Chapter 14 Sorcha
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SORCHA
My head is a drum, a frantic, pounding rhythm against the inside of my skull.
The world is a blurry smear of dark leather and passing lights.
Cillian’s thigh is a solid, warm pillow under my cheek, his fingers a ghost of a touch in my hair.
His thumb circles slowly against my temple, a maddening, soothing gesture that makes my skin tingle.
Humiliation burns hotter than the pain in my arm. I was taken. Knocked out like some amateur, and then found by them. The irony is a bitter pill I can’t fucking swallow. They didn’t save me. They just reclaimed their fucking property.
“Who were they?” My voice is stronger this time, laced with the fury that’s finally cutting through the fog.
“Don’t know yet,” Ciar growls from the front seat. “But we will.”
The promise in his voice is absolute, a vow of retribution.
The car slows, turning onto the red-bricked street where Axl’s fancy townhouse sits. We glide to a halt in the driveway, and Axl switches off the engine. He turns to me and hands me a small silver flask.
I take it with a nod of thanks as I sit up.
Whatever is in here, it’s not going to be the cheap vodka that awaits me at my flat.
I unscrew the cap, the rich, smoky scent of expensive whiskey hitting me.
I take a long swig, the liquid a trail of fire down my throat.
It’s smooth, potent, and it settles a small part of the chaos inside me.
Cillian gets out and opens my door. I ignore him, swinging my legs out and planting my boots on the pristine driveway. I get to my feet, a wave of dizziness making the world tilt. His hand is instantly on my elbow, a steadying weight I don’t want.
My legs feel like jelly, but I force them to hold me up as I follow Axl to the front door.
He pushes it open, and I step into the cathedral of marble and history. It’s even more intimidating now that I’m not being dragged through it.
“Through here,” Axl says, gesturing towards a pair of dark wood doors. “You look like shit. Let’s clean you up.” His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp, analytical. He’s not offering; he’s ordering. My aching body, for once, is too tired to fight.
I follow him into a study, all dark wood, leather-bound books, and the scent of old money. He gestures to a plush leather armchair by a cold fireplace, and I sink into it. It’s more comfortable than my bed.
Axl disappears for a moment and returns with a first-aid kit that looks more like a surgeon’s field pack. He kneels in front of me, his movements precise, almost clinical.
“Give me your arm,” he says, his voice a low command.
I hold it out, wincing as he carefully removes Ciar’s tee and cuts away the blood-soaked fabric of my sleeve with a pair of small, sharp scissors.
Ciar stands by the fireplace, a silent, brooding storm of frustration.
His bare chest, covered with ink, is hard and wide and delicious.
Cillian looms next to me, a silent guard who is going to be hard to shake after this fiasco.
Axl’s touch is surprisingly gentle as he cleans the gash. It’s not the possessive gentleness Cillian showed in the shower; it’s detached, methodical.
“Police?” I ask, taking another swig from the flask I now know Axl gave to me because he is about to cause me some serious pain. I hiss as the antiseptic hits the open wound.
“Yeah,” Ciar mutters. “They raided the crypt. They were looking for you, according to my dad.”
“Your dad. Iain MacMahon?”
He nods once. “It should be taken care of, but you need to lay low just in case.”
“Your dad took care of it?”
His gaze meets mine, but he says nothing. I don’t press. I don’t want to know. The MacMahon clan are not friends of the Gannons. Quite the fucking opposite.
“Someone ratted me out for killing Sean O’Malley?”
Cillian shakes his head. “No. It all happened too quickly. It doesn’t fit.”
“So why?”
“That’s what we will find out. Whoever knocked you out, saved your arse.”
I frown at him and then stifle a scream of pain as Axl pours more antiseptic into the gash. Panting, I glare at him, “Fuck off, will you?”
“No can do, sunshine. I don’t leave jobs half done.”
“I’m not a job.”
“Beg to differ. You are hard fucking work.”
I give him a withering stare. “Do you like kneeling before me, Your Majesty?”
He raises an eyebrow as he looks at me with amusement. “I’m not the King. The title you’re looking for is My Lord.”
The snort that escapes me is loud and unladylike, but I don’t give a shit. “My Lord, you’re a pain in the arse.”
He chuckles, but doesn’t reply; he simply starts plastering steri-strips over the wound.
Turning my attention back to Ciar, I ask, “Saved my arse, how?”
“Whoever knocked you out did you a favour. A brutally efficient, unsanctioned favour, but a favour, nonetheless. They got you off campus before the raid went down.”
So, I was saved by a punch to the face and an abduction. Fucking brilliant. Now I’m here. With the Cerebus Order.
“So, you’re a target,” Ciar continues, stepping away from the fireplace, closing the distance between us.
“From the police, from whoever wants you behind bars, and now from every last O’Malley cousin who thinks they have a score to settle.
Your little flat isn’t safe.” He stops right in front of my chair, forcing me to crane my neck to look up at him. “You’re staying here. With us.”
It’s not an offer. It’s a fucking sentence.
The trouble is, I don’t have the strength to argue, nor do I want to go back to my empty, dingy flat where anyone could break in and kill me in my sleep.
This place looks like it has better protection.
My pride wars with my self-preservation, but self-preservation always wins.
These three arseholes are useful tools. For whatever reason, they came to find me.
They are protecting me. It probably comes with strings attached.
Sexy, fucked against a wall until I can’t remember my own name strings, but I’d take serving these three over Big Betty in a prison cell any day.
I’m not ashamed to admit that cock gets me off.
I love it. I want it. I need it. The thought of Cillian’s monster cock ravaging my pussy makes my clit twitch, and I shift uncomfortably in the comfy chair as Axl wraps a bandage around my arm.
“Keep it dry, and we’ll check it again in a few days.”
“Thanks,” I mumble. “What now?”
“Now,” Axl says, “we establish the rules of your stay.”
I raise a brow, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, goodie. Is there a handbook?”
His lips twitch. “Rule one: you don’t leave this house without one of us. Rule two: you do exactly as you’re told. Rule three…” He pauses, his green eyes glinting in the low light. “You belong to us now, Sorcha. In every way. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for you.”
My blood runs cold. It’s not a threat. It’s a statement of fact. A change in the terms and conditions of my life that I never agreed to.
Ciar stares at me across the room, but I’m fucked if I know what he’s thinking. “Get some sleep.”
I push myself out of the chair, ignoring the way the room spins. “And what about O’Malley’s body? The police?”
“That’s our problem, not yours,” Ciar says, his tone final.
“Your only problem is staying alive.” He turns and strides out of the room, expecting me to follow.
Cillian falls into step behind me, his presence a heavy blanket I can’t shake off.
Axl follows. I’m being herded, escorted to my new cell.
It’s a gilded cage, but it’s a cage all the same.
But I’ve never been good at being caged.
That thought is shoved out of the way by the woman in me.
The woman who is tired of fighting for everything, tired of living in poverty, tired of lumpy beds and paper-thin walls, tired of being tired.
I tell myself that I can’t get used to this, but when I see the opulence of the townhouse, I want to cry.
Ciar leads me up a wide, curving staircase, my scuffed boots a sacrilege on the plush runner that muffles our steps.
The walls are lined with portraits of stern-faced men and women who look like they’ve never known a day of hunger in their lives.
This isn’t just money; it’s a dynasty. The kind of power that’s passed down, not scraped for in back alleys.
He stops at a heavy oak door and pushes it open, revealing a bedroom that’s bigger than my entire flat.
A massive four-poster bed dominates the room, piled high with white pillows and a thick duvet that looks like a cloud.
There’s a fireplace, a small sofa, and floor-to-ceiling windows draped in dark velvet.
“This is you,” Axl says from behind me, his voice a low murmur. “Try not to set it on fire.”
I walk in, my boots silent on the thick Persian rug. My fingers trail over the smooth, cool wood of the bedpost. It’s a fucking palace. The exhaustion I’ve been holding at bay crashes over me in a tidal wave. I could sleep for a week in this bed.
“I’ll go back for your things,” Cillian says quietly. “I’ll bring everything.”
I nod and then remember the envelope stuffed under the kitchen sink. I chew my lip, hesitating to trust him, but I can’t leave it there either. I grasp his arm when he turns, and he stops, facing me with an inquiring stare. “Look under the kitchen sink. Bring it.”
He nods once and leaves, followed by Ciar and Axl.
The door clicks shut behind them. I’m alone and in the lap of luxury. I sink onto the edge of the mattress, the softness a shock that makes me moan. My body aches, my head pounds, but for the first time in as long as I can remember, the fight in me is quiet. Not gone. Just sleeping.