Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
CIAR
The fight is a fucking joke. Oisin moves with the grace of a brick, and Kieran swings like he’s trying to swat a fly. Axl finds this shit amusing, a bit of theatre to break up the monotony, but to me, it’s just sorting the chaff. Necessary, but tedious. My interest isn’t in the ring.
It’s on her.
The redhead. She stands at the edge of the crowd, a predator assessing a new hunting ground. Her focus is absolute, those ice-blue eyes dissecting every clumsy move in the ring. She doesn’t flinch when Kieran’s fist connects with Oisin’s jaw, just tilts her head, cataloguing the weakness.
I can still feel the sting of her words from the quad. Call me girl again, and I’ll slit you open from ear to ear. Most people piss themselves when I look at them. She looked ready to gut me where I stood. The fire in her… it’s a fucking beacon in this pit of mediocrity.
I don’t know why she’s here; no one fucking invited her that I know of, but I’m glad she is. I wanted another look at her. She looks like you could knock her down with a feather, but I know better. I want to watch her fight. I want to find her weaknesses and use them against her.
But duty calls.
I look over at Cillian, and he nods, moving towards the door silently.
Axl follows, and they slip out, noticed only by the redhead. She narrows her eyes but looks back at the fight. I take that as my opportunity to leave. Closing the door on the underground fight, I trudge up the steps and emerge into the upper crypt.
“Where is he?” I ask Axl.
“Cillian has him by the water’s edge,” Axl replies. “Apparently, he thought a midnight swim was in order.”
I grunt and start moving. The damp air of the night is a welcome change from the stench of blood and sweat below.
Cillian is already there, a shadow against the darker shapes of the weeping willows.
A man is on his knees in front of him, gagged, his face already a bloody pulp.
Sean O’Malley, who thinks St. Bart’s is his turf. Fucking idiot.
But this is one hazing ritual that will put him in his place and turn him. Be that outwardly or as a double cross, I don’t give a fuck. No one tries to undercut me on this campus.
I crouch in front of him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back. His eyes are blank. He is a hardass, but I’m harder.
“You going to turn? Or do I need to find an innovative way to make you?” I growl, yanking him to his feet by his hair.
O’Malley shakes his head, giving me a death stare.
“You know that this is my turf, right? You don’t get to walk in here and, after two days, think you can take over what I’ve built for three years.” I slam my fist into his face.
He takes it like the hardass he is. It just makes me want to hit him harder. Instead, I kick his ankles out from under him, and he hits the ground. Grabbing him by the scruff of his neck, I drag him to the shoreline and plunge his face into the freezing cold water.
He comes up spluttering, and I do it again.
This time, I hold his head under, my arm rigid, feeling the frantic thrashing beneath my hand.
The struggle weakens, the fight draining out of him into the icy depths.
I drag him back up and shove the gag down his chin until it hangs loosely around his neck.
The soft crunch of a twig snapping behind me makes me glance back. Cillian is already moving towards the sound while Axl just stands there shaking his head.
“Might’ve known,” he mutters.
The redhead comes into view, taking in the scene quickly and assessing that we are the ones she is about to take down. She is like lightning.
Cillian intercepts her, a mountain meeting a storm, but she’s quicker.
A flicker of steel, and the blade she must have had tucked away is in her hand, arcing toward Cillian’s throat.
He grunts, twisting just in time to avoid getting his blood spilt on the damp earth, but she leaves a shallow slice along his neck.
A fucking thrill, sharp and hot, lances through me. This is better than any fight in the crypt. This is real.
I drop O’Malley’s head back into the water with a final, dismissive splash, not caring if he drowns. He’s irrelevant now.
“Do you mind?” I ask with more than a trace of amusement.
“Yeah, I do mind,” she grunts. “You’re bullying that poor fucker.”
Axl chokes back a laugh, earning himself a death stare from her.
“Bullying?” I snort. “This is a hazing, sweetheart. Stay the fuck out of it, or you will be next.”
“Hazing?” she growls.
“Yeah. Hazing.”
She casts her glance at O’Malley. He’ll either drown or crawl out a changed man. I don’t give a fuck which. My eyes are locked on her.
“A little lesson in hierarchy. Something you’d do well to learn.”
She doesn’t even glance at Cillian, who’s now got a thin line of blood welling from the cut on his neck. Her entire focus is on me, a searing blue inferno that promises pain. “I don’t learn lessons. I teach them.”
The blade in her hand is an extension of her arm, steady and sure. She’s not afraid. Of Cillian. Of Axl. Of me. A primal wave of possession crashes over me. I want to see her bleed, and I want to be the one who makes her.
“Is that so?” I close the distance until I’m near enough to smell the faint scent of soap and fury coming off her skin. Cillian tenses, but I hold up a hand, warning him off. This is my game now.
“Get any closer and I’ll carve my name into your fucking face,” she snarls, the knife twitching in her grip.
I stop, just out of her reach, and give her a slow smile. “And what name would that be?”
“Gannon,” she spits out. “Sorcha Gannon.”
Gannon. Why the fuck am I not surprised?
Turns out the girls in that family are just as ruthless as the men.
If not more so. “Well, Sorcha,” I say, reaching for my knife.
I hold out my arm and press the tip of the blade to the skin of my left inner arm.
The only place currently not covered in ink.
“Let’s see what your name looks like carved into me. ”
I drag the knife down, watching her eyes widen as the blood wells up. Slowly, deliberately, I make an S, then an O, then an R. The pain is a dull, satisfying burn. A promise.
Her eyes track the movement of my blade. The flicker of a muscle in her jaw is the only sign she’s affected. The shock is there, buried deep, but on the surface is a cold, hard appraisal. She’s not horrified. She’s intrigued. Fucking perfect.
Blood, thick and dark in the moonlight, slicks my skin. I don’t look away from her. Not once.
“There,” I say, finishing my crude tattoo. “Now we’re acquainted.”
Her gaze is fixed on the bloody letters I’ve carved into my flesh. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement that has my cock hardening.
Axl and Cillian haven’t moved a muscle, but I can feel their readiness to restrain this wild creature by any means necessary. But this isn’t their fight. It’s a conversation between me and the girl with murder in her eyes.
“You’re insane,” she spits, but there’s no judgment in her tone. Only a statement of fact.
“Looks pretty fucking good, don’t you think?”
Before she can fire out an insult, Axl interrupts. “O’Malley is getting away.”
I flick my gaze to see the object of my hazing running off into the night, still bound and soaked, tripping over his own feet. I turn my stare back to Sorcha. “Now look what you did.”
Closing the gap between us in two strides, my hand goes up around her neck, and I slam her into a nearby tree. “I don’t appreciate you ruining my hard work.”
Her eyes flare with a wild, feral fury that makes my cock stir. Her blade flashes through the air, but I grip her wrist in a hold she can’t get out of. She cries out as I twist, and she drops the knife.
“Touchy,” she chokes out, a grim smile twisting her lips, not in the least bit concerned that I’ve disarmed her so easily.
“You have no fucking idea,” I growl, leaning down until my face is inches from hers.
She is over a foot shorter than me, but I fucking like it.
The scent of her—cool night air and rage—fills my head.
I want to consume it. I want to break her down until all that’s left is this raw, beautiful defiance, and then I want to build her back up as mine.
Axl shifts behind me, a silent question. I ignore him.
This isn’t a hazing for the new girl. This is a coronation. Even if she doesn’t know she’s the queen yet.
I loosen my grip just enough for her to speak properly, curious what venom she’ll spit next.
“Let. Me. Go.” Each word is a shard of ice.
I just laugh, a low, guttural sound.
Her knee comes up, fast and aimed right for my balls, but I’m faster. I slam my thigh between her legs, trapping her, grinding my hips against hers. A sharp gasp escapes her lips, a sound of pure, unwilling arousal.
“There it is,” I murmur against her ear, my free hand sliding down to grip her hip. “Welcome to St. Bart’s, Sorcha Gannon. The Cerberus Order has noticed you.”