Chapter 6 Sorcha
CHAPTER SIX
SORCHA
My boots are silent on the grass as I cut across the perfect lawns of St. Bart’s, the sound swallowed by the clinging mist. I don’t look back.
I don’t give them the satisfaction. Three kings.
The Cerberus Order. It’s the most pretentious load of horse manure I’ve ever heard.
They’re just bullies with bigger fists and more inherited power than sense.
My knuckles ache where they connected with Cillian’s granite jaw, a dull throb radiating from my back where Ciar slammed me into the tree. Bastards. The lot of them.
Don’t even get me started on my name, carved into Ciar’s skin like a brand. A sick, possessive act meant to unnerve me, to claim me. It worked, a little. The image is seared behind my eyelids, a bloody declaration of war.
I reach the peeling door of my building, burst through it, and then cringe as it groans in protest. Taking the stairs quickly, I reach into my pocket for the door key and shove it in the lock. I slip inside and close the door, leaning against it as my breath evens out.
Safe.
For now.
This night didn’t exactly go how I thought it would, but I was declared the winner of the Gauntlet, so at least Annastasia won’t be breathing down my neck.
I push off from the door and stride to the sofa, sitting down to pull my boots and socks off.
I undo my combat pants and pull those off as well, sitting in just my tank top and knickers, as I contemplate a stiff drink on an empty stomach.
My aches and pains win out. Rising stiffly, I move into the kitchenette, a small open-plan space in the lounge area of this dump, and reach for the vodka I’d stashed with the rest of the meagre groceries, while leaving my clothes still packed.
Priorities.
I grimace as I bend down and open the door under the sink.
Reaching behind the pipes, I pull out the fat envelope stuffed with cash that was meant to pay for my year here.
My life savings. The whole reason why I can barely afford to eat and have to live in this shithole.
And yet, some fucker took it upon themselves to pay my way.
I glare at the envelope, thinking of all the things I could buy if I used this.
But with a sigh, I shove it back under the sink.
I don’t take handouts. Whoever paid my tuition will get this thrown at them before I rip them a new one.
Straightening up, I uncap the vodka and take a swig from the bottle, feeling the burn in my nostrils.
The liquor scorches a path down my throat, a welcome fire against the cold dread coiling in my stomach.
I take another long pull, letting the bottle hang from my fingertips as I stare at the cracked plaster of the opposite wall.
A sharp, authoritative knock sounds on my door, making me jump. My heart leaps into my throat. I place the bottle down and cross over to pick up Bessie before turning to the door.
I yank it open, ready to gut whoever it is.
Cillian.
He stands there, filling the entire doorframe, his expression as impassive as ever.
His eyes flicker to the knife in my hand, then back to my face.
He doesn’t say a word. He grips my wrist again so I can’t slash at him as he moves forward, forcing me to step back or get my bare feet crushed beneath his boots.
“What do you want?” I spit out.
He enters my flat and kicks the door closed quietly behind him. My heart thumps. He plucks Bessie from my numbing hand and throws her onto the sofa. “You don’t need that,” he growls softly.
“No?” I snap. “You have entered my space without my permission.”
He releases me with a casual gesture, his gaze boring into mine.
“No,” I state when he steps closer. I move back, but he follows.
“No, what?” he murmurs.
“No, you don’t get to just fucking walk in here,” I hiss, my legs hitting the coffee table. “No, you don’t get to corner me. Get the fuck out.”
He doesn’t say anything. I glare at him and climb onto the table, getting a height advantage over him. Too bad, I forgot I’m wearing just my knickers and tank top. His gaze drops to my pussy, and then he grips my hips.
“No,” I say again, but the conviction isn’t there.
We both know it.
His fingers hook into the sides of my knickers, and he pulls them down excruciatingly slowly.
My breath hitches. The thin cotton slides down my thighs, catching for a moment on my calves before pooling around my ankles on the table.
He doesn’t touch me. He just looks, tracing the curve of my hip, the line of my thigh, before settling on my shaven pussy.
I should kick him. I should smash his face in and grab Bessie and show him what happens when a man corners me. But I’m paralysed, pinned by the intensity in his eyes, by the raw, unspoken thing passing between us.
His large hands come back to my hips, thumbs stroking over the jut of my hipbones, sending shivers across my skin.
He reaches behind him and pulls out his blade.
It’s a wicked-looking thing that would gut a man and make him wish he’d never been born.
He runs the sharp edge over my skin, not leaving a single mark.
I gasp when he flips it over, clutching the blade before he rubs the hilt over my clit.
My pussy clenches, slick and hot against the cold, unforgiving metal.
A broken sound, half-whimper, half-gasp, tears from my throat.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, not to push him away, but to steady myself against the dizzying wave of sensation.
“Don’t,” I breathe, but it’s a lie. My hips give a traitorous little tilt, pushing myself harder against the unyielding pressure.
His eyes are dark, focused entirely on the junction of my thighs, on the way my body is shamelessly responding to him. A muscle jumps in his jaw. He’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be. That knowledge is a spark of power in my humiliation.
He moves the hilt, a slow, torturous circle that has my cunt dripping for him.
He’s not fucking me, but it feels more violating, more intimate than any penetration.
He’s learning me, mapping my pleasure with the handle of a weapon he uses to kill.
My back arches, my core tightening as a desperate, unwanted orgasm coils deep inside me.
“Look at me,” he growls, his voice a low vibration that I feel through my entire body.
My eyes, glazed with lust and fury, snap to his.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Yes,” I pant.
His eyes narrow as he contemplates my request.
“I want you to stop messing about and fuck me,” I growl.
It’s pretty much all he needs to hear. He drops the knife with a clatter and lifts me as if I weigh nothing.
With two giant strides, he has me pressed against the wall next to the window.
Wrapping my legs around him, I reach down to undo his pants, just so he is clear where I stand with consent after my waste-of-time protests.
My fingers grapple with the thick leather of his belt, the metal buckle cold against my knuckles.
He makes an impatient sound deep in his chest, a predator tired of waiting for its meal.
His hand covers mine, pushing it aside as he undoes the fastening himself.
The rasp of his zipper is loud in the small room, a raw, final sound before he’s free.
He’s huge, a thick, veined length of pure dominance pressing against my slick folds.
He doesn’t waste time with preliminaries.
He grabs my arse, positions himself, and shoves inside me in one brutal, breath-stealing thrust. A sharp cry tears from my throat, a blend of pain and a pleasure so intense it’s agonising.
This isn’t a gentle taking; it’s a fucking invasion, and it’s hot as fuck.
He stretches me, claiming every inch as I soak him.
My nails dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, seeking an anchor in the storm he’s creating inside me.
His hips slam against mine, a relentless rhythm that has my head lolling back against the cold plaster.
He doesn’t kiss me. He just watches my face, his blue eyes dark and unreadable as he fucks me against the wall like he owns me.
The friction is raw, perfect. He hits my G-spot with every punishing thrust, and the orgasm building in my core is violent.
It snaps without warning, a blinding white-hot flash that makes my body convulse and my pussy clamp down on him, milking his thick cock.
A low groan rips from his throat as he slams into me even harder.
I cry out, tilting my hips to get him deeper, if that’s even possible.
His long shaft is hitting my cervix with each thrust. My legs shake uncontrollably, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I frantically try to remember if I took my pill this morning.
The thought is fleeting, blasted away by his next thrust. My orgasm makes my cunt clench around him, and a guttural roar is torn from his throat.
He drives into me one last time, a final, branding possession, and I feel his hot cum flood me, a shocking, intimate heat that makes my toes curl.
He stays buried inside me for a long moment, his chest heaving against mine, his breath hot on my neck.
I’m pinned, boneless, my body still humming with the aftershocks of my release.
Then, just as abruptly as it began, it’s over.
He pulls out with a wet, slick sound and sets me on my feet.
My legs threaten to give out, and I have to brace a hand against the wall to stay upright.
His cum drips down my inner thigh, a warm, sticky trail of his claim.
He doesn’t look at me. He just stands there, fixing his belt, his expression unreadable as ever.
The silence is thick with what we just did, with the violence and the pleasure and the raw, unspoken challenge that hangs between us.
I expect him to walk away, smug knowing he got to me, but instead, he shocks me by scooping me up gently, cradling me in his arms as he carries me to the bathroom. He flicks on the light, sets me down, and then turns the shower on, adjusting the taps until he finds the perfect temperature.
“What are you doing?” I ask when he looms over me and pulls my top over my head.
He doesn’t speak, but unclasps my bra, letting it fall away to reveal my tits.
He lifts me and places me in the tiny shower cubicle before reaching for the soap and sponge.
He gets drenched as he lathers up the sponge, but again, he says nothing.
He starts with my legs, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he works the sponge over my skin.
I just stand there, mute, watching him. This is more disarming than the fight, more invasive than the fuck.
He’s washing me, cleaning away the evidence of our collision, his cum, the sweat, the grime of the crypt. It’s a deliberate, proprietary act.
His knuckles graze my inner thigh, and I flinch from the jolt of electricity that shoots straight to my core.
His eyes flicker up to mine for a fraction of a second, a dark, knowing gleam in their depths, before he goes back to his task.
He works his way up my body methodically, over my stomach, my ribs, until he’s cupping my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples through the sponge. They harden instantly, shamefully.
“What is this?” I finally manage to choke out, my voice a raw whisper. “Cleaning up your mess?”
He doesn’t answer. He simply keeps cleaning me until he’s done. He turns off the shower, leaving me cold while he grabs a crappy towel and wraps it around me. He lifts me out of the shower and carries me through my flat to the bedroom, where he places me on my feet and dries me off.
Silently, he pulls back the covers of the bed and scoops me up again to lay me down, tucking me in like I’m the most precious thing in the world.
And then he’s gone.
The soft click of the latch echoes in the sudden, deafening silence.
I lie perfectly still. My body is a battlefield.
Every muscle screams, my core is a dull, throbbing ache, and my skin feels strangely clean, scrubbed raw.
What the fuck was that? It wasn’t a conquest. It wasn’t just a fuck.
It was a statement. He took me apart, piece by brutal piece, then put me back together with a gentleness that was more terrifying than his strength.
He didn’t claim me with words or brands, but with an act of quiet, absolute possession that has me reeling.
My traitorous cunt is still slick and swollen, tingling with the ghost of him.
I hate it. But most of all, I hate the part of me that is lying here, tucked in like a child, feeling… safe.