Chapter 28
Cormac
It’s sunny, but the field under our feet is soaked and muddy. It’ll do.
“Right, losers. We are starting with cross-country. Start running around the route that has been laid out. We are going up against St. Bartholomew’s next term, and they are badass. We are going to show them we are badasser.”
“Is that even a word?” Donal Ryan grumbles.
“It is now, you fucker. Move.” I turn and set off. If I want them to do it, I’m leading from the fucking front. No one likes a sit-on-their-arse General.
The pack strings out fast.
I set a brutal pace towards the tree line and hear the complaining behind me start almost immediately.
“Cor, this is unhinged,” Cian pants.
I don’t look back. “Good. Keep up.”
A few of them laugh, which tells me morale isn’t completely dead. Useful. St. Aug’s is back to full student capacity even though staffing still has shortages. There are a couple of substitute lecturers doing overtime while Gallagher sorts through the pile of CVs.
We weave through the trees and out onto the path that skirts the old chapel before cutting back across the lower pitch.
A few days ago, this place was a fucking war zone.
Now it is a university again. Sort of.
Students everywhere. Tutors pretending nothing foundational has shifted under their feet. New staff trying not to ask the wrong questions. Old money parents delighted that St. Augustine’s survived the scandal because prestige forgives almost anything if the crest stays polished.
Underneath all of that, it is ours.
That changes the air, even when nobody says it out loud.
I take the hill at the far end of the route without slowing. Behind me, the pack breaks further apart. Donal is still near the front, stubborn bastard. Cian is fading. Two first years, I barely know, are already suffering in ways that will build character or resentment. Either works for me.
By the time I cut back down towards the sports field, breath coming hard and even, only six of them are still within a respectable distance.
I stop dead at the finish marker and turn as the rest stagger in.
“Fucking tragic,” I say.
Donal bends, hands on his thighs. “You are a sadist.”
“I’m your coach.”
“Same thing.”
A few of them laugh. One of the first years looks like he’s considering starting a fight with me over it, but gives up after two seconds. I let them wheeze for five seconds before I start in on them again.
“Good news,” I say. “Anyone who didn’t finish within thirty seconds of me gets to do the hill twice more.”
A chorus of abuse comes back at me.
I nod. “Excellent energy. Use it.”
“You’re mafia heirs?” I scoff. “Could’ve fooled me.”
That spurs them on. They know who they are. They know what’s expected of them, and it isn’t bitching over a run around the campus grounds.
I stand at the base of the hill, stopwatch in one hand, and watch them drag themselves back towards the tree line.
St. Augustine’s didn’t survive all that bloodshed, just to start producing soft little bastards.
“Ryan,” I shout.
Donal looks back mid-run, sweat down his face. “What?”
“If you’ve breath to answer, you’ve breath to go faster.”
“Prick.”
“That’s Coach Prick to you.”
He flips me off without breaking stride. Better.
By the time they finish the second set, half of them are wrecked, and the other half are pretending not to be. I call them in, set them on bodyweight drills, then change my mind and make them do sprints instead because one of them yawns.
I run them until even the cockiest ones stop posturing.
Only then do I give them water.
As they collapse onto the damp grass in a line of suffering and expensive trainers, I take a second to look across campus. Students cut between buildings with bags over their shoulders. Voices carry. Doors open and shut. My office window catches the light.
It’s a good day.
“Coach,” one of the first years wheezes, rolling onto his back. “Are we done?”
I look down at him. “Do I look charitable?”
“No.”
“Good answer. Planks. Now.”
A groan rolls across the grass.
I wait until they all get into position, then start walking the line. Hips too low. Arse too high. Shaking arms. Terrible form everywhere I look.
“Ryan, if you collapse, I’m adding time.”
“That is genuinely evil,” Donal grits out.
“Builds resilience.”
“It builds hatred.”
“Useful emotion. Hold.”
I crouch beside the first year with the attitude problem. Niall Quinn. He is bright red, jaw clenched, trying not to shake. He catches me watching him and stiffens harder.
“Good,” I say.
His eyes narrow. “You’re not going to insult me?”
“Not if you stop looking like you need praise to function.”
He scowls and holds the plank for another ten seconds until his whole body trembles.
“Time,” I say at last.
He drops to the grass with a curse and rolls onto his side, dragging in air like he’s earned the right to survive. Maybe he has. Barely.
“Water. Two minutes. Then shower before your next class.”
That gets actual gratitude out of them, which is fucking embarrassing. A bit of running and they act like I’ve granted them parole.
I step back while they crawl for bottles and mutter abuse at me under their breath. Good. Fear is useful. Resentment is motivating. If they hate me by the end of term, but win everything in front of them, I’ll sleep fine.
“I want to negotiate,” Donal says, walking up to me with narrowed eyes.
“Negotiate on what, exactly? You’re finished.”
“Word is you’re looking for someone. If I find his location first, I sit out the next two… no, three classes.”
“You can’t sit out classes. That makes you weak. Will Daddy Ryan be putting you on the front lines down in Cork if you’re weak, Donal?”
“No,” he says reluctantly. “But I don’t need to look like you to pull the trigger.”
I take a moment to appreciate the beauty of that statement.
“All right. I’ll give you this. It depends,” I say.
“On?”
“Whether the location is real. Whether you got it without flapping your gums to half the county. Whether you understand that if you bring me shit information, I’ll make these classes feel like a spa break.”
“Whatever I bring you will be real. I don’t give false leads. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” I say. “But there is a time limit.”
“I’ll have his location by tomorrow morning before class starts.”
“You sound pretty fucking sure of yourself, considering we can’t find him.”
He gives me a sly stare. “I have my ways.”
“We’ll see,” I say and nod once for him to fuck off.
He goes, and I watch him leave as Dervla steps up next to me.
“What has got you looking like you want to put your foot through someone’s arse?” she asks.
I snort. “Nothing. These jokers are pissing me off with all their whinging.”
I’m not telling her. Not yet. Let Donal bring me Troy’s location first. I turn to her and place my hand on the back of her neck, drawing her closer.
“I haven’t forgotten your promise.”
“What promise?” she asks, staring into my eyes with a smirk.
I drag my finger down between her breasts. “This one.”
“I haven’t forgotten either. Later?”
“Now,” I say. “I’m getting impatient. I want every fucker to know you’re mine.”
“My office then.”
I let her lead me away, and I happily follow.
When we get upstairs to her office, I close the door and lock it.
She turns to me and slowly undoes the buttons on her shirt. She strips it off and then unclasps her bra. Her nipples are like bullets, and it distracts me long enough to suck one into my mouth. But then she holds up Henrietta.
“Use this,” she says.
“You sure?”
“My skin, my knife.”
I clasp my hand around the hilt and bring the tip to the soft flesh between her breasts. I don’t waste time. I carve a sharp ‘C’ into her skin. She hisses as I move to the second letter of my name. The line beads red at once.
Dervla’s breath catches with hunger. Her eyes lock on mine and stay there while I finish the second stroke, then the third, carving my name into her skin with enough pressure to make her bleed and mark her.
I finish the last letter and take a step back to look at it. Angry red lines cut across the pale skin between her tits. My name, written on her, just as hers is on me.
I hand Henrietta back to her hilt-first. “Happy?”
She looks down at herself, then up at me, pupils blown wide. “Very.”
“Good. Turn round.”
She does. No argument. She knows exactly where this is going, and so do I. I grab a fistful of her hair and walk her to the desk. She plants her hands on it before I even tell her to.
The tiny denim skirt she has on barely covers her arse. I shove it up over her hips and snap her underwear to the side.
I undo my belt with one hand and grip my cock. It’s raging, needing her. I line it up against her and push in hard enough to make her gasp.
“Fuck,” she breathes, fingers spreading on the desk.
My hand stays in her hair, holding her where I want her while I drive into her again. She takes it, pushes back, greedy as anything, like she’s been waiting all day to be handled rough.
“You wanted this,” I say, thrusting harder. “Wanted my name on you.”
“Yes.”
“Louder.”
“Yes,” she snaps, then moans when I withdraw completely and slam back in. “I wanted it.”
I let go of her hair and grip her hip instead, driving her against the desk with enough force to move it. Her breathing goes ragged. Mine isn’t much better.
I am not in the mood to be gentle. Not today. Not after weeks of hunting, blood, waiting, pretending we have time when Troy Kavanagh is still out there somewhere with both eyes and too many ideas.
I fuck her harder because that fury has to go somewhere.
She gives it back just as viciously, looking over her shoulder at me with that sharp, filthy smile that says she knows exactly what she does to me.
I nearly lose my fucking mind and slap her arse hard enough to leave a mark. She moans, low and wrecked, pushing back for more.
We don’t need words. We only need this.
I spank her again, harder this time. She gasps, and her cunt clenches around my cock.
Her back arches. One hand slides between her legs, fingers working her clit while I fuck her from behind with no softness in me at all.
“Greedy girl,” I mutter, dragging my hand from her hip to her throat, holding her steady without cutting off anything except the last scraps of her control.
My name is cut into her chest. Mine. I slide one hand down her stomach and take over from her, rough on purpose, rubbing fast, making her jolt against the desk. She moans my name, and it goes straight to my cock.
“Fuck, Dervla,” I rasp.
She comes then. Hard. Her cunt tightens hard enough to make my vision white out.
“That’s it,” I grit out. “Take it.”
She shakes through it, cunt milking me while I keep fucking her through the aftershocks. Her head drops. Her hair spills over one shoulder. It does something unholy to me.
I grab her hip harder and chase my own finish, pounding into her until my control snaps. I come with a low groan, buried deep, holding her still while every pulse goes through me and into her.
For a second, neither of us moves.
Then I pull out and tuck myself away, chest still heaving. Dervla stays braced on the desk, legs slightly apart, my cum already slipping down her thigh.
I turn her and run my thumb over the cut letters on her chest, careful now. “Beautiful.”
She turns her head and gives me a wrecked little smile. “A bit emotional for you, Cormac.”
I ignore her words and kiss her shoulder, then step back so she can sort herself out. She fixes her underwear, clasps her bra back on and pulls on her shirt.
“Get back to work,” she says, moving around the desk and sitting down.
I lean over the desk and stare into her eyes. “That’s right, dirty girl. Sit there with my cum soaking your knickers.”
Her eyes darken, and I straighten up. With a smirk, I turn and leave her to it, satisfied in a way that goes beyond normal.