Chapter 16 Sorcha
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SORCHA
Showering while trying not to get the bandage wet was harder than it sounds.
Maybe I should’ve let Cillian help. That thought doesn’t sit well with me; it only makes me angry.
I snatch up the envelope I left on the bathroom counter and move back into the bedroom, shoving it under the mattress for now.
I’ll find a better place for it tomorrow.
With the towel still wrapped around me, I crawl into the cloud bed and groan as my aching muscles relax into pure perfection.
My eyes close, but all I think about is the throb in my cheek from the one punch that knocked me completely out.
It bothers me more than the gash on my arm.
My ego is as bruised as my face. The humiliation is a physical thing, a sour taste in the back of my throat.
I’ve taken beatings before, fought my way out of corners where I was outnumbered and outmatched, but I’ve never been taken down so easily.
One punch. One clean, professional hit, and my world went black.
It’s a weakness I didn’t know I had, and now they all know it too.
Sleep is a coward’s retreat, but my body is screaming for it. I let my eyes close, drifting into the black, dreamless void my body craves.
The soft click of the door latch is a gunshot in the silence. My eyes fly open, every muscle tensing. I’m off the bed in a flash, the towel clutched around me, my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s Axl. He stands in the doorway, holding a bottle of water and a bottle of pills. He doesn’t seem surprised by my reaction. He just closes the door quietly behind him and walks over to the bedside table, placing the items down.
“For the pain,” he says, his voice a low, infuriatingly calm murmur.
I don’t move.
“Get back in bed, you’re safe here.”
“Am I?” I ask archly, but do as he says anyway. I’m too tired to stand around arguing with him.
“More than anywhere else.” His gaze is soft when he looks at me, and I remember his hand in mine before he told me to fight Sean O’Malley to the death. “Why did you change the rules?”
He frowns as I snuggle back into bed, directly in the middle, feeling like a queen. “The rules of what?”
“The Gauntlet.”
He raises an eyebrow and sits on the bed. “He needed to be taken care of. You looked like you needed a kill.”
“That’s it?”
“You will always get what you want, Sorcha. You have three kings who would burn the world down for you.”
We lock gazes as my heart pounds. “I thought you weren’t a king,” I murmur.
He chuckles softly. “I said I wasn’t the King.” His hand moves slowly to pull the duvet down, revealing my body wrapped only in a towel. I don’t stop him. Nor do I feel cold. The heating is on, blasting away merrily, keeping the cold at bay.
His gaze never leaves mine when he reaches over to pluck the towel away from my body, revealing all of my assets.
He breathes in appreciatively. “You are beautiful,” he murmurs, running his fingers lightly between my tits.
“If you act recklessly again and even a small bruise mars this flawless skin, I will punish you, Sorcha. Do you understand me?”
My breath hitches.
He tugs on my nipple and then twists it hard enough for me to yelp. “Do you understand me?”
I’m furious. He is gaslighting me again.
But something dark inside me is thrilled with this morally corrupt man staring at me with his fancy accent, his fancy title, in his fancy house, making me wet by a simple touch.
“Yes,” I hiss, the word torn from my throat, sharp and brittle.
My nails dig into the plush duvet, the only anchor I have against the dizzying whirlwind of fury and arousal flooding my system.
A slow, satisfied smile curves his lips.
He releases me, but his hand doesn’t retreat.
It glides down, his fingertips a ghost of a touch over my ribs, leaving a trail of fire on my skin.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a silken threat.
“I would hate for you to misunderstand the terms of our arrangement.”
“And what arrangement is that?” I bite out, my voice tight. “The one where you get to play doctor with my injuries and God with my life?”
His hand slides lower. His thumb finds my clit, and I gasp as he strokes back and forth, a possessive, hypnotic rhythm. “You are a fascinating work of art, Sorcha Gannon. A masterpiece of survival and rage. And I have no intention of letting anyone else damage the canvas.”
His words are a cage of twisted logic, painting his control as protection. My cunt clenches, a wet, shameful pulse. He feels it and increases the pressure. I tremble on the bed, refusing to tear my stare from his. “Who am I, Sorcha?”
“An infuriating prick,” I rasp.
“Wrong. I am your master. You will do everything I say or suffer the consequences.”
“I don’t take orders.”
He removes his thumb, but keeps his hand on me. “No?”
He has me cornered. Either I agree and he makes me come, or I refuse and I have to do it myself.
There is no real pleasure in that. His smile widens, a slow, cruel curve of his lips.
“A shame.” His hand retreats, taking the heat with it, leaving my skin cold and my core aching with a hollow need.
He stands, his movements fluid and unhurried, a predator who knows its prey is already trapped. “You’ll learn.”
He moves to the door, and a raw, animal panic claws at my throat. He’s just going to leave me like this? Aroused, humiliated, and utterly alone?
He pauses, his hand on the brass knob, and looks back at me over his shoulder.
“Pleasure is a privilege, Sorcha. A reward for obedience. You’ll find it’s a much more effective motivator than pain.
” His green eyes are dark, holding a promise that is a threat and a temptation.
“When you’re ready to earn it, you know where to find me. ”
The door clicks shut behind him, the sound a final, damning verdict.
I lie there, naked and trembling, a storm of fury and frustrated desire raging inside me.
He didn’t force me. He didn’t threaten me with violence.
He just dangled a key in front of my cage and told me I had to ask for it to be turned.
Fucker. He’s worse than Ciar and Cillian combined.
They want to own my body. Axl wants to own my will.
My hand drifts down, my fingers a poor substitute for his. It’s not the same. It’s not about the orgasm. It’s about the surrender, and he just made it my choice to give it.
I spread my legs wider, throwing my head back against the pillows and rub.
Hard, fast, almost savagely. I’m trying to erase him, to reclaim this piece of myself with a frantic, punishing friction.
But his words are a ghost in the room, his phantom touch a brand on my skin.
The pleasure, when it finally comes, isn’t a release.
It’s a violent, tearing thing that rips through me and leaves a hollow ache in its wake.
It’s a lonely, desperate act that proves his fucking point.
I fall back against the pillows, panting, slick with sweat and rage. They’re a three-headed monster, each one with a different method of breaking a soul. Axl is the worst. He’s the poison that makes you thank him for the slow, agonising death.
My gaze falls on the bottle of pills and the water he left. My head still pounds, a dull, throbbing reminder of my weakness. Swallowing my pride feels like swallowing glass, but I need to be sharp. I need my strength.
I grab the bottle, popping two pills into my palm and swallowing them dry, ignoring the burn in my throat. It’s not submission. It’s strategy. Two can play at that game. He wants to play a game to see who can edge the other the best. I know a thing or two about leaving a guy high and dry.
Fucker.