Chapter 5
Cillian
She leaves the room in a storm of red hair and fury. The door slams behind her, rattling the fucking windows. The dads and Ciar just stand there for a beat, like they’re watching the aftermath of a grenade going off.
“Well, that went well,” I mutter, grabbing the bottle of vodka and pouring a glass.
“She’s not wrong,” Ciar grunts, his hand clenching into a fist at his side. “It’s a fucking mess.”
“I’ll get her.” The ache in my body is a dull throb, a reminder of the morning’s tranq dart to the thigh after a fight that nearly took three guys down before they took the coward’s way out.
I find her sitting on the bottom step of the main staircase, head buried in her hands. Her shoulders shake, but she’s not making a sound. It’s worse than if she were screaming. Silent breakdowns are the dangerous ones.
I stop a few feet away. I don’t touch her. Don’t offer empty platitudes.
“Running solves nothing,” I state, holding out the glass of vodka.
She flinches but doesn’t look up. “Leave me alone.”
“No.” I move closer, crouching in front of her until she’s forced to look at me.
Her eyes are wet, but the fire is still there, banked but not extinguished.
“You don’t get to fall apart. Not now. So you’re going to drink this and then call Cian to see if he will agree to a DNA test to match yours to prove you are Oisin’s daughter. ”
She snatches the glass and knocks it back. “I hate you.”
I grin. “No, you don’t.”
She glares at me over the rim of the empty glass, a silent dare. I take it from her, our fingers brushing, lighting up that spark, that jolt of something that always fucking exists between us. Her glare falters.
“They need you,” I say, my voice low. “Ciar’s hurt. Axl’s gone. We don’t have time for this shit.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” she spits, wiping her eyes with her fingertips. “But it’s one thing after another. It never ends.”
“It ends when we make it end,” I say, standing up and pulling her to her feet with me. She’s steady, solid. She doesn’t pull away. “But in order to reach the end, we have to get through the bullshit first. Can you do that?”
She stares at me for a long, hard second, the fight returning to her eyes. She pulls her phone from her back pocket and dials.
“Put it on speaker,” I murmur.
She nods.
The phone rings once, twice, before a clipped, cold voice answers. “Ready to come home?”
“I am home, you arsehole. No, I need a favour,” Sorcha says, her voice remarkably steady. I watch the slight tremble in her hand, the only sign of the war raging inside her.
A humourless laugh crackles through the speaker. “Oh?”
“I need you to agree to a DNA test.”
The silence that follows is heavy, loaded. I can picture him on the other end, his mind racing, suspicion clouding his face.
“Why?”
“Because I need to prove I’m Oisin’s daughter.”
“And why the fuck would you need to do that?”
“It’s complicated,” she says, her grip tightening on the phone until her knuckles are white.
“Who is disputing it?”
“No one. Yet. But it occurred to me that he isn’t listed as my dad on my birth certificate. It’s my word against everyone’s, what with Oisin being dead and all.”
“Why now?”
Sorcha looks up at me and chews her lip. I shake my head. Don’t give him anything.
“Because it’s time I stopped acting like a lone wolf and realised I have a massive extended family that needs to know about me.”
“Oh, they know,” Cian grumbles.
I try to hide my smile as Sorcha scowls at the phone.
“Cian, it’s Cillian,” I say. “Can you just agree to it? It will make her happy. Isn’t that what we all want?”
Silence.
“Well, you’ve got me there,” he says gruffly.
Sorcha raises her eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.
“Sorcha, are you in trouble?” he asks. “I know things have been tense, but if you need—”
“I’m good,” she interrupts. “I just need proof of who I am. Do you understand?” Her voice softens.
“Yeah, I do. I’ll have someone I trust over there to stop by.”
“Wait,” I say. “There is a lot riding on this; it needs to be independent.”
“I want her as my sister,” Cian states. “I have been doing all of this to protect her. If I didn’t want her as a Gannon, I could’ve thrown her to the wolves long ago. Don’t test my loyalty to my family, Sullivan. You have no business questioning my intentions.”
Sorcha’s bottom lip trembles, but she clamps her teeth down on it hard enough that I think she’s going to draw blood. “I’ll be here, and Cian? Thank you.”
“Whatever,” he mutters gruffly and hangs up.
She smiles and puts her phone away.
“See, that wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”
“No,” she says. “Weirdly easy.”
“Because he wants you as his sister. He said it himself. Do you believe him now? Do you believe that you aren’t alone?”
“I know I’m not alone,” she says, cupping my face.
It’s a brand. Soft, but it sears right through the bruises and the bullshit to something deep inside me.
I cover her hand with mine, holding it there, just for a second.
The world outside this staircase fades to a dull roar.
In this moment, there’s just the weight of her palm against my skin and the look in her eyes that says she sees me.
Not the enforcer. Not the Sullivan heir. Just me.
“You’re not,” she whispers, her thumb tracing the cut on my cheekbone.
“Not what?”
“Alone.”
The word hangs between us, simple and fucking devastating. I don’t do vulnerability. I don’t do complicated feelings. But with her, there’s no choice.
I drop our hands and take a step back, breaking the spell before it breaks me. “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”
She nods, the fire back in her eyes, the momentary softness tucked away again.
She’s back, ready to burn it all down. She doesn’t need us to do it for her, although we would in a heartbeat.
We’ll simply be right there beside her, handing her the fucking matches.
We walk back into the study, the atmosphere thick enough to cut with one of my blades.
The dads are talking in low, urgent tones.
Ciar is staring at the deed on the desk like he wants to set it on fire.
He looks up when we enter, his gaze flicking from me to Sorcha, a question in his eyes. Sorcha just lifts her chin.
“Cian’s in,” she announces. “He’s sending someone over.”
“We trust him?”
“Yes,” I reply on Sorcha’s behalf. “He wants her to be his sister.”
Ciar nods, accepting that as I did.
“What now?” Sorcha asks, staring at the deed.
“Now, we wait for Cian’s guy to show up, and then we start looking for all the things that this key might fit, while we wait for news on Axl.”
Almost as if fate was waiting for someone to say it, Alex’s phone rings.
He snatches it up and with a brusque, “Yes?”
We wait in silence as he listens and then hangs up.
“We have an address. Let’s go.”
He grabs the deed and the key and doesn’t wait for us to catch up.
Sorcha is on his heels, practically running him over in her haste, but I linger and stand in Ciar’s way. “No.”
He glares at me, his eyes promising a world of pain. “Get out of my way, Cillian.”
“You’re a liability,” I say, my voice flat. I don’t move. “You can barely stand without looking like you’re about to pass out. You’re no good to anyone in a fight.”
“I can still fight,” he growls, squaring up as if he is about to do precisely that.
I don’t flinch. “Can you? Or will that bolt hole in your chest rip open the second you throw a punch? We don’t have time to play nursemaid.”
Sorcha stops at the door, turning back to us, her expression caught between frustration and concern. “He’s right, Ciar.”
Her words hit him harder than any punch I could throw. He turns his glare on her, but the fury is laced with betrayal.
“Don’t,” he says, his voice a low warning.
“Come, but you stay in the car. End of story.”
That’s more than I would’ve given him. I know him too well.
But Sorcha loves him and doesn’t want to leave him out, doesn’t want to make him admit he is no good to us.
Ciar’s jaw works, a muscle flexing in a steady, angry rhythm.
He looks from Sorcha to me and back again, his pride warring with the raw need to be there.
For her. For Axl. He finally gives a stiff, jerky nod, the movement costing him a sharp intake of breath.
It’s a surrender, and he fucking hates it. We all know it.
“Fine,” he grits out.
Alex and Iain are already out the door, moving with a silent, deadly purpose that comes from decades of this shit. Sorcha doesn’t wait; she follows them, and I push Ciar towards the Brabus. He moves like a wounded bear, all contained power and simmering rage.
I get behind the wheel, Sorcha sliding into the passenger seat, Ciar folding his massive frame into the back. Sorcha’s leg bounces, a frantic tattoo of nerves against the floor mat. Ciar is a black hole of pain and fury in the rearview mirror.
I follow Alex’s car, my knuckles white on the steering wheel, knowing I’m going to have to put Ciar down before he gets us all killed.