Chapter 29 Sorcha
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SORCHA
My hand hits something cold and solid, and I groan as I turn over.
A sharp pain pings in my injured arm, and I open my eyes.
My vision swims, but in the dark, I see a wall of white in front of me.
Panic hits my chest, and I sit up, my head swimming.
I shove my hair out of my face and look around.
I’m in the bathtub. Frowning, I climb out, regretting with every fibre of my being downing that vodka earlier.
It’s the last thing I remember. I have no idea how I ended up in the tub. I must’ve thought it was my bed.
To be fair, I’ve had plenty of beds that were less comfortable than hard, cold porcelain, so it’s not a stretch to think this was where I had to pass out.
My pyjamas are twisted around me, and my stomach churns. I stumble out of the bathroom, my hand pressed to my throbbing temple.
The bedroom is crowded with the three men I’ve taken it upon myself to shack up with, and I stop dead at the sight of them, guns shoved into pants, faces grim. “What happened?”
Axl is the first to speak, an unconcerned smile playing on his lips. “Just some late-night redecorating. Someone decided my study needed more ventilation.”
Ciar shoots him a look that could kill. “There was another shooter,” he says, his voice a low, serious rumble that cuts through the fog in my head.
I look between them, my gaze landing on the gun Cillian is tossing from one hand to the other. My stomach twists unpleasantly. “A sniper? Here?”
“Aiming for Axl, this time,” Ciar says, his eyes fixed on mine, watching me, gauging my reaction. “Or at least, that’s what we thought.”
“Thought?” My voice is a croak.
It’s Cillian who answers, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Your brother called.”
I flinch. “Half-brother,” I murmur. This is a sticking point for me, a hill I will die on.
“He received a message,” Ciar continues, his tone hardening. “A picture of you. A fake one. It was… unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant.” I don’t need details. “So you put me in the bathtub?”
“That was to protect you in case the shooter started aiming upstairs. They didn’t. They left.”
“And you left me in the bath?”
“For the time being. Safest place for you,” Ciar grits out.
I nod, feeling truly awful and not because of the vodka. I inhale deeply and prepare myself for something that doesn’t happen often. “I’m sorry. I made myself vulnerable by getting drunk. It won’t happen again.”
Cillian glares at me. “Do what you want, we will always protect you.”
Ciar’s gaze is a weight I can’t ignore, and I shift my attention to him. “Cillian is right. We don’t care if you want to go out there naked to dance in the rain. It is our job to protect you, no matter what.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff. “I can take care of myself.”
“We know that,” Axl says. “But still. Indulge us.”
“By dancing naked in the rain?”
He smirks. “If you want.”
“I need to change,” I mutter, remembering my tampon when my stomach gives an unruly cramp alongside the vodka-induced roiling.
“Need any help?” Cillian asks softly.
“Changing my tampon? Nah, I’m good thanks,” I mutter, trying not to look too mortified.
“Oh,” he says and swallows. “Okay, but if you need anything, anyone to—”
“Pull my tampon out and dispose of it? Insert a new one? Are you offering?” I challenge.
“If you need me. I’m not afraid of blood.”
I close my eyes briefly and hold my hands up. “Just don’t,” I say and turn towards the bathroom, wondering where the fuck this guy came from. He is unreal.
But sweet.
Really, really sweet, and I don’t deserve it.
Before I can stop myself, I turn back to him and stride over, cupping his face and planting a soft kiss on his lips.
He freezes, as still as a fucking statue, and I remember his declaration of kissing. I pull back and run my thumb over his bottom lip. “Next time,” I murmur.
His blue eyes darken to the colour of a midnight storm.
A muscle jumps in his jaw, a single, violent twitch that betrays the war raging inside him.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. It’s like I’ve short-circuited him.
The power of it is a heady rush, more potent than the Grey Goose still sloshing in my stomach.
I just took his control and shattered it with the soft press of my lips.
I drop my hand from his face and step back.
Without another word, I turn and walk into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me.
I press my fingers to my lips, still feeling the ghost of his mouth against mine.
It wasn’t a real kiss. Not by his standards.
But it was enough to stake my claim, to show him that I can play this game too.
My stomach cramps again, reminding me of more immediate concerns.
I get organised and deal with the practicalities, trying not to think about the fact that someone sent my half-brother a picture of me that was…
unpleasant. Trying not to think about the bullets flying through windows.
Trying not to think about the three armed men standing guard in my bedroom like I’m some kind of precious cargo.
I wash my hands and splash cold water on my face before I pat it dry.
Moving back into the bedroom, I crawl into bed.
“Give me until the sun comes up, and then we can talk more about what the hell is going on,” I say before taking a giant gulp of water and then chasing it with two painkillers.
I flop back to the bed and close my eyes, reaching for my fluffy hot water bottle as I curl up. “You don’t have to stay.”
“Like hell,” Ciar growls. “We’ll keep watch.”
The mattress dips as he plants himself next to me.
I don’t argue. The truth is, having them here makes me feel safer than I’ve ever felt in my life, and that terrifies me more than any sniper.
I’m supposed to be independent, self-sufficient, the girl who needs no one.
But lying here, surrounded by these three dangerous men who’ve decided I’m worth protecting, I can’t pretend anymore.
The hot water bottle is warm against my cramping stomach, a small comfort in the chaos my life has become.
Axl and Cillian leave us alone, and I sigh softly.
“What?” Ciar asks.
“This whole thing has turned into a shitshow. I came here to build a legacy, not get shot at and arrested and whatever the hell else.” Like fall for three psychos.
“You came here to survive,” Ciar says, his voice a low rumble in the darkness. “Everything else is just window dressing.”
I turn my head to look at him. “That’s a pretty bleak outlook.”
“It’s a realistic one.” He shifts, so he is lying on his side, his head propped up on his hand as he stares at me. “You think any of us are here because we want to be? We’re all playing the same game, Sorcha. The only difference is some of us know the rules.”
“And what are the rules?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Rule one: survive. Rule two: make alliances. Rule three: never show weakness.” He grasps my chin lightly. “You’ve broken rule three.”
My breath catches. “By getting drunk?”
“By letting us in. By trusting us.”
“I don’t trust you,” I lie.
His smile is dark, knowing. “Yes, you do. That’s what terrifies you.”
He’s right, and I hate him for it. I hate that he can see through me so easily, that he’s dismantled my defences without even trying.
“You don’t know me.”
“Yes, I do. You don’t want to admit it, but I do.” He rubs his thumb over my bottom lip before his hand drops lightly around my throat. He moves in closer, brushing his lips over mine. “He won’t kiss you. Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“If you want me to?”
“Since when do you ask?”
“I will never take your body without asking,” he murmurs, tightening his grip.
“But you will carve your name into me without a problem?”
“That’s different,” he says with a wicked smile before he crushes his lips against mine.
I grip his tee and cling to him as his mouth devours mine.
He’s right. It is different. A different violation, but not one that takes everything from me.
His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming every inch, and I let him.
My head is spinning from more than just the vodka now.
It’s him, this moment, the way he takes without apology but somehow still manages to make me feel like I’m the one in control.
Like I’m choosing this. It’s a gift he has, and it’s a dangerous one.
His hand tightens around my throat, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me he’s there, that he could hurt me if he wanted to.
But he won’t. That’s the twisted truth I’m starting to understand about these men.
They’ll carve their names into my skin, they’ll fuck me in public courtyards, they’ll lock me in their fortress of a townhouse, but they won’t actually break me. They need me whole.
I pull back, gasping for air, and his hand loosens immediately. His blue eyes are dark, hungry, fixed on my face like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“You’re learning,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Learning how to take what you want.”
“I’ve always known how to take what I want. I just usually have to fight harder for it.”
“Not anymore.” His thumb strokes along my jawline, the touch almost gentle. “We’re your army now, mo ríon dearg.”
The endearment should annoy me. Instead, it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold or the cramps or the fear still lurking in the back of my mind.
“I don’t need an army.”
“Everyone in this life needs an army.” He releases my throat and rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. “Without one, you are alone.”
Alone.
It’s a terrifying word that means something else when you are living a life filled with gangs and families who will take you out without a second thought.
“What’s the price?” I whisper.
“You already know the answer to that.”
I do. The price is me. My body, my loyalty, my submission to their twisted version of care. The price is letting them carve their names into my skin and my soul until I can’t tell where I stop and where they begin.
“That’s not a price. That’s ownership.”
He turns his head to look at me again, and there’s something raw in his expression that catches me off guard. “It’s both. And you want it as much as we do.”
I want to argue, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words stick in my throat. Because he’s not wrong. Not entirely. Some dark, twisted part of me craves the protection, the possession, the feeling of being wanted so fiercely that three dangerous men are willing to go to war for me.
“Get some sleep,” he says, his voice softer now. “Tomorrow, we figure out who’s trying to kill us.”
“Us,” I echo.
“Not just you,” he confirms. “This is bigger than any of us thought.”
I close my eyes, the hot water bottle still pressed against my stomach, Ciar’s solid presence beside me. Despite everything, I feel safer than I have in years. It’s fucked up. It’s dangerous. It’s probably going to get me killed.
But I’m done running.
“What price do you pay?” I murmur, keeping my eyes closed so I don’t have to look at him.
“Everything,” he says quietly. “The same as you.”
I open my eyes to find him staring at the ceiling, his jaw tight. The vulnerability in those words catches me off guard. I’ve seen him violent, possessive, demanding. I’ve never seen him like this, stripped bare and honest.
“Elaborate.”
He’s quiet for so long, I think he’s not going to answer.
Then he says, “My father expects perfection. An heir who will take over the MacMahon empire without question, without hesitation. Every kill I make, every decision, every breath I take is measured against his legacy. The price I pay is my freedom. My choice.”
The raw honesty in his voice makes my chest ache. I thought I was the only one trapped, but he’s in his own cage. A golden one, maybe, but still a cage.
“And this?” I gesture between us. “What is this to you?”
He turns his head, those blue eyes boring into mine. “You’re the first thing I’ve chosen for myself in my entire life. A Gannon, no less.” He snorts softly with amusement. “We could rule the world.”
I don’t know what to say, how to process the weight of that confession. He’s giving me power over him, whether he realises it or not. The same power he and the others are taking over me. I gently run my fingers over my name carved into his arm. “Why did you do this? It’s fucked up?”
“I never said I was sane,” he says, turning to face me again. “Every mark on my skin is a count, Sorcha. Your name was simply one of them.”
I stare at his arm, at my name carved into his flesh like I’m just another body he’s dropped. The thought should repulse me. Instead, it sends a dark thrill through my veins that I don’t want to examine too closely.
“That’s sick,” I whisper, but there’s no heat in it. I close my eyes again and let myself drift off, finally succumbing to the darkness.