Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
SORCHA
“Fuck you,” I snarl, not struggling but waiting for my opening.
Struggling will only make brutes like this grip tighter.
The Cerberus Order. I don’t take my eyes off this arsehole with his massive thigh spreading my legs.
He’s obviously their leader and would probably snap my neck without a second thought.
His thigh is a brand against my core, the thick muscle pressing right where I came apart thinking about him just hours ago.
My traitorous body responds with a wet clench, and I hate myself for it.
I hate him more. He thinks he’s won. He thinks pinning me makes him a king.
He thinks cutting my fucking name into his skin makes me his.
He can get stuffed with a ten-foot cactus up his arse.
“Get off me before I bite your throat out,” I grit out, my voice low and shaking with the effort of keeping it steady.
His grip on my neck doesn’t tighten, but his thumb strokes the frantic pulse there, a caress that feels more like a threat. “Feisty,” he rumbles, his blue eyes glittering in the dark. “I like it.”
“Careful, Ciar. She definitely looks like a biter.” The trace of amusement in Axl’s voice pisses me off.
I snap my jaw to prove Axl’s point. Tired of waiting for him to give me an opening, I take matters into my own hands.
I jerk my head forward, trying to smash my forehead into his perfect nose.
He anticipates it, jerking back just enough for my head to glance off his chin.
It’s not enough to do damage, but it’s enough to wipe the smug fucking smile off his face.
His eyes darken, the amusement replaced by something colder, more possessive.
“The Order has rules, Sorcha,” he says, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“Yeah, and what are they, so I can break each and every one?”
His smile is sinister. “Firstly, you interrupted my hazing. So you get to take it on.”
My heart thumps. Fucking hazing.
He must see the flash of fear in my eyes as his smile turns colder. “I’m going to give you a choice, Sorcha. A choice that no one gets, so think yourself honoured.”
“Want to give me a name before you haze me?” I spit out.
His smirk widens, a slash of white in the darkness. “Ciar MacMahon.”
MacMahon. Of course it is. The name drop doesn’t surprise me one bit. “What’s my choice then, Ciar?”
“You’re going to get initiated into St. Bart’s one way or another, Sorcha. You can either stand there like a good girl while we fuck you senseless, or you can go back to the Gauntlet and take your chances with Cillian in the ring.” He gestures to the silent oaf to his left, the one I cut.
I shake my head with a loud scoff. “Please, you think that’s a choice?
I take the fight.” Inside, my guts are rebelling.
Option A sounds like my worst nightmare.
Option B isn’t much better. Cillian looks like he could squash me with his bare hands, and seeing as the rules are no weapons, I have a feeling my time on this planet is coming to an end.
“Unfortunate,” Ciar growls, yanking me forward as he takes a step back. “I want to know what that cunt feels like wrapped around my cock.”
“It’s not like she’s in a position to refuse if you take her, anyway,” Axl says, moving closer. “Her little mouth could do with being fucked shut.”
“Try and rape me and I will gut you all like fucking fish on a Friday,” I growl.
Ciar glares down his nose at me, looking extremely insulted. “No one is raping anyone,” he growls. “Your choice is your fucking choice, Gannon.” He lets me go with a rough shove, and I breathe out in relief. “Axl is being a dick,” he adds.
“She deserves it,” Axl says, staring at me.
“Why?” I spit out. “Because it sounds like your parents were fans of Guns ’n Roses? Blame them, not me.”
Axl’s smile doesn’t drop; it sharpens, turning into something razor-edged and utterly devoid of humour.
His eyes glint in the weak moonlight. “You have no idea how much I’d enjoy blaming you for a great many things.
” He takes a step closer, his voice a silken threat that snakes down my spine.
“Starting with the blood, I’m going to watch Cillian beat out of that pretty mouth of yours.
The more you lose, the more I will blame you for hurting yourself. ”
“Fuck you,” I snarl. What the fuck is this? Gaslighting 101?
“Enough chatter,” Ciar snaps, grabbing my arm. His grip is like iron, bruising and absolute. “You made your choice. Time to see if you survive or if you wish you’d taken door number one.”
He practically drags me back toward the crypt, Axl falling into step on my other side, Cillian a silent, hulking shadow behind us.
They box me in, a cage of muscle and malice.
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the night.
I don’t look at any of them. I focus on the stone entrance of the crypt, on the flickering light spilling from the open door.
Cillian. He’s big, solid. Probably slow.
My only chance is speed and finding a weak point.
Knees, throat, eyes. I’ll have to be vicious. I’ll have to be a fucking animal.
Axl yanks open the heavy iron-banded door, and the roar from the fight pit below washes over us, a wave of savage sound. It’s my turn to be the entertainment for this Cerberus Order.
Makes me wish I hadn’t bothered trying to save that O’Malley arsehole from his fate.
Ciar takes the steps down first, and Axl shoves me to follow.
My boots hit the ground of the lower crypt as the crowd parts.
The current fighter with the upper hand kicks the soon-to-be-loser in the solar plexus as he crashes towards us, seconds away from knocking me off my feet.
Cillian’s arm snaps out in front of me, an iron band of protection that the second fighter slams into with a loud grunt.
The impact is hard, but Cillian doesn’t even fucking flinch.
The loser slides to the stone floor, unconscious.
I shove Cillian’s arm away. “I could have handled it,” I snap, even though the guy would have flattened me.
Cillian looks down at me, his blue eyes unreadable. A thin line of dried blood marks the cut I gave him on his neck. My calling card.
The entire chamber has gone silent. Every eye is on us. On me.
“A new challenger,” Axl announces, his posh voice cutting through the thick air. “For the final round of the Gauntlet tonight. Sorcha Gannon versus Cillian Sullivan.”
A collective murmur ripples through the crowd.
Annastasia O’Shea is staring at me in fury.
She bet on me to win, not get pulverised by one of the Cerberus Order.
Well, that’s her fucking problem. Not mine.
Nope, because mine is currently looking at me like he wishes I’d taken up Ciar’s door number one option.
“Get in the ring, Gannon,” Ciar orders, in a low growl that sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. The bloody letters of my name on his arm are a stark, possessive brand that everyone can see.
It’s… un-fun.
I clench my fists and step over the downed fighter, into the makeshift ring.
It’s Cillian and me. This silent, brutal mountain of a man. He follows me in, his presence sucking all the air out of the space. He’s massive up close, made up of coiled muscle and violence.
I am so fucked.
It kind of makes me wish I’d taken Ciar up on Option A. I wonder if it’s too late to change my mind.
It is.
The nearly naked bitch calls for the start of the fight, and the bets fly.
All against me.
It’s not surprising. I would bet against me, too, if I didn’t know me.
Cillian doesn’t move. He just stands there, feet planted, arms loose at his sides. A fucking statue carved from granite and bad intentions. He’s waiting for me to come to him, to exhaust myself against his impenetrable defence.
The crowd is a beast, roaring for blood. My blood. Fuck them. Fuck Cillian. Fuck Axl, and fuck Ciar MacMahon for putting me in this position.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, circling him. He tracks me, his eyes the only part of him that moves. I dart in, a feint to the left, then a quick jab to his ribs. It’s like punching a brick wall. I don’t even think he feels it. I dance back out of his reach before he can react.
He doesn’t. He just watches. The silent treatment is more unnerving than any threat. I go in again, this time aiming for the cut I gave him on his neck. My fist connects with his jaw instead, the impact jarring my knuckles. He grunts, a low, animal sound, but his head barely moves. Shit.
This isn’t working. Brute force is his game, not mine. I need to be smarter. Faster.
I drop low, sweeping a leg out to take him down at the knee. It should work. It always works. But his reflexes are faster than his size suggests. He lifts his leg, my foot swinging through empty air, throwing me off balance for a split second.
It’s all the opening he needs.
His hand shoots out, grabbing my ankle in a grip that could crush bone. He yanks, and the world upends. I’m slammed onto my back, the air knocked from my lungs with a strangled gasp. Before I can even process the impact, he’s on top of me, his weight a crushing, inescapable force.
“Don’t make me hurt you,” he whispers in my ear.
“Fuck you,” I snarl and twist under him.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say he rolls his eyes and climbs off me. “This isn’t sport,” he says to the grunts of the crowd. “It's annihilation.”
“What do you propose?” Ciar asks, more intrigued than pissed off.
“Someone who will give her a fair fight on my behalf.”
“How dare you!” I spit out, getting to my feet. He is humiliating me. “I will knock your fucking teeth out.”
He doesn’t even flinch. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable, and I feel a fresh wave of rage. It’s not pity in his eyes. It’s something else. It’s fire. It’s passion. It’s truly the fact that he doesn’t want to hurt me.
It takes me aback for all of a second before I lunge, all my frustration and fury channelled into a single wild swing. It’s sloppy, desperate, and he catches my fist in his open palm with a dull thud. His grip is a manacle, crushing my knuckles together.
“See?” His voice is a low rumble, meant only for me. “This is a waste of your energy. And my time.”
Ciar’s slow, deliberate clap cuts through the tension. “A novel approach to the Gauntlet, Cillian. I approve.” He steps forward, his gaze locking onto mine, a predator enjoying the show. “A champion it is.”
Cillian shoves me back towards the centre of the ring. “You’re fast, Gannon. But you have no weight. You need an opponent you can outsmart, not out-muscle.” His eyes scan the crowd and land on the psycho from the first fight, Oisin Murphy. “Him. He’ll do.”