Chapter 20 Sorcha
CHAPTER TWENTY
SORCHA
His words are a punch I didn’t see coming, and for a moment, I’m winded.
Stop fighting? It’s like telling me to stop breathing.
I bend down and tie my boots, the simple action a grounding force.
I don’t look at him. I can’t. If I do, he’ll see the crack in the armour, the tiny fissure his words have created.
I want to take him up on it. I want more than anything to pretend that I’m his red queen and that they can all look after me for the rest of my days, but that’s not who I am.
I’m a fighter. It’s in my blood, in my soul. Take that away, and what’s left?
“That’s not me,” I croak, avoiding their stares.
“Learn how to accept that you are now under our protection, or we will keep wearing ourselves out with this idiocy,” Ciar states.
“You think I’m being an idiot?” I growl, but to be fair, he has a point.
Why am I doing this? If they wanted to hurt me, truly hurt me, they wouldn’t have come to find me, and they could’ve killed me in my sleep.
Instead, I get cleaned up, taken care of, showered and helped to dress.
Yes, there is a darkness to these arseholes, but I’m just as bad.
Maybe it’s a match made in heaven. Or hell.
“I think you are being a stubborn idiot,” he says.
“You may have had to fight for everything, Sorcha, but that was your past life. That was you before you claimed your rightful name and created a storm that the Gannons will be wishing they could tame right about now. Being a Gannon doesn’t mean fighting, it means taking. ”
“And how would you know? You aren’t a Gannon.”
“Because it works that way with every mafia family in Ireland and beyond,” Cillian says. “Street gangs, bottom feeders, they have to fight, to beg for scraps. You are neither of those things.”
My shield cracks. “How do you know I’m none of those things? Why are you doing this?” To my absolute mortification, tears prick my eyes.
“Doing what?” Axl asks.
“Being so nice to me.”
“Nice?” Ciar snorts. “So far, we have been absolute dicks to you. That really makes me question who you’ve been hanging out with.”
His words are a slap, but he’s right. My life has been a parade of users and abusers.
Compared to them, this fucked-up possessiveness feels almost..
. kind. I hate myself for the thought. I swipe at my eyes, angry at the wetness there.
“Arseholes, that’s who. From my mother to her loser boyfriends, to anyone who got even a whiff of something I could give them. What makes you any different?”
“Her loser boyfriends?” Cillian growls, and I wish I hadn’t said that. He looks like he is about to implode and take us all with him.
“What makes us different, mo ríon dearg, is that we see you for who you are, not what you can give. That’s a perk, sure. But you have blown into our lives like a fucking tornado and made quite the impression.”
“Don’t,” I say, putting my hand up. “Don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it, and I don’t want it.”
“What if we want to be nice?” Axl says. “You can’t really stop us. You can’t stop us from doing anything.”
Well, he has me there.
“Can we just stop with this bullshit and go to class?” I mutter. I don’t want to be dissected this early in the morning.
“We can,” Ciar says, “but this conversation isn’t over. This started out as an asset gathering, but you, Sorcha, have become so much more to us.”
“Overnight?” I scoff.
Ciar doesn’t even blink. “Some things don’t need time,” he says, his voice a low, certain rumble. “They just are.”
For the first time, I don’t know how to handle these guys. I hate the weakness of it, but a small, treacherous part of me feels the iron-clad safety of the cage they’re building around me. It’s terrifying. But at the same time, it’s a comfort I didn’t know I wanted.
I turn from them and pick up my bag. Brushing past Axl to leave the room, I breathe more easily now that their overbearing presence isn’t an oppressive weight.
It doesn’t last. Ciar is already falling into step beside me down the stairs.
Even in his socked feet, he is a giant, silent presence beside me.
Axl and Cillian fall in behind us, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpet.
I’m being escorted. Boxed in. I reach the bottom of the stairs and stop in the middle of the cavernous marble hall, the silence ringing in my ears.
Stop fighting us.
The words are a brand, hotter and deeper than the one Ciar just carved into my back.
How? How do I stop the one thing that has defined my entire existence?
Fighting is my default setting. It’s the wall I built brick by bloody brick to keep the world out.
They’re not just asking me to lower my guard; they’re asking me to tear down the whole fucking fortress and trust that they’ll stand in its place.
That isn’t just trust, it’s something that doesn’t even have a word.
“Coat,” Axl says. “It’s cold out this morning.”
“It’s upstairs,” I mumble. “It’s fine.”
He whisks open a door built into the wood panelling and draws out a black coat that looks like it cost a fortune. He holds it out for me. “My mum’s,” he says with a snort. “But indulge me. She’s about your size, and she has forgotten it’s even here.”
“You want to dress me in your mum’s coat?” I croak.
“I want to dress you in the finest things, sunshine. I’ll buy you a new one. Just give me a day. I’m not a magician.”
I gulp, my eyes raking over it. It looks soft, warm and expensive.
Without thinking it through, I put my bag down and step forward.
He helps me into it, the carving on my back tugging painfully as I move.
It fits like a glove, feels like heaven and silk, and I can’t help but pull it closed with a stupid girly smile.
“Cashmere,” Axl murmurs. “Suits you.”
I give him a shy smile, which he returns, and then he scoops up my bag while Ciar gets his shoes on. “Let’s go.”
I nod, grateful for his return to business. I feel like a small child playing dress up, and it strikes me that I’m their little doll to dress up, move around and fuck as they choose.
But does it matter? Does it really fucking matter when the alternative is waking up freezing in a dingy flat with the gnawing ache of hunger in my stomach?
My pride, it seems, has fallen into the gutter along with my self-worth.
But as I step out into the cold, autumn morning with Axl slipping his hand into mine, Cillian at my other side, and Ciar at my back, I feel liberated in a way that makes my soul sing but also makes my brain cringe.
The cashmere is soft against my skin, a luxury I’ve only ever dreamed of.
Axl’s hand is warm, his fingers lacing through mine with an easy possession that makes my stomach clench.
It’s not a bruising grip like Cillian’s or a controlling hold like Ciar’s.
It’s a simple, undeniable connection. A statement to anyone who sees us.
The path to the lecture halls is a gauntlet of stares.
Yesterday I was a nobody with a famous name.
Today, I’m flanked by the Cerberus Order.
I’m untouchable. They’re a shield I didn’t ask for but am now standing behind.
My brain screams that I’m a fucking fraud, a kept woman in a borrowed coat.
But the part of me that’s been fighting since I could make a fist is quiet, listening.
This isn’t the power I’m used to, the kind earned with blood and broken bones.
This is inherited, absolute, and effortless.
They’re giving it to me, a piece of their kingdom.
I hate the debt, but I can’t deny the intoxicating thrill of it.
I squeeze Axl’s hand, a small, involuntary assertion.
He squeezes back, his thumb stroking over my knuckles.
He knows. He knows every conflicting thought warring inside me, and he’s enjoying the fucking show.
They expect my compliance in return, and I’ll give it.
I will give them whatever they want because this feeling right now of being mafia royalty is intoxicating, it’s addictive.
It’s dangerous. I stop in the middle of the quad, drawing Axl to a halt.
I turn to him and rise on my tiptoes, as much as boots will allow, wrapping my hand around the back of his neck.
I pull him down for a kiss, pressing my cold lips to his.
He is surprised, but then he falls into it, pulling me closer as his tongue delves into my mouth.
The kiss is anything but soft. It’s a clash of wills, a raw, hungry claiming.
For a split second, I’m in control, and then he takes over, his mouth slanting over mine, demanding and possessive.
His hand leaves mine to fist in the back of the cashmere coat, crushing the expensive fabric.
The other slides up my spine, his fingers pressing right over the raw cuts of Ciar’s name.
I gasp into his mouth, the pain a sharp jolt in the dizzying chaos of his kiss.
He pulls back, his eyes dark with a possessive fire that’s different from Ciar’s brute force. It’s sharper, more calculating. “Making a statement, are we, sunshine?” he murmurs, his breath ghosting over my lips.
“Making a claim,” I reply.
Axl’s thumb traces my lower lip, a slow, deliberate caress. “Good girl,” he whispers. “Who am I?”
I give him a seductive smile. “I’ll tell you later when I’m dripping cum all over your cock.”
His eyes flash with a deep desire and craving that makes me feel powerful. He grips my throat gently. “Promises,” he murmurs.
I back away, lowering my gaze, but I’m the one with the power here.
Yes, I’ll be their doll, their little plaything to dress up and brand.
But they are my kings, and I will give their possessiveness back to them tenfold.
They just unleashed a monster who will protect them as much as they claim they will protect me.
Did this just turn into a game of who will be the most overbearing?
Why, yes. Yes, I think it did. See how they like it.