Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CILLIAN
The change in Sorcha is imperceptible, but I see it.
The hunted look is gone, replaced by the chilling confidence of a predator who knows the pack has her back.
She’s learning our language. Power. She’s learning to wield it not just with a blade, but with a look, a touch, a kiss that silences an entire campus.
I meant what I said about not kissing her until she’s ready.
Something tells me she will defy that and kiss me first, just to see how I will react.
I’m not opposed to it, but it’s not ideal either.
It’s intimate. It means something. I don’t want her using it as a power move.
Placing my hand on the back of her neck, I move into her space, brushing my lips over the top of her head. “Try not to ruin him,” I murmur and listen to her giggle of amusement before I step back. “We’ll see you later.”
I shove Ciar away from her. He has a look. A look that I’ve never seen in his eyes before. This is pure, unadulterated possession. He doesn’t want to leave her or let her go without him.
“Gentlemen,” VC Smythe says, coming up behind us as Axl and Sorcha drift off to their first class. “A word.”
Ciar and I exchange a glance before we turn around. We should’ve known this was coming. Shit like last night doesn’t hit the fan without there being consequences of some kind to someone around here.
“Sir,” I say quietly. “Is there something wrong?” First rule of the Sullivans. Never admit to wrongdoing.
VC Smythe’s eyes are chips of granite, old and hard. He doesn’t look angry. He looks tired. “A death on campus. The police swarming my grounds. Heads of families are constantly ringing me. It’s an inconvenience.”
Ciar scoffs. “Sounds like your problem, Smythe.”
The VC’s gaze shifts to me, sharp and assessing. “And you, Mr Sullivan? Do you find a dead body to be my problem?”
I meet his stare without flinching. “I find anything that disrupts my education a problem.” The words are flat, non-committal. He can’t pin shit on me.
“Interesting choice of words. Seems that the Chief of Clan Sullivan had the exact same thing to say.”
“Like father, like son.”
“This isn’t a game,” he spits out.
“It’s never a game, sir,” I state, my voice flat. My gaze doesn’t waver. Smythe is a man who deals in power, and right now, he’s testing ours. He’s finding it more than he bargained for.
“A young man is dead,” he presses, his gaze flicking between me and Ciar.
“He made a bad decision,” Ciar says with a dismissive shrug.
Smythe’s jaw tightens. “And Miss Gannon? The police were asking for her specifically. She seems to be at the centre of this problem.”
“Take it up with the head of her family,” I state.
“The head of her family,” he says derisively. “She is a bastard without any affiliation.”
“I wouldn’t say that to her face. Her father was Oisin Gannon, whether anyone likes it or not. Her head of family is Cian Gannon. A nasty arsehole if the rumours are true. She is his half sister. Perhaps, less scorn and more respect is in order.”
Smythe gives me a scathing glare that might make weaker men wither.
Personally, I don’t give a fuck. I’ll rip his eyes out if he calls her a bastard again.
His nostrils flare. He’s not used to being spoken to this way.
He sees us as students, assets to be managed.
He forgets we’re the sons of men who could buy this entire institution and burn it for an insurance payout.
“Respect is earned, Mr Sullivan,” he says, his voice tight with fury.
“Not in this case,” I retort. “As far as we know, the body found in the crypt has vanished, if there even was one to begin with. So…” I let that denial hang there.
He can accuse me of lying, he can bring me in for disciplinary action, whatever.
But he will find he has to answer to Daragh Sullivan. I’m guessing he won’t want to do that.
I’m not wrong.
He glares at Ciar, who lifts his chin, daring him to take a shot.
Figuratively, of course. Smythe’s face goes slack for a moment, the mask of authority slipping to reveal the politician beneath.
He knows our families are forces of nature that could flatten him and this university without a second thought.
His fight is over before it’s even begun.
“This institution has rules,” he says, but the words are hollow, a last, desperate grasp for control he no longer has.
“And we have family,” Ciar says, his voice a low, mocking drawl. “Guess which one wins.”
Smythe’s nostrils flare. He straightens his tie, a pathetic attempt to regain his composure. “You are all on thin ice. Miss Gannon, especially. Any more disruptions, and my hands will be tied.”
It’s an empty threat. His hands are already tied, shackled by the power we represent. He’s warning us, but all I hear is his surrender. I give him a slow, deliberate nod that is anything but respectful. It’s a dismissal.
He turns on his heel and stalks away, his back a rigid line of impotent fury.
“Well, that was fun,” Ciar mutters, cracking his knuckles.
I don’t answer. My mind is already elsewhere. It’s with Sorcha and whoever took her away from being locked up last night. “Did you see a face last night?”
Ciar nods. “Sort of. A guy in his late twenties, maybe. Black hair, arrogant fucker.”
“Cian,” I murmur.
“You think?”
“Who else?”
“I thought they were in England?”
“Maybe they were. Maybe they are here now, keeping an eye on their spitfire making waves.”
“It would make sense. It also makes sense that she wouldn’t go with them.”
“So he fucking hit her and carried her away.”
“It’s effective, but he will pay for that if it is him.”
“He will. But that is secondary. First off, we need to find out who wanted her arrested. That leads to the other thing.”
He nods. He knows as well as I do that the arsehole who decided to play god with her fate is the real problem here. But we are flying blind.
“Ciar.”
We turn to see Annastasia walking over. “Did you find her?”
“Yeah. She’s fine.”
She nods. “Any idea who called the police?”
“Not yet, but we will. If you know anything—”
“I’ve already got ears to the ground. No one knows anything, or if they do, they aren’t talking. Yet.”
The brutality in her eyes isn’t to be messed with. She is unhinged and possibly a wild card. “Let us know what you find,” I say, my voice flat. It’s a dismissal.
Annastasia gives a sharp nod, her gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second too long. She’s assessing me, looking for a weakness. She won’t find one. She turns and walks away, swallowed by the river of students heading to class.
“Fucking snake,” Ciar mutters, his gaze following her.
“A useful one,” I counter. “For now.”
He doesn’t argue. We both know the truth of it.
In this world, you use whatever weapons you can find, even the ones that might bite you back.
We start walking, our paths diverging as we head to our separate lecture halls.
The image of Sorcha kissing Axl flashes in my mind, a hot, sharp sting.
She’s testing us, pushing boundaries, seeing how far the leash will stretch before it snaps.
She’s playing a dangerous game, but I wouldn’t expect anything less. She has been used and abused her whole life. She isn’t used to needing anyone. But by the end of the week, she won’t be able to live without us. She will crave us just as much as we crave her.