Chapter 8 Sorcha
CHAPTER EIGHT
SORCHA
Sunlight, thin and grey, cuts through the grimy window, dragging me from a sleep that was more like a coma.
My body protests with a symphony of aches.
My knuckles are swollen, my back feels like it’s been used as a trampoline, my wrist is bruised.
The memory of last night crashes down on me, not in pieces, but as one solid, brutal block of insanity.
“Arseholes,” I mutter, checking my phone and then climbing hastily out of bed.
It’s time to get to my first lecture at St. Bart’s, and I won’t be late.
Pulling on black jeans and a black tee, I grab my worn, black leather coat and shove my feet into my boots.
Grabbing a slice of dry bread, I don’t even have time for toast and coffee, as I take a bite and grab my backpack, heading out the door like the devil is on my arse.
The dry bread is a lump in my gut as I half-jog across the quad. The morning light does nothing to soften the gothic severity of the place; it just highlights the cracks in the stone, the shadows in the archways. It feels more like a prison yard than a university during rec time.
I find the Criminology lecture hall, a huge, tiered amphitheatre of dark wood and worn leather that smells of old paper and dusty privilege.
I slide into a seat in the back row, as far from the front as I can get, dumping my bag on the floor.
My body sinks into the chair, every single ache making itself known. I’m running on fumes and fury.
The room fills up slowly with the future kingpins and queenpins of the criminal underworld, all pretending to be legitimate students. Annastasia O’Shea walks in, spots me, and walks over. She places ten crisp twenty euros on my desk.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Your cut of the winnings. You did the hard work, after all. There’s more where that came from, if you’re interested.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, the more fights you enter, the more you win, the more money you earn. Simple.”
“You want me to be your asset?”
She gives me a slow smile. “I know where you live, Gannon. Don’t pretend this isn’t intriguing enough for you to consider.”
Well, the smug bitch has me there. “I’ll think about it,” I say, snatching up my winnings and shoving them in the inner pocket of my coat.
“Please do. Answer by the end of the day.”
I nod and sit back as the professor walks in, looking like a lawyer about to give his opening statement.
Luckily, the Cerberus pricks don’t make an appearance, so I can concentrate on my notes.
If I fail any classes, I’ll get kicked out, and that is not on my agenda.
The professor, a man named Dr Albright, drones on about theories of deviancy.
Social structures, psychological predispositions, learned behaviours.
It’s all a load of academic bollocks trying to put a neat label on the chaos I’ve lived my entire life.
He talks about criminal organisations as if they’re case studies in a textbook, not empires built on blood and fear.
I give him a simpering smile when he mentions the Gannon family as a prime example of a legacy syndicate.
He knows exactly who I am, and he appreciates me being in his class.
That is only a good thing as far as I’m concerned.
But then my attention drifts. Two hundred euros.
It’s not a fortune, but it’s more than I’ve seen in a while that’s earmarked as mine.
Annastasia’s offer is a hook, and I’m tempted to bite.
Fighting is what I’m good at. It’s a language I speak fluently.
If I can make money doing it, while establishing my own power base here, then maybe it’s not such a bad deal. I wouldn’t be her asset. I’d be my own.
When the lecture ends, I rise and block Annastasia’s path as she heads for the exit. “Deal,” I say. “But I want fifty per cent.”
Annastasia’s eyes narrow for a fraction of a second before a slow, appreciative smile spreads across her face. It’s a shark’s smile, all teeth and hunger. “Fifty,” she repeats, testing the word. “You’ve got balls, Gannon. I like that.” She extends a perfectly manicured hand. “You have a deal.”
We shake on it, her grip firm and cool. It’s a pact with a devil, but I’ve danced with worse.
“I’ll be in touch,” she says, before sweeping past me and out of the lecture hall, leaving me standing in the aisle.
I sling my bag over my shoulder and follow, my mind already calculating. This is a foothold. A way to make my own money, my own power, separate from the invisible strings someone else is pulling.
I step out into the stone corridor and check my timetable to see where my next lecture is.
Psychology in block B. Looking at the map, I see that it is nearby, and I have ten minutes to get there.
At least I don’t have to rush, so I take it easy, ambling along, taking in the sights of the old buildings and campus.
It’s impressive, pretty in its old-worldy way.
I reach my next lecture and slip inside, glad to see that I’m still avoiding the Cerberus Order.
The lecture on psychological profiling is just as much a crock of shit as the one on criminology.
It’s all theories and hypotheticals from people who’ve never had to stare a real monster in the face.
I’ve met more psychopaths in my twenty-one years than this professor has read about in his entire life.
But, again, I have to pass this class, so I make meticulous notes, and end up almost enjoying the academic easiness of it all.
My stomach growls as I leave the lecture hall, knowing the time has come to find food.
I’m ravenous, and with two hundred euros in my pocket, I can afford to eat whatever the fuck I want for a change.
Dreaming of all the delicious hot meals that will be laid out for me, I don’t see Cillian until it’s too late.
He’s loitering under an old oak tree, definitely looking for someone. I duck back the other way, but it’s too late. I feel his hand clamp around my wrist as he draws me to a stop.
“Sorcha.” His voice is a low growl that makes my clit twitch.
“I’m late,” I grit out.
He drags me into an enclosed courtyard with stone arches and statues, pressing me up against the cold, unforgiving wall.
He stares down at me and then turns me around, blocking me in.
His hands come around to the front of my jeans, and he flicks the button undone, lowering the zip before he pushes them over my hips.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I rasp, making no move to stop him.
He doesn’t answer me. He undoes his pants and kicks my ankles as far apart as they will go, restricted by the denim.
The head of his cock presses against me, forcing its way inside my tight pussy.
He grips my wrists, pulling my arms back enough to wrench my shoulders as he takes me like a whore in a back alley.
I should be insulted, but all it does is fire up my lust. He’s thick and hard, stretching me wide.
The rough stone scrapes my cheek, but I barely feel it.
It’s a violation. A punishment. And my body fucking loves it.
A low groan escapes my lips, swallowed by the stone archways around us. This is insane. We’re in the middle of campus, in broad daylight. Anyone could walk into the courtyard. The thought is a dangerous thrill, a fresh wave of heat pooling in my gut.
His rhythm is relentless, a brutal pounding that jars my teeth and has my vision blurring at the edges.
He lets go of one wrist to slide his hand between the wall and me.
He flicks my clit as he fucks me like an animal.
Each thrust is a claim, a silent declaration of ownership that makes my blood boil and my cunt clench around him.
My orgasm hits me hard, a ragged, shuddering release that rips a scream from my throat. My body convulses, milking him. He drives deep one last time as he dumps his cum inside me.
He pulls out just as quickly, leaving me slick and trembling. I hear the rasp of his zipper, the click of his belt. I lean my forehead against the cold stone, my legs shaking too much to turn around.
He pulls my knickers and jeans up, but then he’s gone, leaving me panting and a ragged mess in the courtyard, held up by the stone wall. With trembling hands, I button up my jeans, pulling the zip up.
Why do I keep letting him use me like this?
Because a part of me is just as fucked up as he is.
That’s why. I shove the thought down, my hands balling into fists.
It’s not about being broken. It’s about power.
He took it. He asserted his dominance in the most primal way possible, and I let him because fighting would have been a different kind of submission.
A lie. I didn’t fight him because I wanted it.
I wanted the raw, brutal claiming of it all.
I push myself off the wall, my legs still unsteady. His cum is a warm, sticky reminder between my thighs. I smooth down my t-shirt, tug my coat straight, and force myself to walk out of the courtyard as if I were just taking a shortcut, not leaving the scene of my own debasement.
A group of girls walks past, laughing, their designer bags swinging from their arms. They don’t give me a second glance.
The normality of it is jarring. They have no idea what just happened ten feet away, no idea that one of St. Bart’s silent enforcers just fucked me against a wall without even asking.
I know it won’t be the last time.
Shaking my head to clear it, I aim for the dining hall, and nothing will stop me from reaching it this time.