Passion (Kings of St. Bartholomew’s #3)

Chapter 1

Sorcha

Passion is the whisper that becomes a hurricane.

It starts quietly, a flicker, a thought you could ignore if you tried hard enough.

But it grows, feeding on your silence, demanding to be seen, to be felt.

Passion is what wakes us in the dead of night, hearts thrumming like war drums for something we can’t name.

It births beauty and ruins peace in the same breath.

It is both the hand that paints and the fire that burns the canvas.

Most people fear passion because it calls us out of control, tears apart the walls we build to keep ourselves safe. But without it, we are only shadows mimicking motion. Alive, perhaps, but never living.

Passion doesn’t care for reason or comfort. It asks for everything—your time, your breath, your blood—and in return, it offers the only thing that ever truly mattered: to feel, utterly and completely, alive.

No answer comes. Just the growing wail of sirens getting closer, slicing through the morning air like knives. My vision blurs with tears I refuse to let fall as I press harder around the bolt, feeling Ciar’s blood pulse warm and wet between my fingers.

“Stay with me,” I growl at him, my voice cracking. “You don’t get to leave me. Not now. Not after everything.”

His chest rises and falls in shallow, laboured breaths. Too shallow. Too slow.

The back door slams open, and without thinking, I rise, pulling Bessie from my waistband and flinging it at the figure lumbering through the doorway.

Time moves in slow motion as I scream. “Cillian!”

His hands move like lightning, slamming against the blade, trapping it centimetres from his fucking face.

“Jesus!” I shriek and stumble forward. His hands, rock-steady, grip the knife, and he lowers it. His face is covered in blood, and he limps as he moves closer. “What the hell happened!”

He doesn’t speak. He shoves the knife back into my waistband and then grips my upper arms. “You need to get out of here. Now.”

“Cillian!”

“Now, Sorcha. They’re coming for you.”

“Who?” I ask, shoving my hands into my hair.

“The OCU. Move.”

“Where is Axl?”

“They took him,” he says grimly.

“Who took him?” Panic slams into my chest, hot and fierce. What the fuck is going on?

“Don’t know yet.”

I turn back to Ciar. “I can’t leave him! He’s dying!”

“He is built like a brick shithouse. Do you really think one bolt is going to put him down? Run, Sorcha. Head out the back into the woods and keep going straight until you hit the other side. Don’t look back, don’t stop.”

“Cillian...”

“Move!” he roars as the sirens slice through the air, closer than ever.

I look back at Ciar. “Promise me he will be okay.”

“He will.”

I gulp, turning back to Cillian. He looks like he went ten rounds with… himself. I cup his face, and he grips my fingers tightly. “We will protect you, but you have to go.”

I nod. I know he’s right. I don’t know why the OCU are suddenly coming in hot, but if I’m found here with Ciar shot with a crossbow, I’ll be hauled off and locked away for the rest of eternity.

With fear and passion for my guys pumping through my veins, hating that I have to leave them, but knowing it will only make things worse if I stay, I lunge through the back door and sprint across the garden to the back gate.

I wrench the gate open and plunge into the woods beyond, branches whipping at my face as I run.

My boots hammer against the earth, and I don’t slow down.

Can’t slow down. Behind me, I hear car doors slamming, voices shouting orders, but I’m already deep in the trees.

My lungs burn as I push harder, weaving between ancient oaks and tangled undergrowth. The image of Ciar slumped in that chair, blood spreading across his shirt, sears itself into my brain. His words echo on repeat.

“Fuck,” I gasp, nearly tripping over a root. I catch myself on a tree trunk, my palm scraping against rough bark, but I don’t stop. Can’t stop.

Axl has been taken. Ciar is bleeding out. Cillian looked like he’d been through a meat grinder. I’m running through the woods like a hunted animal.

The sirens fade behind me, swallowed by distance and trees. My chest heaves as I force myself to keep going, straight like Cillian said. Don’t look back. Don’t stop.

But my mind won’t shut up. Who shot Ciar?

Who took Axl? How did Cillian get away? Why now?

The OCU wouldn’t kidnap Axl; they’d arrest him.

This is something else. Someone else. Why are the OCU coming for me when Alex said I had time?

What has changed? Did they find James Ahearne and assume it was me?

My thoughts are scrambled, erratic. I don’t have answers, and the not knowing is eating me alive.

The woods thin ahead, grey morning light filtering through the canopy above a clearing. I slow my pace, my breath coming in ragged gasps that burn my throat. My hands are still sticky with Ciar’s blood, dark and drying on my fingers. I stare at them, my stomach churning.

I should’ve stayed. Should’ve fought. Should’ve—

No. Cillian was right. If I’d stayed, I’d be in cuffs right now, and then I couldn’t help any of them. I have to think. Have to figure out what the fuck is happening.

I reach the edge of a clearing and stop, crouching behind a thick oak.

A small brook rushes through the clearing, and I move forward to wash my hands.

Kneeling in the muddy earth, I scrub Ciar’s blood off my skin as best I can, tears pool again, hot and heavy.

I blink and they roll down my cheeks. I wipe my face with the back of my hand, smearing mud and tears together.

The cold water bites at my fingers as I scrub harder, watching Ciar’s blood swirl away downstream. My hands won’t stop shaking.

I need to think. I need to figure out my next move. But all I can see is Ciar’s pale face, all I can hear is his slurred voice saying he loves me like those were his last fucking words.

With a curse, I stand up. My legs feel unsteady, but I force them to hold me. I can’t fall apart. Not now.

Stepping over the brook, I look back, but then I run forward, just like Cillian told me to.

I burst through the tree line on the far side of the woods, my lungs screaming, and stumble onto a narrow country road.

Empty. Nothing but grey tarmac stretching in both directions, hedgerows lining either side like prison walls.

I bend over, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. My mind races faster than my heart. Where do I go? I can’t go back to campus—the OCU will be crawling all over it. I can’t go to Cian—he’ll lock me up and throw away the key. I can’t—

A vehicle screeches around the bend and barely slows down as one of the Range Rover’s tinted windows slides down before it comes to a rolling stop.

“Get in.”

I eye up the man sitting at the wheel. Older, looks exactly like Ciar, and I blow out a breath.

“Get in, Sorcha,” he says, impatience lacing his tone.

I don’t even pause to think it through. I yank the door open, and before I’ve even got my arse on the seat, he has slammed his foot on the accelerator and imitates a low-flying aircraft for speed.

The hedgerows are a blur as we pass them, and I grab the seatbelt and lock it into place, gripping it, scared I’m going to end up dead in a ditch.

“Who are you?” I pant.

“Iain MacMahon.”

“Figured, but needed confirmation.”

He glares at me.

“Your son looks like you,” I ramble.

He raises an eyebrow and smiles. “So I’ve been told.” He focuses on the road, driving with the expertise of a man who knows these roads, or maybe he just doesn’t care that someone might come around the bend and hit us in a head-on collision.

“What is going on?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately, his jaw tight as he navigates a sharp turn that has me gripping the door handle.

My life flashes before my eyes, and it consists of a lot of running, a lot of fucking, cheap vodka and hedges stuck into every orifice as we narrowly avoid crashing straight through one into some poor fucker’s sheep field.

I force myself to breathe, to not think about Ciar bleeding out in that kitchen.

“Your marriage to Axl Rhodes triggered something,” Iain finally says, his voice clipped.

“Yeah, I know. The legacy bullshit.”

“No, bigger than that. This is power play, whether you realise it or not. A Gannon and a Rhodes. Shit just got real for you, girlie.”

“I gathered that much,” I snap, my patience fraying. “But who shot Ciar? Who took Axl? And why is the OCU suddenly coming for me when Alex said I had time?”

Iain’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “The OCU isn’t coming for you. Not officially.”

My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”

“It means someone’s using their vehicles, their uniforms, their authority. But it’s not sanctioned.” He glances at me, and the look in his eyes—so like Ciar’s—makes my blood run cold. “Someone’s cleaning house, Sorcha. Taking out anyone who stands between them and St. Bart’s”

“St. Bart’s? I have no claim on St. Bart’s!” My voice goes up several octaves. What the fuck is this? Another thread in an already tangled web of fuckery.

“You do now. If you and Axl decided to plot a coup against the board, you would win.”

“What?” I thunder. “All of this is because of some hypothetical that I didn’t even know about until you just told me?”

Iain’s eyes flick to me, hard as flint. “Welcome to the world of mafia politics, where people die for less.”

I shake my head, trying to process this. “So what, someone thinks I’m going to stage a fucking takeover of St. Bart’s with Axl, and they’ve decided to eliminate us before we even know that’s an option?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” He takes another turn, this one smoother, and I realise we’re heading north.

“The marriage wasn’t just about unlocking your legacy.

It created an alliance between two of the most powerful families connected to that institution.

The Rhodes’ have money. The Gannons have history. Together? You’re a threat.”

“I don’t want St. Bart’s,” I spit out. “I wouldn’t even know what to fucking do with it!”

“Doesn’t matter what you want. It matters what they think you’ll do with the power you have.”

“But I don’t have any power!” My voice cracks with frustration. “I’ve got nothing except a priceless artefact I can’t sell and three guys who are either bleeding out, missing, or look like they’ve been put through a blender!”

Iain’s expression doesn’t change. “You have more than you think. The cross, for one. That’s not just gold and gems, Sorcha. That’s a symbol. A claim. Your ancestor didn’t hide it for centuries just so you could pawn it.”

“How do you know about the cross?” I ask suspiciously.

He shoots me a withering stare. “It’s my business to know what my son is doing and with whom.”

I don’t even bother arguing. “Then what is it for?” My voice is quieter now.

“Did you look inside it?”

I frown. “Inside? I didn’t know there was an inside.”

He chuckles and shoots me another look, this one amused. “There is always an inside, Ms Gannon. Especially with old relics from the Catholic Church.”

“Good to know. A bit late, like, but hey ho. No, we didn’t look inside.”

“Then we need to go back and get it.”

“I don’t know where Axl hid it, and going back kind of defeats the purpose of you driving up to me in the middle of nowhere and shooting off like a bat out of hell in the opposite direction.

I don’t need the cross. I need Ciar to live, and I need to find out who beat up Cillian and abducted Axl. Right under my fucking nose.”

I grimace as Iain goes silent, my thoughts racing as fast as the Range Rover is hurtling down these roads. Right under my nose. How? How did I not hear anything? I was tired, sure, but I wasn’t dead. Or drunk…

The vodka? I didn’t drink that much. I had the measure that Axl poured, and that’s it. Could it have been spiked?

I shake my head. I’m trying to find conspiracies where there are none. Why would someone do that, not even knowing if I would drink it? No, this is all on me for not being there to protect my guys.

Shame and grief flood my system, and I choke back the sob.

Iain notices and reaches out to pat me on the shoulder. “This isn’t your fault.”

“No? Then whose fault is it? If I hadn’t come to St. Bart’s, none of this would be happening.”

“That’s a naive way to look at it,” Iain says, his voice losing some of its edge.

I bite my lip hard enough to taste copper, staring out the window at the blur of hedgerows and grey sky. My hands are trembling in my lap, and I grip my fingers tightly. I swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. “Ciar could die because I married Axl.”

“Ciar will live because he’s too stubborn to die,” Iain says with absolute certainty. “And because Cillian won’t let him.”

I want to believe him. Need to believe him. But all I can see is Ciar’s pale face, the bolt protruding from his chest, his blood hot and slick between my fingers.

“Where are we going?” I ask, needing to focus on something concrete before I completely lose my shit.

“Nowhere,” he says. “We are circling until we can get back in that house.”

“What?” I croak. “They will have me locked up the second I set foot back there.”

“No,” he says. “They won’t. They came for you in a space of opportunity, while Alex Rhodes was distracted with the actual case hovering in your periphery. Remember, you are dealing with a rogue branch of the OCU. They missed their opportunity to get you; they won’t try again. Not yet anyway.”

“Not yet. When? They’ll have taken Ciar and probably Cillian.”

“Not necessarily,” he says grimly. “They weren’t there for them.”

“So you’re saying Ciar is still in that chair?” I shriek.

“No, I’m saying they probably called the medics, but they would’ve left before they did.”

“Fuck,” I whisper and drop my face into my hands. “He is going to die, isn’t he?”

“Not a chance.”

“You sound really sure of that.”

“I am.”

We sit in silence as I see now that Iain is driving through the countryside at breakneck speed in a wide arc.

We are headed back to St. Bart’s whether I like it or not.

It’s either trust this man I don’t know because I trust his son, or open the door and hit the road when I jump, alone and with no one to turn to.

Right now, neither option seems the best.