Chapter 19 Ciar
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CIAR
I trace the letters of her name on my arm, the scabs a rough reminder under my fingertips.
The cool morning air is bliss after the heat from the townhouse.
I was fucking roasting and had to get out from under it.
My feet hit the pavement as I start a run around the campus.
The burn in my lungs is a welcome fire. I push harder, faster.
My phone rings and I slow down, pulling it out of my joggers.
“What?” I ask, answering it.
“Is that any way to speak to the man who saved all your arses?”
“Dad,” I say. “Want to be more specific?”
“No.”
“Fair enough. Gannon… is she in the clear?”
“She is. For now.”
“Who called the police on her?”
“Anonymous tip.”
“O’Malley?”
“Sorted.”
“Any idea who took Sorcha?”
“Nope.”
“Fine. Thanks.” I hang up on him mid-snort. He knows better than to expect more from me. The same goes for him. My father plays his cards so close to his chest he’s practically eating them. He knows more than he’s letting on. He always does.
I set off again, my mind turning over everything.
An anonymous tip. An abduction to save her.
It’s too neat, too coincidental. Two different groups targeting her on the same night.
One wants her locked up, the other wants her free.
But how did one know about the other? The men who took her, her supposed saviours, they left her in that van for us to find.
It was a message. A warning. I jog around the lake, avoiding the crypt which still has police tape flapping in the wind.
We will have to call off any fights for a while. It’s too risky.
I pick up my pace again. It’s a game, and Sorcha is the fucking prize. Her supposed saviours are just another set of players on the board. The Gannons? Her old crew? It could be anyone. Dublin is a snake pit, and she’s just walked out of one den and into another.
The thought that someone else got to her first, that they put their hands on her and left their mark, is a fucking acid in my veins. It doesn’t matter if they were ‘saving’ her. They touched what’s mine. They hurt what’s mine. That’s a debt that will be paid in blood.
I sprint the last stretch back to Axl’s townhouse.
The place is quiet. Kicking off my running shoes, I take the stairs two at a time.
The door to her room isn’t locked. I push it open to see her sitting at the dressing table, wrapped in a towel, Cillian brushing her hair.
The sense of familiarity between them is interesting.
Cillian glances up as I enter. Sorcha glares at me in the mirror.
I ignore both of them and cross over to take the brush from Cillian.
He relinquishes it and steps back. I wrap a thick handful of her hair around my fist, pulling her head back, her furious gaze is trapped by mine in the mirror.
I lean down to whisper in her ear, “You’re in the clear. For now.”
Her eyes widen, but she remains silent. I release her and brush her wet hair, trying to be as gentle as I saw Cillian being. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“So that means I can go to lectures.”
I slow the brushing, but I don’t stop. “You can, but you need one of us with you.”
“I didn’t see you in any of my classes yesterday.”
“So?”
“So, you can’t just ditch your own classes to play babysitter to me.”
“Says who?”
“Me. VC Smythe. Your parents who are paying for all of this.”
I chuckle. It’s dark, and it makes her eyes flash. “Who made you the source of responsibility?”
“I did,” she spits out, but she’s not overly angry. She’s tired. I can see it in her eyes, her posture, her soul.
“My responsibility is keeping what’s mine safe. Everything else is just noise.” I pull the brush through another tangle, gentler this time, the bristles scraping softly against her scalp. She doesn’t flinch. Her defiance is a fortress, but I’m finding the cracks.
She hates being owned. She hates knowing she needs us. I fucking love it. “I’m not yours.”
My fingers replace the brush, tangling in the damp silk of her hair. “You’re a queen. And a queen needs a kingdom. Welcome to yours.” I tug gently, forcing her to meet my gaze in the mirror. “The rules are simple. You obey. You stay by our side. You live.”
Her lips part, a sharp retort ready to fly, but she swallows it. She’s learning. Slowly. Painfully.
I let her hair slip through my fingers and step back, my gaze dropping to the towel she’s wearing. It’s a flimsy barrier against what I want to do to her. Cillian is still watching, his expression unreadable. He’s a silent partner in this claiming, his presence an unspoken threat and a promise.
I reach around and flick the towel open. She doesn’t stop me.
“Like what you see?” she murmurs.
I don’t reply with words, but with my fingers.
I tug on her nipple until it’s as big as a pebble, ripe enough to suck, to bite.
Her skin is flushed, her nipple a tight, defiant peak between my fingers.
I twist it, just enough to make her gasp, to see the flash of pain and pleasure in her eyes in the mirror.
She wants this. She wants to be owned, to be fought over, to be claimed.
She just doesn’t know how to ask for it.
“You’re a fucking work of art, Sorcha Gannon,” I murmur, my voice low and rough.
“And we are the only ones who get to touch.” My gaze flicks to Cillian’s reflection.
He hasn’t moved. He just watches, his face a stone mask, but I see the darkness in his eyes.
He knows this is our claim, a joint venture.
Releasing her abruptly, I place my hand on her upper back and push her forward until her face is resting against the old wood of the dressing table.
Reaching around for the knife shoved into the back of my joggers, I pull it out and twirl her hair around my fist. Pressing the tip to the nape of her neck, I draw blood.
She hisses.
Cillian growls, but he doesn’t move. He wouldn’t dare.
“Lucky for you, my name isn’t as long as yours,” I murmur with a soft laugh.
Her shoulders tense, and she tries to move, but I press down harder. “No!”
“Be still, mo ríon dearg.” My red queen.
“I am not yours, and if you brand me with your name, I will cut your dick off,” she growls, twisting violently.
Cillian steps forward and places his hand on the side of her head. “Be still, Sorcha.”
“You’re going to let him do this?” she growls as I carve my name down her spine.
“It’s already done,” I say, letting her go. “While you were fighting me, I was owning you. Do you see the power dynamic here, Sorcha?”
She shoves herself up, a movement so violent, the dressing table stool topples over with a clatter. She spins around, one hand flying to her back, her face a mask of pure, murderous rage. Blood smears her fingertips when she pulls her hand away.
“You bastard,” she snarls, launching herself at me.
I catch her easily, my arms wrapping around her, pinning her against my chest. She struggles like a cornered animal, all teeth and claws, but it’s useless.
I’m bigger, stronger and a lot taller. I lift her off her feet.
Her naked body is a hot, frantic press against mine.
I hold her tighter, letting her feel the absolute futility of her fight.
Her struggles lessen, replaced by a tense, trembling stillness.
“You will learn that we are not your enemy.”
“My family hates yours,” she snaps. “I can see why.”
I smirk and place her on her feet. “Doesn’t that make this so much more interesting?” I murmur, gripping her chin.
“It’s like a fucked-up Romeo and Juliet,” Axl says from the doorway.
Sorcha growls, but she can’t fight us. She knows she won’t win. She also knows none of us will hurt her, not in a way that would incapacitate her. I want to see what she does next.
She steps back and turns to the bags Cillian brought to her last night. With rapid, jerky movement, she pulls some clothes out while the carving on her back bleeds. Picking up the towel, I move to the bathroom and wet it, before returning to her and patting the cuts clean.
She hisses, but not with anger. It soothes her.
Axl takes her underwear from her, and I step aside to let him dress her. I will make a total cock up of that. I can rip them off but putting them on is too gentle for my strength.
He kneels, a lord attending his queen, and slides the knickers up her legs.
Sorcha stands rigid, her face impossible to read.
She doesn’t fight him. She lets him do it.
Axl’s touch is proprietary, his fingers brushing against the inside of her thigh as he straightens the fabric.
He rises, taking the bra next. He turns her to face him, his thumbs smoothing the lace over her breasts before he fastens the clasp at her back, avoiding the marks I gave her.
It’s a slow, deliberate dressing, an intimate ritual of ownership.
My name, a raw, bloody script, stands out against the pale skin of her back. My mark. Cillian’s gaze is fixed on it, his jaw tight. He sees what I see. A perfect canvas, finally signed.
Sorcha yanks a black top over her head, hiding the brand from view, but we know it’s there. She knows it’s there. That’s all that matters. “Happy now?” she bites out.
“Ecstatic,” Axl murmurs, handing her a pair of black cargo pants. “Get dressed. We have a class to attend. I’ve changed my timetable. I’ll be joining you all day long. Won’t that be fun?”
She snatches them from him, her movements jerky with suppressed rage. She’s a storm contained in a beautiful, breakable vessel, and we hold the fucking leash. The game has changed.
“Fucking delightful,” she says, but there is no heat in it. Part of her wants it after everything that’s happened. She turns to me and breathes out. “What happened to Sean O’Malley?”
“It’s sorted.”
“Sorted how? I killed him, and a large portion of the student body witnessed it.”
“It’s been taken care of.”
“How?” she demands.
“My father took care of it.”
She steps back. “Great, so now I owe Iain MacMahon. This day just keeps getting better.”
“You don’t owe him anything,” I say with a frown. “Whatever he wants, he will have to get it from me.”
Her gaze shoots to mine. “No,” she says, “I pay my debt. I’m not a fucking charity case.”
“No, you are mine,” I say, reaching out to brush her hair back from her face. “And this is what it means to be mine.”
“You pay my debts for me? So that I end up owing you?”
Exasperated, I sigh and rub my hand over my face. This woman exhausts me. “Why does everything have to be a fight with you?”
It startles her. She has absolutely no idea how to respond to that.
Her mouth opens, then closes again. For the first time since she crashed into our lives, she looks utterly lost. The fire in her eyes dims, replaced by a flash of something raw, something that looks a hell of a lot like pain.
It’s gone in a second, but I saw it. I saw the girl who had to fight for every breath, every scrap of food, every inch of respect.
“Because it’s the only thing that’s ever kept me alive,” she finally says, her voice low and tight. She yanks on her boots with furious, efficient movements, not looking at any of us.
The words hang in the air, heavy and sharp.
“Not anymore,” I say, quietly, going to her and kneeling in front of her. “We will keep you alive, now, Sorcha. Stop fighting us.”
She blinks but doesn’t say anything.