Chapter 26 Sorcha
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
SORCHA
The worry over the shooter is pushed to the back of my mind as I stand up and start pacing again.
I didn’t take my pill this morning. Nor did I take it yesterday.
And maybe even the day before that. With everything going on, it’s slipped my mind, and now I’m panicking.
I doubt three days is enough for it to fail, but let’s not forget all the cum.
Chewing my lip, I take a step towards the bathroom where my toiletry bag is with the pills inside and then stop dead.
“Oh, no, you didn’t.”
But the relief as my period starts hits me like a monsoon. I feel the gush between my thighs and move quickly to the bathroom, rummaging through my toiletry bag for the tampons.
“No,” I say as panic hits again. “No, no no…” I empty it upside down in the basin and sort through the contents, but no tampons. “Shit! Fuck!”
This is a fucking disaster.
The bedroom door bursts open, and Cillian comes racing in like his arse is on fire. “What’s wrong?”
I glare at him through the open door of the bathroom. “Nothing! Get out!”
He rears back like I’ve slapped him, but then that look crosses his face. The one that tells me the only way he is going anywhere is if I forcibly remove him, and that’s about as likely to happen as it is for me to pick up this townhouse and move it.
“Sorcha,” he rumbles. “I know you’re scared—”
“No, what I am is fine, and I don’t need you hovering.” I shove my hands into my hair. What am I going to do? The nearest shop is a mile’s walk away. A mile’s walk where I will be out in the open to get my head blown off or worse.
“Sorcha, speak to me,” he says, coming closer.
I press my thighs together as I feel myself getting wetter and not in the sexy way this time. “I need a shop,” I grit out.
“What for?”
“Shopping.”
He breathes in, infuriated. I can practically taste it. “I will go for you. What do you need?”
I stare at him, heat flooding my face. There’s no way I’m telling this mountain of a man that I need tampons. Absolutely not. I’ll figure something out.
“Just... forget it,” I mutter, turning back to the basin and shoving my stuff back into the toiletry bag with shaking hands.
“Sorcha.” His voice is closer now. Right behind me. “Tampons or pads?” he asks, his voice matter of fact, like he’s asking if I want tea or coffee.
I blink at him in the mirror, mortification burning through every cell in my body. “I... what?”
“Which do you prefer? I’ll go to the shop.”
The casual way he says it, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, makes something in my chest crack.
I’ve never had anyone offer to do this for me.
Ever. My mum certainly never did. I was always on my own, figuring shit out, too afraid to ask for help in case I was somehow blamed for ruining my knickers.
“T-tampons,” I splutter, dropping my gaze.
He nods once, like I’ve just given him an important mission, and he turns to leave. At the door, he pauses. “Anything else? Chocolate? Painkillers?”
The kindness in his voice is a knife twisting in my gut. I’m not used to this. I don’t know what to do with it. “Anything you think,” I mutter.
He stares at me for a brief moment, but then he’s gone before I can say anything else, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My face is flushed, my eyes too bright. I look like I’m about to cry, and that pisses me off more than anything. I’m not crying over a fucking period. I’ve dealt with worse. So much worse.
But the gentleness, the care, the way he didn’t make me feel like a burden, is breaking something inside me that I’ve kept carefully locked away.
The reality of what just happened crashes over me. I asked for help. I accepted help. From him. From them.
I feel like I’ve barely taken a breath when Cillian bustles back into the room, all business-like, loaded down with enough shopping bags to feed me for a week.
“That was quick,” I murmur.
“It’s an emergency,” he says and slaps the box of tampons down on the counter next to me. “Get sorted. The kettle’s on. I’ll bring you a hot water bottle.”
“What?” I breathe out, but he’s gone again, closing the bathroom door quietly behind him.
I stare at the closed door, my mind reeling. A hot water bottle? Who the fuck is this man? He’s supposed to be an enforcer, a killer, someone who breaks bones for a living. Not someone who knows what a hot water bottle is for, let alone offers to make one for a woman on her period.
I grab the box of tampons and sort myself out, the mundane action grounding me in reality.
When I’m done, I bundle up my clothes and wrap a towel around me.
When I walk out of the bathroom, Cillian is there, placing a fluffy hot water bottle in my bed.
On the bedside table, there are chocolates, crisps, a steaming mug of tea, and a magazine on hunting that I snort at.
I stand awkwardly, holding my dirty laundry, but he takes it from me with all the stoicism of the man I’ve come to know and maybe care about… a bit.
“Hunting?” I croak.
“Figured you’d prefer that over fashion.”
“Thank you, it’s thoughtful.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and then he clears his throat and backs out. “I’ll get the washing on.”
“Thank you, Cillian,” I say softly, but he’s already gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there for a second, my heart doing something uncomfortable in my chest. I’m alone with my thoughts and a pile of comfort items I never asked for but apparently desperately needed.
I drop the towel and pull on a fresh pair of underwear and my frayed pjs that have seen better days.
I crawl into the bed, pulling the duvet up around me and pressing the hot water bottle against my aching lower stomach. The heat is immediate relief, I moan softly as I nestle back against the mountain of pillows.
This is wrong. All of this is wrong. I shouldn’t be here, in this palace of a room, being taken care of by men who carved their names into my skin and fuck me like I’m their property. I should be angry. I should be plotting my escape.
But instead, I’m lying here, warm and safe, with chocolate and tea within reach, and I can’t remember the last time I felt this cared for.
I’m not just accepting their protection anymore. I’m starting to want it. Need it, even. The walls I’ve spent my entire life building are crumbling, and I don’t know how to stop it.
I don’t know if I want to stop it.
Reaching for the mug of tea, the warmth seeps into my palms. It’s made perfectly, strong, with just a hint of milk.
I sip the tea, letting the warmth slide down my throat, and reach for the hunting magazine.
The glossy pages are filled with rifles and survival gear, tracking techniques and wilderness skills.
It’s so far removed from fashion magazines and celebrity gossip that I actually laugh, a short, surprised sound that echoes in the quiet room.
He gets me. Somehow, this silent, violent man understands me better than anyone ever has.
The thought terrifies me.
I flip through the pages, not really reading, just letting my mind drift. The hot water bottle is glorious against my cramping stomach, and the pain starts to ease. There is a loud thump on the door, and I roll my eyes.
“Three guesses,” I mutter to myself before I say louder, “Come in, Ciar.”
The door opens, and the giant of a man fills the doorway. “How did you know it was me?”
“Wild guess,” I snort.
He walks in, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow feels final. His eyes scan the room, taking in the tea, the chocolates, the magazine, the hot water bottle pressed against my stomach.
“Did Cillian get you everything you needed?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
“He did.” I shift slightly, making room on the bed without really meaning to. It’s instinct now, apparently. Making space for them.
Ciar moves closer, his presence filling the room in that way he has. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the weight of him making me tilt slightly in his direction. His hand comes to rest on my ankle through the duvet, a warm, possessive weight.
“How are you feeling?” he asks.
I blink at him. Of all the things I expected from Ciar MacMahon, gentle concern over my period cramps wasn’t on the list. “I’m fine.”
His eyes narrow. “Try again.”
I sigh, pressing the hot water bottle harder against my stomach. “Crampy. Tired. Pissed off that someone tried to shoot me today. Take your pick.”
“All valid,” he says, his thumb starting to stroke small circles against my ankle. The touch is surprisingly soothing. “I’ll leave you to rest.”
He stands up again, but when he reaches the door, I blurt out, “Stay?”
He freezes and then turns around to stare at me. He doesn't say anything, he just walks back to the bed and sinks down onto it, kicking his shoes off before he swings his legs up.
We sit in an awkward silence for a while. I have no idea what to say to him.
“I’ve been reading about you,” he says eventually.
“Oh?”
“You had a good crew. Why did you disband and come here?”
I contemplate whether to answer that. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Try me.”
I stare at the open page of the magazine and chew the inside of my lip. “The thing about street gangs is that they only want one thing. Money. There is no loyalty. The second a bigger pay cheque comes along, they will stab you in the back and step over your body to take your place.”
“Why did you think I wouldn’t understand that?”
“That’s not the part I don’t think you’ll get,” I say, pushing back the duvet and gripping the hot water bottle, I climb out of bed, away from his overbearing presence. “Money isn’t a motivator here. Everyone was born with a silver spoon shoved up their arses,” I say, crossing to the window.
He snorts but doesn’t say anything.
“What I will find here is loyalty to power, to me.”
“Most people here already have loyalties to their families.”
I turn from the window to face him, the hot water bottle pressed against my aching stomach. “Yes, but I’m a Gannon without a family. I’m unclaimed territory, which makes me valuable. People want my name with no affiliation to other Gannons. It’s a Gannon legacy waiting to be sprouted.”
“That makes sense why you decided to use the name. What is the name you were born with?”
I shrug. If he’s been reading about me, he already knows. He’s just asking to make me admit something I don’t want to admit. “Doesn’t matter. That girl is dead.”
The words hang heavy in the air between us. I watch Ciar’s expression shift, something dark flickering behind his eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition of a kindred spirit who’s also buried parts of themselves.
“We all kill who we were to become who we need to be,” he says finally, his voice low and rough. “The difference is, most people do it in pieces. You did it all at once.”
I turn back to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The campus stretches out below, all manicured lawns and gothic architecture. A fucking fairy tale hiding monsters. “I had to. The girl I was couldn’t survive in this world.”
“She survived long enough to become you,” Ciar points out. “That’s not weakness.”
Something in my chest tightens at his words. I don’t want to feel this strange, uncomfortable warmth that comes from being seen. Being understood. I’ve spent so long being invisible, being nothing, that having someone look at me and see value is terrifying.
“Why do you care?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
I hear his footsteps crossing the room, slow and deliberate. Then he’s behind me, his massive frame blocking me in. His heat seeps into my back, and I have to fight the urge to lean into him.
He sighs. “I don’t know. It’s a new thing for me.”
“Same.”
We lapse into silence, and he takes my hand and leads me back to the bed. I crawl in and curl up, facing him as he settles down. I close my eyes as a way to stop any more conversation, but I soon feel the safety net of his presence enough for sleep to drag me under.