Chapter 27 Ciar
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CIAR
I watch her breathing even out, her face finally relaxing into something that isn’t anger or defiance or fear.
It’s just... peace. Something I’m not sure I’ve ever seen on her before.
She’s been carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders for so long, she doesn’t know how to put it down.
The hot water bottle has slipped slightly, and I reach over to adjust it against her stomach without thinking. She doesn’t stir.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I ease it out carefully, not wanting to wake her. It’s a text from my father. Cian’s number. I have to say, I’m a little surprised. I figured he’d be the one to call me.
I stare at them for a moment, committing them to memory before I save the contact. This is the conversation that will either clear things up or make everything exponentially worse.
I glance at Sorcha again. Her red hair is spread across the pillow like flames.
I reach out to brush a strand of hair away from her face.
Her skin is soft, warm. Fragile in a way that makes something primal thump in my chest. The need to protect her is overwhelming, consuming.
It’s not rational. It’s not even smart, given who her family is and what that means for mine.
But I don’t give a fuck.
She shifts slightly, her hand coming to rest on top of mine. I freeze, waiting to see if she’s waking up, but she just sighs and settles deeper into sleep.
I ease off the bed as carefully as possible for a man of my size and slip out of the room, closing the door with barely a sound. In the hallway, I dial the number my father sent.
He picks up on the second ring. His voice is cold, clipped, rough, his Irish accent thick with suspicion. “Gannon.”
“Cian Gannon?” I ask, with a trace of amusement, though I already know.
“Who’s asking?”
“Ciar MacMahon. I believe we have something in common.”
There’s a long pause. I hear the flick of a lighter, the inhale of a cigarette. “A mutual hatred for one another?”
I snort. “Apart from that.”
“If you’re talking about my sister, I’d suggest you choose your next words very fucking carefully.”
Sister. Not half-sister. Not bastard. The word is a shot fired that I wasn’t expecting. “She’s safe.”
“She better be.”
“It was you? Last night?”
Another pause. “Someone had to get her off campus before the police showed up. She wouldn’t have gone willingly.”
“So, you knocked her out.”
“Better a bruise than a cell.” His voice is hard, unapologetic. “She’s stubborn. Gets that from our father.”
Our father. The words hang between us.
“Oisin was more than just stubborn,” I point out with a smile.
“Preaching to the choir, mate. What do you want?”
“Someone took a shot at her today. On campus. Sniper.”
The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long I almost think he’s hung up. Then I hear a low, dangerous exhale of smoke. “Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”
“Good fucking question. If you knew someone called the police on her before they showed up, but this sails past you… what gives?”
I hear some rustling and a muffled conversation that I can’t make out, and then more rustling. “Wasn’t aiming for her. Who was with her?”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I’d know.” Another pause and rustling. “Cillian Sullivan,” he says as if someone has passed that information to him. “Keep him away from my sister.”
“Not going to happen. She’s ours now.” The possessiveness in my tone comes across as a warning shot, and he knows it.
“Is that a fucking threat, MacMahon?”
“Statement of fact. Your sister walked into our world, and she’s not walking out. But that doesn’t mean we won’t protect her.”
He laughs, sharp and bitter. “A MacMahon protecting a Gannon? That’s rich.”
“Times change.”
“Not that much.” I hear another drag on his cigarette. “Where is she?”
“Sleeping. She’s… not feeling too great.
” I curse myself when I realise how that sounds.
“Woman stuff,” I add, so he knows we haven’t hurt her.
I don’t know why I suddenly give a shit.
Cian is the same age as us, in a less-than-elite university in England for mafia thugs.
He only runs his family because someone took it upon themselves to wipe Oisin off the board.
We are equals. He doesn't scare me, but the sense I have after this conversation is that Sorcha isn’t as unaffiliated as she might think.
She is on a short leash that she can’t even see. That gives me a reason to be concerned.
He grunts. “Good luck with that.”
I can practically hear the smirk in his voice, and it grates on me. “We don't need luck. We need answers. Who wants her gone?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The police thing? That was amateur hour. Someone with a grudge but no real power. The sniper? Not my concern unless she gets hit.”
I raise an eyebrow. Not that I expected much more.
I need to dig a bit deeper into Sullivan-Gannon relations.
If it’s as volatile as our history, we might want to rethink dragging Sorcha into this.
Not that it would mean giving her up, but it would mean giving everything else up and moving far away from here.
I’m not as opposed to that idea as I thought I would be.
“Any theories?”
“Plenty. None I’m sharing with a MacMahon.” His tone sharpens. “But I’ll tell you this much, arsehole, if another bullet comes her way, you better be the one taking it.”
The line goes dead before I can respond.
I stand there in the hallway, staring at my phone, processing everything he just said and didn’t say.
Cian Gannon is protective of his sister in a way that goes beyond family obligation.
He’s watching her. Or at the very least, keeping tabs on her and her name.
If he didn’t know she was shot at, that probably means he doesn’t have eyes on her directly.
He is a violent son-of-a-bitch, and he just gave me a direct order like I’m one of his fucking soldiers.
The thing is, I’m going to follow it.
I pocket my phone and head downstairs, finding Axl and Cillian in the study. Axl’s at his laptop, probably staring at Sorcha while she sleeps. Cillian’s cleaning a knife, because of course he is, that’s his happy place.
“Well?” Axl asks without looking up.
“Just got off the phone with Cian. He’s the one who took her last night.”
Cillian’s knife stills mid-swipe. “And?”
“And that’s it. Just as we thought. He knew she wouldn’t go willingly, and he had to get her out of there.”
“So he’s in the country.”
“No, I think he’s back in England now,” I say with a frown. “That is beside the point. He said the sniper wasn’t aiming for Sorcha.”
Cillian’s head snaps up, his blue eyes sharp and cold. “So it’s me.”
“He didn’t know about it, and he said he’d know if someone was targeting her specifically.” I cross to the drinks cabinet and pour myself a vodka, neat. The burn is welcome. “He wants you to stay away from her.”
“Fuck that,” Cillian says flatly.
“That’s what I told him.” I take another sip, letting the clear liquid work its magic. “But it means we’ve got a Sullivan problem, as well as a Gannon one.”
Axl finally looks up from his laptop, his expression thoughtful. “The Sullivans have enemies. Lots of them. Someone could be using Sorcha to get to Cillian.”
“Or using Cillian to get to Sorcha,” I counter. “Either way, we’re in the middle of something bigger than campus politics.”
Cillian stands, sliding the knife into its sheath with a smooth, practised motion. “I need to call my father.”
“Do it,” I say. “But Cian also made it clear that if another bullet comes her way, we’d better be the ones taking the hit.”
“Naturally,” Axl scoffs. “Who does he think he’s talking to?”
“The men who have taken control of his sister. Sister, by the way. Not half-sister, not my father’s bastard child. Sister.”
“She’s not as without family as she thinks,” Axl murmurs, sitting back and steepling his fingers.
“Precisely. For whatever reason, Gannon has let her come here to do whatever it is she planned to do, but that leash is short and it’s tight.”
“And invisible," Cillian says. “That makes this ten times more dangerous.”
“We need to tell her,” Axl says.
“Tell her what?” Sorcha says, hobbling into the room, her hot water bottle clutched to her like a shield.
“You should be in bed,” I murmur, going to her.
“This has gone cold,” she holds up the bottle. “I came down to fill it back up.”
“I’ll do it,” Cillian says, practically lunging at her and taking it before I can even move. I mentally roll my eyes at him. He is a love-sick puppy. That makes him dangerous. More dangerous.
Sorcha stands there, a question in her eyes that demands an answer. Axl’s lips twitch, ready to deliver the news with his signature brand of cruel amusement, but I shoot him a look that could curdle milk.
“I spoke to your brother,” I say, keeping my voice even, watching for her reaction.
“You mean half-brother,” she states.
And that pretty much tells me all I need to know. He wants her in his family, she doesn’t want him or any other Gannon anywhere near her.
“Cian,” I say with a nod, trying to keep this on track. “He was the one who saved you from the police.”
“By knocking me unconscious.”
“Pretty much. He knows you.” I smirk softly, and she glares at me, but I can see the amusement twinkling in her eyes.
“Apparently,” she mutters. “So, what now? He wants a favour? Money? What?”
“He wants to know you’re safe,” I say, the words feeling inadequate. Her whole life is a transaction, and she can’t see past it. The idea of protection without a price is alien to her, and I understand it.
“Safe,” she scoffs, the word a bitter pill she’s forced to swallow. “After he had me knocked out and thrown in a van?”
“He also says the sniper wasn’t aiming for you,” I add, deciding to rip the plaster off now. Her head snaps up, those blue eyes wide with confusion. “He thinks they were aiming for Cillian.”
Her cheeks go red. She looks from me to Axl, then to the empty space where Cillian was standing. The reality of her situation lands like a punch. She’s not just a target; she’s caught in the crossfire of a war that has nothing to do with her.
“Are you fucking joking?”
“Nope.”
“So not only do I have someone who wants me behind bars, I’m also being shot at because of something I haven’t done.”
“Basically,” Axl says, standing up and then pausing as Sorcha crosses to the Vodka bottle and uncaps it. She presses it to her lips and swallows a few mouthfuls, enough to knock most people on their arse. Not her, though.
Axl clears his throat. “Okay, I’ve never seen anyone guzzle Grey Goose before.”
“Is that what this is?” she asks, peering at the bottle.
“Good stuff. Better than that liquid lightning I can afford.” She tips the bottle back, her mouth wide open and pours the expensive vodka into her mouth like some kind of goddess.
It makes my cock so fucking hard, I want to rip her tampon out and fuck her where she stands.
“Jesus,” Axl mutters. “Okay. Back to the matter at hand. We still need to remember that this was a warning shot. Cillian is kind of hard to miss, even for a rank amateur. You, sunshine, were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“This time,” I growl. “We are fighting a war on two fronts.”
“So we are the troublemakers,” she snorts, the alcohol hitting her in force. “The ones you’d normally put out to pasture before shit hits the fan for real.”
She’s not wrong. The first sign of personal shit within families, and things tend to be dealt with brutally and efficiently.
“We aren’t putting either of you out to pasture,” I say, going to her and taking the empty bottle from her.
“You are the fucking epicentre of this. The prize. You are not disposable.”
She sways, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “The prize,” she echoes, the words slurring together. “So I just get to sit here and look pretty while everyone else decides if I live or die?”
She stumbles, and I catch her, pulling her flush against my chest. Her body is a dead weight, the fight finally drained out of her by fear and alcohol. My cock stirs. Even like this, a drunken, terrified mess, she sets my blood on fire.
“We decide if you live or die,” I correct her, my voice a low rumble against her ear. “And we’ve decided you live.”
I scoop her into my arms. She doesn’t fight me, just slumps against my chest, her head lolling onto my shoulder.
“Cillian,” I call out as I turn towards the stairs.
He appears in the doorway, the refilled hot water bottle in his hand, his face a mask of stone as he processes what we’ve learned. He places the hot water bottle onto Sorcha and steps back, knowing he has a phone call to make, while I tend to our queen.