed his eyes briefly, like he was summoning patience from some endless abyss. “You encourage them,” he muttered to Layla.
She kissed the top of his head, grinning. “Of course I do.”
Viking slapped the table. “I love her. She’s the only one who can make Roman sweat.”
“I’ll make you sweat if you don’t shut up,” Roman snapped, but the threat only made the room laugh harder.
I leaned back, watching it all, the sharp banter, the rare warmth.
And for the first time in a long time, I felt it…
family. Not just the one we were born into, sharpened by blood and war, but something stronger, something unshakable.
Mates. Layla at Roman’s side, softening edges none of us thought could ever bend.
The bond was real, alive, undeniable. And now, with Sorcha, I had my piece of it too.
The thought of her standing in this room one day, teasing me the way Layla teased Roman, laughing in the firelight with my brothers, it was almost too much to imagine. Almost too dangerous to hope for. But it settled in my chest anyway, heavy and unmovable.
The laughter started to fade, Roman’s attention shifting back to me. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing in that way that stripped a man bare. “She was one of the women?”
The question cut through the air like a blade, snapping the mood from playful to razor sharp in a breath.
“Yes. She was caged, scarred. But she’s not broken.” My voice dropped, steel in every syllable. “I’ll destroy this city before I let anyone touch her again.”
Draugr’s eyes flickered, a faint nod. He understood.
Roman studied me, then exhaled, his hand clapping once against my shoulder. “Good. Protect her. You know what she means now. But the Irish aren’t finished, and neither are the demons. Which means you can’t take your guard down for even a second.”
“We’ll hunt them all down,” Draugr said, quiet but final.
“And when we do,” Viking added with a sharp smile, “we make it slow.”