Chapter 18 Sorcha
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SORCHA
Nothing will keep them away when they want something.
I’m not sure if I should be terrified, pissed off or thrilled.
Axl has satisfied my body tonight. I was in need of a release after this shitshow of a night.
Now, I can sleep, and sleep well in the knowledge that I’ve left his cum on me in a statement that speaks volumes to men like him.
He will kneel before me again, and this time he will be begging me to touch him.
Begging me to take what he thinks he owns.
The thought is a small, hard ember of comfort in the ashes of my humiliation. My body is a traitor, still humming with the aftershocks of his touch, his scent on my skin.
My eyelids are heavy as lead weights. The pills, the whiskey, the pain, the fear, the sheer fucking exhaustion of the last twenty-four hours are finally dragging me under.
I curl onto my side, the duvet a heavy, comforting weight.
Sleep pulls me down, a dark, welcome tide; I only wake when I feel someone watching me.
My eyes snap open in the morning light. I’m still curled up exactly how I went to sleep. Flipping over, I spot Cillian on the sofa, staring at me.
“I might’ve known,” I say, my voice rough with the best sleep I’ve ever had. “How long have you been watching me?”
“Six hours, seven minutes and fifty-five seconds.”
I blink slowly. “That’s not specific,” I mutter.
“Do you need help?”
“With going about my day? No, thanks.” I’m being a bitch.
I don’t mean to be, but it’s habit. To be fair, after the first hour or so, Cillian has been nothing but sexy and nice to me.
Protective like a big, giant pet bear that also has a massive cock.
Okay, scratch the bear analogy. That puts weird thoughts in my head.
He doesn’t rise to the bait. He just sits there, a mountain of quiet intensity.
“Breakfast is ready downstairs,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the room.
My stomach clenches. I swing my legs out of bed, letting the duvet fall away. The morning air is cool against my naked skin. I don’t bother to cover myself. I meet Cillian’s gaze, a silent challenge. Let him look.
His blue eyes flicker over me, a slow, deliberate assessment that isn’t sexual. It’s cataloguing. He takes in the bruise on my face, the gash on my arm.
“I need to shower,” I say quietly. I walk to one of the bags he brought last night and pull out a clean set of black knickers and a bra. The feeling of his eyes on my back is a physical weight, a brand just as potent as Axl’s cum.
“Let me help,” he says. It’s almost a plea, as if he can’t bear to see me struggle.
“Fine,” I say, only to stop him hovering. If he’s doing something productive, maybe it will help him take a step back later. He follows me into the bathroom, and I try not to get irritated. I’m not used to this. I’m not used to anyone caring in this way.
“Can I ask you something?” he says, turning his attention to the shower. It’s ginormous with three heads. The irony does not escape me.
“If you must.”
“What did Axl do to you last night?”
He doesn’t face me; he pretends to be busy getting the shower to the perfect temperature and messing with the sponge.
“Nothing I didn’t want him to.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
That’s it. Okay?
I shrug. I’m not going to say anything else. There is nothing else to say.
In the next second, he turns and lifts me onto the counter, pushing my legs open so he can stand between them. He pushes my tits together and plays with my nipples.
“I can’t keep away from you, Sorcha. Don’t ask me to,” he murmurs. His thumbs are rough against my nipples. My breath catches, my pussy clenching in a way that’s becoming far too familiar. This is raw, desperate need, and it’s a language I understand much better than insults and mind-fucks.
“I wasn’t going to,” I breathe, the words a surrender I didn’t know I was willing to make until they were out.
A muscle jumps in his jaw. His eyes are dark, a storm of something I can’t quite name as he leans in, his mouth hovering just inches from mine. He smells of clean soap and expensive aftershave.
“Good,” he growls, before stepping back, leaving me wanting. He picks me up by my waist and places me gently in the shower.
He guides my injured arm away from the spray, muttering about waterproof coverings. I close my eyes and let him take care of me. He wants to. I want him to. I am tired of taking care of myself, and if he is offering, this enormous, violent man that wants to protect me, then who am I to stop him?
His hands, which I know can snap a man’s neck, are impossibly gentle.
He lathers the sponge, his knuckles brushing my skin, sending shivers that have nothing to do with the water temperature.
He works methodically, washing away the grime of the crypt, the dried blood, Axl’s cum.
It’s an erasure. A cleansing. A claim. He’s scrubbing away their marks so he can leave his own.
He moves from my legs up to my stomach, his touch reverent.
When he gets to my breasts, he doesn’t tease me.
He just cleans them, his thumbs circling over the peaks, making my nipples pebble hard under the soft sponge.
My head lolls back against the cool tiles, a silent surrender.
This quiet, deliberate care is more disarming than any threat.
“You’re clean,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against the tiled walls. The words hang there, meaning more than they should.
He turns off the water, and the sudden silence is deafening.
He wraps a ridiculously fluffy towel around me, his movements sure and steady.
He lifts me out, setting me on the plush bathmat.
His hands linger on my waist, his thumbs stroking my hipbones.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and for a second, I think he’s going to kiss me.
I want him to kiss me. I want to taste the quiet violence he keeps leashed inside. But he moves his mouth away again.
It’s infuriating.
“Why won’t you kiss me?”
He frowns but busies himself with drying me.
“Good enough to fuck but not to kiss, is that it?”
His eyes darken to the colour of a stormy sea. The towel in his hands drops to the floor. Before I can blink, his hand is fisted in my hair, yanking my head back so I’m forced to meet his savage gaze. The gentle giant is gone, replaced by the enforcer.
His other hand clamps around my jaw, his thumb pressing hard into the hollow of my cheek.
It hurts. I don’t care. “A kiss from me goes deeper than a fuck, Sorcha. It’s a fucking brand.
It means you’re mine. It means I’ll kill anyone who looks at you, touches you, breathes the same fucking air as you. You aren’t ready for that.”
His words are a punch to the gut, a declaration of war and possession that steals the air from my lungs. “Says who?” I croak.
“Me,” he growls and releases me, picking up the towel and going back to drying me.
I stare down at him as he dries my feet. “The next time you want to get your dick wet, consider this conversation,” I say and lift my foot out of his gentle grasp and place it on his chest. I shove as hard as I can without toppling myself.
He barely budges. Fucking giant, brute.
His expression doesn’t change, but his hand shoots out, clamping around my ankle. His grip is a manacle of warm flesh and bone, pinning my foot to his chest before he drops it lower until it’s pressed over his dick.
I grind down, feeling his stiff cock grow harder.
His sharp, soft intake of breath lets me know how much this is affecting him.
“Why me?” I murmur.
“Why you what?”
“Why do you want to protect me?”
“Because you are mine. The second you slashed me with your knife, I knew it.”
“You let me,” I say, feeling both pissed off and aroused by that.
“I let you,” he confirms, his voice a low vibration that travels up my leg and straight to my cunt. He let me mark him. The thought is a dizzying mix of fury and a dark, thrilling power. He wanted this. He wanted me to claim him just as much as he wanted to claim me.
I press my foot harder against him, feeling the thick, unyielding length of his cock through the rough denim.
A low growl rumbles in his chest, a predator’s warning, but his hand on my ankle doesn’t tighten.
It gentles, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.
I bend down and run my fingers over the scratch on his neck.
“This makes you mine,” I murmur, digging my nails into his neck around the wound. “Is that what you want?”
He doesn’t answer me.
He doesn’t need to.