10. Aoife
CHAPTER 10
AOIFE
BLOOD & BIRTHRIGHT
M orning light streams through the massive windows of Cormac's bedroom, casting patterns across tangled sheets. My body aches pleasantly, proof of last night's activities after the Kilmainham gathering. True to my word, I'd pushed Cormac to the edge of control, though the bastard never quite begged—just demanded, groaned, and finally shouted my name as he came undone beneath me.
Small victories.
The space beside me is empty, sheets cool to the touch. A note rests on his pillow, elegant handwriting a contradiction of the man's brutal nature:
Business downtown. Back by noon. Security knows you're not to leave the property. -C
Of course. My gilded cage merely expanded from penthouse to estate. The pretense of freedom without any actual freedom.
I stretch, wincing as my body protests. Three weeks captive, and the last few days have transformed from prisoner to... what, exactly? Lover seems too tender a word for what happens between us. Enemy too simple for the complex web we've woven.
The bathroom mirror reveals evidence of our night, fingerprint bruises on my hips, a lovebite at the junction of my neck and shoulder, another on the inside of my thigh. Cormac marks what he claims as his—a habit I should find revolting rather than thrilling.
After showering, I dress in clothes he's left out for me—designer jeans that fit suspiciously well and a cashmere sweater in Donovan green. Another claiming. Another reminder of my place.
Downstairs, Connor sits at the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone.
"Morning, princess," he greets without looking up. "Sleep well?"
"Well enough." I move to the coffee machine, pressing buttons at random until it hisses to life. "Where's Declan?"
"Perimeter check."
Interesting. Security protocols dictate they should never leave me with just one guard. Cormac's rules.
"Connor," I say casually, "did Liam ever contact you? After I was taken?"
His fingers still on the phone screen. "Why would your brother contact me?"
"Professional courtesy. He has moles in every organization." I pour coffee into a mug, adding cream. "Like Finn did with Murphy."
Connor sets the phone down, tension radiating from his posture. "Miss Gallagher, I serve one man. Always have."
"As does everyone. Until they don't." I sip my coffee, sensing his discomfort. "Liam can be very persuasive. Very generous too."
"What are you implying?" The edge in his voice betrays nervousness, not anger.
"Just making conversation." I move toward the massive windows overlooking the gardens. "Beautiful property. Those woods extend to the neighboring estate?"
"There's no neighboring estate for two kilometers." Connor stands, suddenly alert. "Why?"
"Professional curiosity." The coffee tastes bitter suddenly. "How many men does Cormac have on site right now?"
Connor stares at me, suspicion dawning. "Why?"
"Because someone's coming through those trees." I point toward a barely perceptible movement at the property's edge. "And they're not wearing Donovan colors."
Connor rushes to the window, hand moving to his weapon. "Fuck. Get away from the?—"
Glass shatters as gunfire erupts. Connor shoves me to the floor, his body covering mine as bullets pepper the kitchen. A searing pain slices across my upper arm—a graze, not a direct hit.
"Panic room," Connor gasps in my ear. "Behind the pantry. Code 5829."
More shots. Connor's weight becomes deadweight atop me. Warm wetness seeps through my sweater—his blood, not mine.
"Connor?" I whisper, trying to shift beneath him. No response.
Footsteps crunch on broken glass. Men's voices, low and urgent. Irish accents, familiar cadence.
"Find her. Boss wants her unharmed."
Gallagher men. My father's soldiers.
I remain motionless beneath Connor's body, mind racing. The pantry stands fifteen feet away—impossible to reach with armed men in the room.
"Check him," someone orders. "Make sure the fucker's dead."
Hands grab Connor's shoulders, rolling him off me. I keep my eyes half-closed, playing possum—a childhood trick Liam taught me when we played war games.
"Girl's hit too."
A boot nudges my side. "Aoife? Can you hear me? It's Sean McKinney. Your father sent us."
Sean—my father's lieutenant for eight years. A man who taught me to shoot a gun when I was sixteen.
I moan softly, feigning semi-consciousness. "Sean?"
"Thank Christ." Relief floods his voice. "We need to move. Now."
"Connor?" I murmur, allowing myself to appear disoriented.
"Dead," Sean confirms without emotion. "Two shots center mass. The other Donovan guard is down too."
Declan. Both killed because of me. Guilt claws at my heart.
Sean hauls me to my feet. Three other men sweep the room—all familiar faces from my father's security detail. All armed.
"Father sent you?" I clutch my bleeding arm, playing up the injury.
"Operation Homecoming," Sean confirms, leading me toward the door. "He's been planning since day one. We've had this place under surveillance for a week, waiting for Donovan to leave."
My father's men killing Cormac's. The temporary truce shattered. War is inevitable now.
"We need to hurry," another man—Brendan—urges. "Donovan's reinforcements were called three minutes ago. Ten-minute response time from the city."
Sean wraps a field dressing around my wounded arm. "Can you walk?"
"Yes." I sway slightly, still playing vulnerable. "Where are we going?"
"Safe house first. Then to your father."
They hustle me through the shattered kitchen, past Connor's body, out to the tree line where a black SUV idles. No Donovan security in sight—all neutralized or drawn to other parts of the estate, no doubt.
The SUV speeds down a service road I hadn't known existed, cutting through Cormac's property toward Dublin. Five men plus me, all armed except for my injured princess act.
"Did my father authorize lethal force?" I ask, voice deliberately faint.
Sean exchanges glances with the driver. "Necessary force only. But Donovan's men fired first."
A lie. They'd shot through the windows without warning. But why lie to me?
"How did you find me?" I press. "Cormac moved me from the penthouse after the cathedral incident."
Another glance between them. "We've had sources tracking Donovan's movements."
Sources. Plural. The mental image of Murphy's bloodied body in Christ Church Cathedral flashes through my mind. Someone had replaced him already.
"My brother must be relieved." I test the waters. "He and father have been working together to find me?"
Hesitation, just a microsecond. "Of course."
Liar.
As the SUV merges onto a main highway, pieces click into place. Murphy had confessed before dying—Liam initiated the partnership with Finn three years ago. My brother plays both sides, orchestrating conflict while positioning himself for power.
These men might wear my father's colors, but they only answer to my brother.
Which means I'm not being rescued. I'm being recruited—or eliminated if I refuse to join Liam's coup against our father.
"Where exactly are we going?" I ask, checking the SUV's route.
"North Dock warehouses," Sean answers. "Your father's waiting."
Another lie. Patrick Gallagher would never conduct sensitive family business at the docks—too exposed, too many potential witnesses. The docks are Liam's territory, where he handles the shadier aspects of our operation outside my father's direct supervision.
I need time. Need to stall until I can assess options, create an opportunity.
The password.
In Cormac's study, among the documents about Murphy, I'd discovered my father's emergency verification protocols. A password system for situations where identity and authority needed confirmation.
"Sean," I say, voice stronger now. "Verify Parnell Street."
Sean stiffens. The password request represents my right as a Gallagher to confirm the mission's legitimacy.
"What?"
"Verify Parnell Street," I repeat. "Father would have given you the countersign."
Silence fills the vehicle. Sean shifts uncomfortably.
"We don't have time for this, Aoife."
"Verification or I fight you every step." I straighten, dropping the wounded princess act. "You know how my father operates. Security protocols exist for a reason."
Sean sighs. "Fine. Parnell responds with... Easter lilies."
Wrong. The correct response is ‘Easter Rising.’ The confirmation I needed—these men operate under false orders.
"Thank you." I settle back, mind racing through options. "How much longer to the docks?"
"Twenty minutes in this traffic."
Twenty minutes to plan. Twenty minutes to prepare for whatever awaits me—likely my brother Liam, ready to use me as leverage against both Cormac and our father.
The SUV weaves through Dublin traffic, eventually turning toward the industrial dock area. Shipping containers stack like building blocks along the waterfront. Cranes stand sentinel against the gray sky. Perfect territory for an ambush—multiple hiding places, few civilians, controlled access points.
We pull into a warehouse complex marked with faded shipping logos. Two more black SUVs waiting, men posted throughout the cavernous space.
"Here we are," Sean announces. "Home sweet home."
I step from the vehicle, noting exit routes, weapon positions, threats. Fifteen men minimum, all heavily armed. No sign of my father—as expected. But no sign of Liam either, which raises more questions.
"Where's my father?" I demand.
"Arriving separately," Sean answers, guiding me toward a small office area partitioned from the main warehouse floor. "Security reasons."
They usher me into the office—desk, chairs, a small surveillance setup monitoring the warehouse perimeter. One door, one window overlooking the main floor. Limited escape options.
"Wait here," Sean instructs, then hesitates. "Are you okay? Your arm..."
"Just a graze," I confirm. "I'll live."
"Good." He pauses at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm glad you're safe. We've all been worried."
The sincerity in his voice gives me pause. Does he truly believe this mission comes from my father? Or is his loyalty to Liam so absolute it’s made him stupid?
Once alone, I immediately search the office. The desk drawers yield nothing useful. No weapons, no phone. The window shows clear sightlines to the warehouse floor where Sean talks with another lieutenant I recognize—Martin Byrne, my brother's right-hand man.
Martin's presence confirms my suspicions. This is Liam's operation, not my father's.
Time passes—thirty minutes, then an hour. A purposeful delay, wearing down my nerves before the big confrontation. A classic interrogation tactic my father taught both Liam and me as teenagers.
The office door opens. Martin Byrne enters, sharp-featured and cold as ever.
"Aoife Gallagher," he greets without warmth. "Welcome back to the family."
"Where's my brother?" I counter, dispensing with pretense.
Martin's lips twitch. "Direct as always. Liam will be here shortly."
"And my father?"
"Unavailable at present."
"Meaning he doesn't know about this extraction ," I reply.
Martin shrugs. "Family politics are complicated. Liam felt it best to secure your safety before involving Patrick. Given your... delicate situation with Donovan."
"Delicate?" I arch an eyebrow. "That's one word for abduction."
"Is it abduction when you're spotted acting as Donovan's date at Kilmainham?" Martin counters, pulling out his phone. "Our source provided quite the interesting account of your behavior."
So, they had someone inside the Donovan gathering. The betrayal web stretches in all directions.
"Stockholm syndrome makes for convincing theater," I reply smoothly. "Survival requires good acting skills."
"Indeed." Martin slides his phone across the desk. "Though acting rarely includes such... enthusiasm."
The screen shows a grainy image—Cormac and me in the alcove at Kilmainham, his body pressed against mine, my hands clearly clutching his shoulders. The kiss captured in perfect, damning detail.
"Surveillance photography?" I keep my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "How gauche."
"Evidence." Martin reclaims the phone. "Liam was quite disturbed by these images."
"I'm sure he was." I move toward the window, surveying the men below. "Nearly as disturbed as I am to learn my brother orchestrated a three-year betrayal with Finn Donovan. But no one likes to see their sister getting off."
Martin's surprise registers in his sudden stillness. "You're misinformed."
"Murphy confessed before the Cassidys killed him," I counter. "Told me everything about Liam's arrangement with Finn. About how my kidnapping wasn't part of the plan, but proved useful for Liam's ambitions."
"Murphy was compromised." Martin dismisses the accusation. "Whatever he told you?—"
"Was confirmed by Finn before Cormac executed him," I finish. "So, tell me, Martin, which brother am I supposed to trust? The one who kidnapped me? Or the one who used me as a pawn in his power play?"
Martin sighs, dropping the facade. "Liam did what was necessary for the future of the Gallagher organization. Your father's leadership has grown outdated. His feuds with the Donovan’s, wasteful. Progress requires new vision."
"And that vision includes killing Connor and Declan? Declaring open war on the Donovan’s when we had a temporary truce?"
"Calculated risk." Martin shrugs. "Donovan was getting too comfortable with you. Too attached. It compromised Liam's leverage."
So that was it—Liam feared losing control of the situation as Cormac and I grew closer. My usefulness as a bargaining chip diminished with every day I spent willingly in Cormac's bed.
Voices rise from the warehouse floor. A commotion at the main entrance draws Martin's attention.
"Wait here," he orders, moving toward the door. "Liam's arrived."
Once alone again, I press against the window. Below, not Liam but a bloodied guard staggers through the entrance, collapsing as others rush to him. Shouts echo through the cavernous space. Men take defensive positions, weapons drawn.
Not Liam's arrival. An attack.
Cormac.
The realization hits as the first explosion rocks the building. The main warehouse doors blow inward, shrapnel and smoke filling the space. Gunfire erupts—Donovan's men storm the breach, led by a massive figure in black tactical gear.
Even from this distance, I'd recognize Cormac's methodical violence anywhere.
The office door flies open. Sean rushes in, panic evident. "We're compromised. Donovan's here with at least twenty men. We need to move you now."
"To where?" I demand, backing away. "My brother? Or are you delivering me to another bidder in this fight?"
Sean grabs my arm. "No time for questions. Now!"
I allow him to pull me from the office, down a metal staircase to the warehouse floor. Chaos reigns—smoke, gunfire, men falling on both sides. Sean drags me toward a back exit, using shipping containers as cover.
"This way!"
A bullet strikes the container beside us, spraying metal fragments. Sean curses, pushing me lower as we run. The back exit is up ahead—just twenty meters through gunfire and smoke.
"Stop." Another man blocks our path—Martin, weapon drawn. "Change of plans. Liam wants her at the secondary location."
"There's no time," Sean argues. "Donovan's men are everywhere."
"We still have the south exit," Martin insists. "Four men waiting with a boat. Water escape while they're focused on the road."
Sean hesitates, then nods. "Fine. South dock."
They hustle me through a maze of containers, the sounds of battle receding slightly. The docks open up ahead—gray water churning against concrete barriers, a small speedboat idling with armed men aboard.
"Get her on board," Martin orders. "I'll cover."
Sean grips my arm, pulling me toward the water. This is it—my last chance before being delivered to Liam, before becoming a permanent pawn in his game against both Cormac and my father.
I stumble deliberately, falling against Sean. "My arm?—"
"Come on, Aoife, we don't have time?—"
His words cut off as I drive upward, my right hand plunging the ballpoint pen I'd palmed from the office desk directly into his throat. Not a lethal strike, but disabling—through the soft tissue beneath his jaw, rupturing blood vessels, inducing shock.
Sean drops, hands clutching his throat as blood pumps between his fingers. His scream comes out as a wet gurgle.
"Aoife!" Martin shouts, spinning toward us.
I'm already moving, dropping low, grabbing Sean's fallen weapon. The Glock feels familiar in my hand—similar to the one I practiced with on the family property.
Martin raises his gun. I fire first—one shot. He staggers backward, shock registering before he collapses.
The men on the boat react instantly, weapons swinging toward me. I dive behind a concrete bollard as bullets chip stone around me. Three shooters, semi-automatic weapons, poor cover between us.
The odds aren't great.
A burst of gunfire erupts from behind the shooters. Two drop immediately. The third turns, only to meet a bullet between the shoulders. He pitches forward into the water.
Cormac emerges from the smoke, weapon raised, tactical gear spattered with crimson both his and others'.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Enemy or ally? Captor or rescuer? The roles blur beyond recognition.
Then he's running toward me, closing the distance as shouts echo from within the warehouse. More Gallagher men approaching.
"Boat," he orders, voice gravel rough. "Now."
I don't hesitate, sprinting toward the vessel as Cormac provides cover fire. We leap aboard, Cormac immediately taking control. The engine roars to life as bullets strike the water around us.
The boat surges forward, cutting through Dublin harbor as the warehouse shrinks behind us. Only when we're safely beyond rifle range does Cormac slow, turning to me with cold assessment.
"You killed Sean McKinney." Not a question. "Your father's man."
"My brother's man," I correct, still gripping the Glock. "Using my father's name to deliver me to Liam."
Understanding darkens his expression. "Your brother orchestrated this rescue?"
"To use me against both you and my father." I release a shuddering breath, adrenaline still coursing through my veins. "How did you find me?"
"Tracker in your sweater." He gestures to the bloodstained cashmere. "Safety is a thing for me, and I have trust issues we can get into later."
Of course. I should have expected nothing less from the man who bugged the priest's rosary beads.
"Connor? Declan?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"Dead." His voice flattens. "Five of my men total."
Guilt surges through me. "I didn't know they were coming. I swear it."
"I know." Cormac navigates toward a small marina at the north end of the harbor. "You wouldn't have killed McKinney otherwise."
The observation hangs between us—acknowledgment of a line crossed. I've killed before, but never someone from my own side. Never someone who'd known me since childhood.
Cormac docks the boat at a private slip. A black Audi waits nearby, engine idling. "We need to move. Your brother will be looking for you."
I follow him to the car, legs unsteady from adrenaline crash. Once inside, he hands me a burner phone.
"Call your father," he instructs. "Confirm it wasn't his doing."
I dial from memory, heart pounding as it rings. My father answers on the third ring.
"Who is this?" His voice, so familiar yet distant after weeks of separation.
"It's Aoife."
Silence, "Prove it."
"The first horse you bought me was named Cúchulainn," I answer. "You taught me to ride at the Kildare property when I was six."
A sharp intake of breath. "Aoife. Are you hurt? Where are you?"
"I'm safe." I glance at Cormac, who drives like a rally cross driver through side streets. "Not with the Donovan’s anymore, but not with Liam either."
"Liam?" Confusion colors his tone. "What does your brother have to do with this?"
"He orchestrated a false rescue today. His men killed Cormac's security, claimed they were acting on your orders. They were taking me to Liam, not to you."
Silence stretches, heavy with my accusations. When my father speaks again, his voice has hardened to the tone that makes the underworld tremble.
"Where are you now, daughter?"
I hesitate, meeting Cormac's gaze. He nods once.
"With Cormac Donovan. He... rescued me from Liam's men."
A humorless laugh. "Rescued. From one captor to another."
"It's complicated," I answer, the understatement of the century. "Father, Liam has been working with Finn Donovan for years. The feud between our families—he's been orchestrating it, playing both sides."
"Convenient accusation while in Donovan's custody."
"Murphy confirmed it before he died. Check his accounts—offshore transfers from a shell corporation. Liam's been positioning himself to take control of the family."
My father's silence speaks volumes. He's already suspected something, perhaps noticed inconsistencies in Liam's reports, unexpected leaks of information.
"Come home, Aoife," he says finally. "Whatever's happened, we'll fix it as a family."
Cormac's hand tightens on the steering wheel.
"I can't," I answer. "Not yet."
"Because Donovan won't release you?" Steel enters my father's voice. "Put him on."
I offer the phone to Cormac, who takes it without slowing the car.
"Patrick," he greets, coolly formal.
I can't hear my father's response, but Cormac's jaw tightens.
"Your daughter remains under my protection by necessity, not force," he replies. "Your son's actions today escalated things well past our temporary understanding."
More from my father, voice raised enough that I catch fragments—"return her" and "consequences."
"She's free to leave whenever she chooses," Cormac responds, surprising me. "But given Liam's betrayal of both our families, she is safest with me."
He listens a moment longer before passing the phone back to me.
"Aoife," my father says, voice gentler now. "Is what he says true? Are you staying willingly?"
The question pierces deeper than expected. Am I? What began as captivity has changed into something undefined, dangerous, addictive.
"Yes," I answer. "For now. I need to know what Liam's planning before I come home."
"And Donovan? He hasn’t hurt you?"
Heat floods my cheeks at the implied question. "No, but I fear my brother might.”
My father sighs heavily. "Twenty-four hours. Then we meet—you, me, and Donovan. Neutral ground."
"Agreed."
"And Aoife? Be careful who you trust. Even Donovan’s who appear to help you might have their own agenda."
"I know." I glance at Cormac's profile, all hard angles and controlled danger. "I haven't forgotten who he is. And just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I don’t have an agenda either."
After ending the call, silence fills the car. Cormac drives through Dublin's outskirts, eventually turning onto a private road I don't recognize.
"Where are we going?" I ask.
"A safe house. Unknown to most of my organization."
"You don't trust your own men?"
"After Finn?" His laugh holds no humor. "I trust no one. Told you, trust issues."
We arrive at a modern lake house, glass and steel nestled among trees. Isolated, defensible, beautiful in a cold, clinical way that matches its owner.
Inside, Cormac immediately activates security systems before turning to look at my injury for the first time since the docks. His gaze tracks over the blood on my sweater—some mine, some Connor's, some Sean's.
"Your arm needs cleaning," he notes, voice deliberately neutral.
"It's just a graze."
"Still needs cleaning. Bullets are filthy things." He moves toward a cabinet, retrieving a first aid kit. "Sit."
I obey, perching on a bar stool as he cuts away the sweater sleeve, revealing the shallow gash beneath. His touch is soft as he cleans and bandages the wound, but tension radiates from his massive frame.
"You didn't hesitate," he says finally, smoothing medical tape over gauze. "With McKinney. With Byrne."
"Neither would you."
"No." He disposes of bloodied supplies. "But they were your father's men. Men you've known for years."
"They weren't my father's men anymore," I correct. "They chose Liam. Chose betrayal."
"And you chose to kill them rather than go with them." His attention holds mine. "Why?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. Why indeed? Why choose Cormac over my own brother? Why trust my kidnapper over my blood?
"You chose to kill your own brother, why? Liam would use me as a weapon against both you and my father," I answer. "At least with you, I know where I stand."
"Do you?" Cormac steps closer, into my personal space. The scent of gunpowder and blood clings to him, oddly intoxicating. "Where exactly do you stand with me, Aoife?"
The question strips pretenses bare. Where do I stand? Captive? Lover? Ally? Enemy? The lines blurred beyond recognition weeks ago.
"I stand where I choose," I answer, rising to meet him. "Today, I chose you over Liam. Make your own assumptions.”
Something shifts in his mood—predatory gaze narrowing to deadly intensity. "You killed for me today."
"I killed for myself," I correct. "You were just lucky I didn’t kill you."
His hand rises to my throat, not squeezing, just resting there—feeling my pulse, asserting dominance, or perhaps simply connecting with something alive after dealing so much death.
"I felt you drive that pen into McKinney's throat," he says, voice dropping lower. "Witnessed you shoot Byrne without even a breath. Do you know what that did to me?"
My pulse jumps beneath his palm. "Tell me."
"It made me want to fuck you right there on the docks," he confesses, crude words wrapped in velvet darkness. "Blood on your hands, gun in your hand. The most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
The words ignite something wild within me—validation of the darkness I usually keep hidden. With Cormac, I don't need to pretend to be less than I am, to hide the parts of myself shaped by Gallagher blood and legacy.
I press against him, feeling the solid wall of his chest. "So why didn't you?"
His grip tightens slightly. "Because we had fifteen Gallagher soldiers to escape. Because your arm was bleeding. Because?—"
I silence him with my mouth, rising onto tiptoes to claim his lips. He responds instantly, arms encircling me with bruising force. The kiss is all teeth and tongue and desperate need fueled by adrenaline and bloodshed.
His hands tear at what remains of my sweater, ripping the cashmere like tissue paper. My bra follows, joining the ruined garment on the floor. I attack his tactical vest with equal fervor, releasing buckles and zippers until his upper body is revealed—sculpted muscle marked with fresh cuts and forming bruises from the dock battle.
"We should clean up," he murmurs against my neck, even as his hands work at my jeans. "Shower."
"Later." I push him backward toward the sofa, need overriding propriety. "Now I want you to deliver on that dockside fantasy."
Something dangerous flashes across his features—restraint snapping like a taut wire. He lifts me, spinning to press me against the nearest wall. My legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he fumbles with his tactical pants, freeing his erection.
"Tell me you want this," he demands, cock poised at my entrance. "Say it."
"I want you," I gasp, body thrumming with need. "Now, Cormac."
He enters me in one powerful thrust, the burn of insufficient preparation only heightening the sensation. My back scrapes against the wall as he thrusts with a punishing rhythm, each thrust bottoming out inside me. The delicious friction sends shocks of pleasure-pain radiating through my core, my body struggling to accommodate his size.
"You're mine," he growls against my ear. "Say it."
"I'm yours," I agree, too far gone to argue semantics. In this moment, I belong to him completely—body clenching around his cock, nails scoring his back, teeth marking his shoulder.
He adjusts his angle, hitting the spot inside that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. The head of his cock drags mercilessly against my g-spot with each thrust, building pressure at an alarming rate. My thighs begin to tremble around his waist, muscles tensing as pleasure coils tighter.
"Again," he commands, his rhythm becoming more erratic, more desperate.
"Yours," I repeat, the word torn from me as pleasure builds to unbearable heights. "Fuck—Cormac!"
"That's it." His pace increases, driving me higher. One hand braces against the wall while the other slides between us, finding my clit. "Come for me. Show me who you belong to."
His fingers circle my sensitive bundle of nerves as his cock continues its relentless assault on my inner walls. The dual stimulation is overwhelming, pushing me toward the edge with frightening speed. My head falls back against the wall, exposing my throat, which he immediately attacks with teeth and tongue.
"You feel so fucking good," he groans, biting the junction between my neck and shoulder. "So tight. So wet. Made for me."
The possessive words combined with the physical onslaught trigger my release. I shatter around him, pussy clamping down as waves of pleasure crash through me. The orgasm is violent, robbing me of breath, of thought, of everything except the white-hot ecstasy pulsing through every nerve ending.
"Fuck—I can feel you coming," he groans, thrusts becoming erratic. "Squeezing my cock so tight?—"
He follows moments later, burying himself deep as his release pumps hot inside me. His whole body shudders against mine, muscles tensing as he empties himself with a guttural groan that sounds almost pained. I feel each pulse of his cock as he fills me, marking me as his.
We stay connected, breathing heavily as aftershocks ripple through us. His forehead rests against mine, sweat mingling, an unusual tenderness in the gesture given the violent passion preceding it.
"You could have gone with them," he says finally, voice rough. "With your brother's men. The safer choice."
"Nothing about my life has ever been safe." I trace a fresh cut along his collarbone. "Why start now?"
He withdraws slowly. His come trickles down my thigh, a visceral reminder of what just happened between us. Without the heat of passion, reality begins to intrude—the shattered glass surrounding us, my ruined clothes, the dangers still out there.
Cormac lifts me down from the wall with surprising gentleness, carrying me through the house to a master bathroom. He sets me on my feet before turning on the shower.
"You're not as bad as they say,” I admit as steam rises between us.
He tests the water temperature. "Neither are you."
"What now?"
"Now?" He pulls me into the shower, the warm water soothing aches I didn't realize I had. "Now we get cleaned up, and see how to make this all work."
"We?" I sink deeper into scented water. "Are we allies now, Cormac?"
His powerful body envelops mine as he pulls me against his chest.
"We're not enemies," he answers, lips brushing my temple. "I don’t know what we are."