Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
CILLIAN
Her eyes are spitting fucking fire at me.
Good. Let her use it. Let her think I’ve insulted her, belittled her.
It’s better than her knowing the truth—that the thought of my fist connecting with her jaw, of her small body breaking under my weight, makes something sick and protective coil in my gut.
I want to see what she’s made of, not turn her into a bloody pulp on the stone floor.
Not for the first time in the last half an hour, I wish she’d taken Ciar up on his first choice.
The thought of fucking her, of making her come all over my dick, is a far more pleasant one than crushing her.
Ciar knows. I see it in the slight curve of his mouth as he watches me. He understands this isn’t mercy. It’s an investment. He wants her fire intact. So do I. The sting on my neck where her blade kissed my skin is a reminder. She marked me.
I step out of the ring, my shadow falling over her for a second before I move away.
Oisin Murphy swaggers into the ring, a feral grin splitting his face.
He’s a weasel with a killer instinct, all wiry muscle and twitchy energy.
Perfect. He’ll come at her hard and fast, but he’s sloppy.
He fights with rage, not a brain. If she’s as smart as that mouth of hers, she’ll see the openings.
I join Ciar and Axl at the edge. The position gives me a clear view of her face. The initial fury she aimed at me has been replaced by a cold, calculating focus. She’s already sizing Oisin up, her body coiled like a spring, ready to fucking explode.
“This is a far more interesting wager,” Axl murmurs beside me, his green eyes alight with a sick sort of glee. He doesn’t care who wins, as long as it’s bloody.
The crowd roars as the fight is called to start. Oisin lunges, no warning, no finesse, just a wild swing aimed at her head. She drops, a blur of motion, and sweeps her leg out. It connects with his ankle, not with the force to break it, but enough to send him stumbling.
She doesn’t press the advantage. She dances back, creating space, her eyes never leaving him. A small, cruel smile touches her lips. She’s toying with him. Testing him. My cock gives a hard twitch. Fucking hell. This is going to be better than I thought.
Oisin scrambles back to his feet, his face flushed with anger at being made to look like a fool. He comes at her again, a flurry of fists. She’s a ghost. Weaving, ducking, letting his punches whistle past her ears. She isn’t just dodging; she’s learning his rhythm, mapping his predictable rage.
Every time he overextends, she lands a sharp, punishing blow.
A jab to the kidney that makes him grunt.
A vicious kick to the back of his knee that makes it buckle.
They’re not knockout punches. They’re designed to dismantle him piece by piece.
It’s brutal and beautiful, and my cock stiffens.
I want her. I want her to ride me with that same passion, that same fire.
“She’s a fucking artist,” Axl murmurs, his usual mocking tone replaced with genuine appreciation.
Ciar doesn’t speak, but the intensity in his gaze as he watches her is a tangible thing. He sees it too. She’s not just a fighter; she’s a predator. One of us.
Oisin roars in frustration and charges, a wild, telegraphed move. It’s the mistake she’s been waiting for. She sidesteps, pivots on her heel, and drives her elbow into the side of his head as he rushes past. The crack is sickeningly loud. He drops like a stone, face-first and doesn’t move.
Silence.
Then the crowd erupts.
But I don’t hear them. I only see her, standing over her opponent, chest heaving, her ice-blue eyes finding mine across the chamber. A challenge. A promise.
“You,” she hisses as I lock gazes with her. “You’re next.”
My gaze stays locked with hers. Let her have this.
Let her think she’s won. The crowd can have their show.
They can have their champion. But she’s wrong.
I’m not next. Because when I get my hands on her again, there won’t be a ring.
There won’t be an audience. It will be just us, and the only sound will be her screams. I still haven’t decided if they’ll be from pain or pleasure. Maybe both.
“The Gauntlet is over,” Ciar announces, his voice cutting through the crowd’s roar, laced with an authority no one here dares question.
He steps forward, his gaze fixed on her, a dark, proprietary light in his eyes, her name sliced into his arm, still dropping blood on the ground. “Winner, Sorcha Gannon.”
“Fuck you,” she growls, marching up to me. “This isn’t over, arsehole.”
“Oh, but it is,” I say, and then infuriate her further by turning away from her and slipping out of the lower crypt like a ghost.
I hear her behind me, taking the steps with loud thumps of her boots.
I step out into the cold night air, the damp mist a welcome cleanse from the pit’s stench.
I don’t stop. I keep walking towards the lake, the sound of her boots on the stone path a furious rhythm behind me.
She wants a confrontation. She’ll get one, but on my terms, away from the eyes of the rabble.
“What the fuck was that?” she snarls, grabbing my arm and yanking me around just as I reach the water’s edge. For someone so small, her grip is surprisingly strong. I could shake her off like a fly, but I let her hold me, enjoying the futile show of strength.
I look down at her, at the flushed skin, the heaving chest, the eyes that could freeze hell over. “That,” I say, my voice low, “was me giving you a chance to prove you’re more than just a mouth.”
Her hand drops from my arm as if she’s been burned. “I didn’t need your help.”
“No?” I take a step closer, invading her space until she has to tilt her head back to meet my gaze.
“You would have been on your back in ten seconds, broken. Is that what you wanted? To be another piece of meat for them to cheer over?” My gaze flickers over her, a slow, deliberate assessment.
“I’d rather see you break someone else. And you did. Beautifully.”
Her breath hitches, the insult she was about to spit dying on her lips. She’s caught off guard, confused by the praise. That’s where I want her. Off-balance.
“Stay the fuck away from me,” she finally manages, but the fire is banked, replaced by a wary uncertainty.
“Not a chance, Gannon,” I murmur, my gaze dropping to her lips. “Not a fucking chance.”
She looks like a cornered animal, ready to rip out the throat of anything that gets too close.
“I saved you.”
Her eyes narrow to slits. “Saved me? From what? A fair fight?”
“From me,” I correct her, reaching out to grip her chin tightly. “A fight with me wouldn’t have been a fight. It would have been a fucking execution, and that would have been a waste.” I let my gaze drop to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “I don’t like to waste things I want to keep.”
She is fast, but not fast enough. Her hand comes to strike, but I grip her wrist, and enjoy seeing her struggle.
I tighten my grip. It will bruise her, a brand that she will have to wear and think of me every time she sees it.
The frantic pulse under my fingers is a fucking drug.
Her skin is hot, her bones delicate but wiry beneath my grip.
She could fight all night, and it wouldn’t matter. I own this moment. I own her.
“You think this is a game?” she spits, her free hand clawing at my forearm, nails digging ineffectually into the thick muscle there.
“Everything is a game, Sorcha,” I tell her. “And the three of us always win.”
Her glare is pure acid.
Footsteps crunch on the path behind us. Ciar and Axl emerge from the mist like apparitions, their presence shifting the atmosphere, making it heavier, more charged.
“Did you explain the rules, Cillian?” Ciar asks, his voice smooth as polished steel.
I release her, shoving her back a step. She stumbles but catches her balance, her chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. She looks from me, to Axl, to Ciar, a cornered wolf sizing up the pack.
“She understands,” I say.
Ciar takes a step forward, his gaze pinning her in place.
“You’ve got fire, Gannon. But you just made an enemy out of most of the students here.
They sense a threat, and they don’t like threats.
You’re either with us, or you’re against us.
Against us is a very lonely, very short-lived position to be in. ”
She scoffs, a sound of pure, undiluted defiance. “So I’m supposed to run and hide behind you three?”
Axl lets out a low chuckle, stepping up to her other side, boxing her in completely.
“Not behind us, sweetheart. Beside us.” He reaches out, his fingers tracing the line of her jaw, a touch that’s both a caress and a claim.
She jerks back viciously. “You’re a queen, Sorcha.
You just walked into a kingdom that already has three kings. ”
Her eyes dart between the three of us, calculating her odds. They’re shit, and she knows it. But the fight in her doesn’t die. It just shifts, turning inward as she processes the impossible choice.
“And if I tell you to fuck off?” she asks, her voice dangerously quiet.
Ciar’s smile is a chilling thing in the moonlight, all teeth and promises of pain. “Then we’ll just have to be more persuasive.” He glances at the bloody letters he carved into his arm. “We’ve already marked our territory. Don’t make us burn it to the ground to keep you.”
The threat hangs in the cold night air, an absolute.
Her gaze bores into mine. I don’t utter another word. I don’t need to. She knows. She knows what I want to do to her. She also knows she will let me.
Sorcha takes a step back, breaking our circle.
The move is deliberate, a reclaiming of her space.
She doesn’t run. She just looks at the three of us, a predator sizing up other predators, her expression is pure, cold fury.
She’s not accepting our terms. She’s stalling.
Looking for an angle. I fucking respect it.
“I’m going back to my flat,” she announces, as if asking for permission is the furthest thing from her mind. “Don’t follow me.”
With that, she turns her back on us and walks away, disappearing into the mist-shrouded path.
Every instinct screams at me to go after her, to drag her back and finish what we started.
“Let her go,” Ciar says, his voice a low growl.
He’s watching her retreat with an obsessive focus, his hand unconsciously touching the bloody letters on his arm.
“The leash is on. She just doesn’t know how short it is yet.
Find O’Malley. We have unfinished business. ”
I nod, but my mind is far from O’Malley.
It’s on the Gannon girl. That family is full of high-ranking mafia leaders across Ireland and England.
Men. All of them are men. Then this spitfire comes along claiming a name that belongs to her through blood, but she doesn’t respect it.
She has no idea the doors it will open, nor the danger it will bring.
Without a word, I stride away from Ciar and Axl, following Sorcha.
We have unfinished business, all right, but not with O’Malley.