Chapter 4
Sorcha
“He’s not dead,” I say, the words a low snarl. I slap the whiskey glass down, sloshing it everywhere. “Don’t even fucking say it.” Axl, with his easy smirk and lethal tendencies, can’t be gone. I won’t allow it.
“No one said he was,” Alex says, his voice a low rumble of controlled fury.
I grimace but accept it at face value. For now. “He hid it in one of the hidey-holes that he said even you didn’t know about. But he wouldn’t have put it somewhere impossible to find if something happened to him. He’s not that stupid.”
“So we start looking. Every room, every wall, every fucking floorboard,” Ciar says.
“I’ll take the living rooms and entrance hall,” Cillian says, already moving, his bruised face a mask of determination.
“We’ll start upstairs,” Iain says, nodding to Alex.
That leaves Ciar and me with the kitchen and study. He looks at me, his eyes dark with pain and something else, something possessive that makes my breath catch. “You and me, Red,” he says. “We’ll check Axl’s study first.”
“Isn’t that the obvious place?”
“Sometimes the most obvious is the place we have to look.” He hauls himself to his feet.
My hands go up to steady him, but he is like a fucking tree. Rock steady and already moving towards the door. I trail him, my gaze fixed on the tight pull of the hoodie across his body. Every step looks like it costs him, but his back is straight, his pace steady. Fucking stubborn bastard.
“Start on that wall,” Ciar says, gesturing to the bookshelf behind the desk. “Check behind the books. Tap the panels.”
I nod and grab a pair of scissors off the desk, approaching him with a snapping motion.
He raises an eyebrow when I stop in front of him. “I’m cutting that ridiculous hoodie off you.”
He doesn’t flinch, just watches me with those dark, intense eyes as I slide the blade under the hem and start cutting upwards.
The fabric parts easily, revealing the hospital scrubs underneath.
My fingers brush his skin, and he’s hot, feverish.
He doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t even breathe, just lets me tend to him.
When the hoodie is in two pieces, I peel it off his shoulders and toss it on the floor.
“I’m going to kill them,” I promise.
“Get in line.” His hand comes up to cup my jaw. His thumb brushes over my cheekbone. The moment stretches, thick with everything we can’t say, before he drops his hand.
“The books,” he says, his voice back to its commanding growl.
I nod, turning away from the raw intimacy of the moment before it can undo me completely.
I pull the first leather-bound volume from the shelf, my fingers tracing the wall behind it, searching for anything out of place.
I move to the next one, my focus narrowing to this one task.
Find the cross. Find Axl. Avenge Ciar. And take over St. Bart’s just to piss off the arsehole who thinks he can do this to me, to my family and get away with it.
My fingers trail over the cool wood behind the row of books, pressing, tapping, searching for the tell-tale hollow sound of a hidden compartment. Nothing. I slide the heavy tomes back into place. I feel Ciar’s gaze on my back, a heavy weight that’s both a comfort and a burden.
“Anything?” he asks, his voice tight.
“No,” I bite out, moving to the next shelf. My frustration builds with every solid thud of my knuckles against wood. Axl wouldn’t have made this impossible. He’s a devious bastard, but he’s not stupid.
I hear Ciar shift behind me, a quiet grunt of pain he tries to hide.
It sends a fresh wave of rage through me.
I want to burn down the world for what they did to him, to all of them.
I stop my frantic search and close my eyes, forcing myself to think.
Where would he hide the most important thing we’ve found?
Not behind some dusty old book. That’s too cliché for him.
I turn around, my eyes scanning the room, really looking this time. The desk. The chairs. The fucking fireplace.
The cross is large and heavy. It won’t be in a tiny hole-in-the-wall.
“The fireplace,” I say to Ciar, already moving.
He turns to look over from where he is checking floorboards.
I get down on my hands and knees, ignoring the grime on the hearth.
It’s a massive, ornate thing. My fingers probe the edges, searching for a loose stone, a hidden lever. Nothing. It’s solid, immovable.
“It won’t be that simple,” Ciar grunts, coming to stand behind me.
I sit back on my heels, staring at the intricate carvings that adorn the mantelpiece.
They’re a mess of Celtic knots and mythical beasts.
It’s too much, too busy. A distraction. My eyes trace the patterns, looking for something that doesn’t fit.
A single knot, slightly different from the rest, its lines just a fraction thicker, catches my attention.
“There,” I whisper, pointing.
Ciar leans down, his breath ghosting over my neck as he follows my gaze. He reaches past me, his large hand covering the knot, and pushes. There’s a low grinding sound, and the entire back wall of the fireplace swings inward, revealing a dark, cavernous space.
Sitting on a purpose-built shelf in front of us is the cross.
We found it. Hopefully, finding Axl will be just as easy.
It takes everything I have to trust Alex with this, to sit here and find crosses instead of finding Axl.
But we have no leads and nowhere to start.
Patience is a virtue that wasn’t handed out to me, but in this case, I have to try.
Ciar reaches into the dark space, his arm straining, and a sharp hiss of breath escapes his lips as the movement pulls on his wound.
“Stop,” I snap, shoving his arm aside gently. “You’ll tear your stitches, you fucking idiot.”
I crawl into the fireplace, ignoring the soot and dust. The cross is heavier than I remember, cold and solid in my hands. I back out carefully and place it on the hearth rug. It glints in the light, the jewels like malevolent eyes watching us.
“We found it!” I call out and wait as the others join us.
The dads and Cillian crowd into the study, their faces grim. Iain’s eyes land on the cross. “Good. Now, look inside it.”
Moving the cross to the desk, we all loom over it, staring at it as if that will open it up.
Reaching out, I touch it lightly. The gold is cool under my fingertips as I run my hands over the intricate carvings, searching for a seam, a catch, anything that suggests it can be opened.
The jewels are set deep into the metal, seamless and solid.
“There’s nothing,” I say, my frustration mounting.
“There is always something,” Iain insists, his voice calm and steady in the tense room.
“Look closer,” Ciar grunts from beside me, his voice tight with pain. He points at the very centre of the cross, where the arms intersect. A massive, square-cut emerald is set there.
“It’s a jewel,” I say flatly.
“Press it,” he suggests.
Something tells me it’s not going to be that easy, but I press my thumb against the cool, smooth surface.
As expected, it doesn’t budge. I put my weight into it, gritting my teeth. Still nothing.
“Maybe it twists?” Cillian suggests, peering over my shoulder.
I try turning it, my fingers slipping on the polished stone. It’s set solid. “This is a fucking waste of time! Axl is out there somewhere, and we’re fucking about with this cross. We need to forget this and look for Axl.”
“Patience,” Iain says, his voice a low command that cuts through my panic. “This isn’t a waste of time. This is the only thing that matters right now.”
“How can you say that?” I demand, whirling on him. “Axl is—”
“Axl is a Rhodes,” Alex cuts in, his tone like granite. “He’s been trained for this since he could walk. He will figure out a way to escape before we can even locate him. In the meantime, we have to do what we can. We find what’s in here, and we find our next move.”
His logic is cold and brutal, but it sinks in, dousing the flames of my panic with icy reality. He’s right. It’s all connected. If whoever took Axl wants to make a play for St. Bart’s and he thinks we’re standing in the way, this cross is the crux of that matter.
I turn back to it, my shoulders slumping. “It won’t open.”
“Because we’re focusing on the biggest stone. Ardal was a lot of things, I hear, but he wasn’t stupid. Look for something less obvious.”
Okay, that makes sense. I nod and we all lean closer, squinting at it to find something, anything, that might look like a key to opening this damned thing.
“Less obvious,” I mutter, my eyes scanning the intricate goldwork. I ignore the larger jewels, the flashy diamonds and emeralds, and focus on the details between them. The gold is worked into a series of knots and swirls, almost too complex to follow. It’s meant to overwhelm, to distract.
My fingers trace a delicate vine pattern that winds around the base.
Tucked away, almost hidden by a larger etching, is a tiny, perfectly formed shamrock.
It’s no bigger than my thumbnail, and the stone set in its centre isn’t a precious gem, but a simple piece of polished Connemara marble. Green, unassuming, easily overlooked.
“This,” I whisper. I press my thumb against the small stone.
For a second, nothing. Then, a soft click echoes in the silent study. The entire base of the cross detaches with a smooth, silent hiss, revealing a hollow compartment lined with faded velvet.
Inside, resting on the worn fabric, is a single, rolled-up piece of parchment, sealed with a wax stamp bearing a crest I assume belongs to Ardal Gannon. Beside it lies a heavy, ornate iron key.
“What the fuck is that?” Cillian asks, leaning in.
“The key to St. Bart’s,” Alex says, reaching past me for the parchment.
“Whoa, there,” I say, my hand clamping down on his wrist.
He glares at me but doesn’t try to shake me off.
“I’ll look.”