Chapter 8
Sorcha
As the three of us move out of the townhouse and into the gloomy day, we cross over the road and onto St. Bart’s campus.
“Where do we even start?” I ask.
“Well, the main gates don’t seem logical,” Axl states. “I mean, they’re wide open, so it’s not like we have to unlock them to gain access.”
“Yes, but were they always wide open?” I question. “Were they locked up back in the day?”
“It’s a good question, but if it is the gates, then this will be a short adventure and not really worth anything.”
“Unless we lock them,” I point out with a smile. “At night. When it’s empty and we are the only ones with a key to get inside.”
“And what would that prove?” Axl says, although he isn’t being sarcastic for once in his life, merely asking a good question.
“It proves we hold the fucking keys to the kingdom,” I say, my voice low and fierce. “It’s a statement. A warning. We can lock them out of their own playground whenever we want.”
“I like it. Petty and symbolic. My two favourite things.”
“So, the main gates, it is,” Cillian says and picks up his speed. He is anxious to get back to Ciar. We all are.
We reach the imposing wrought-iron gates that mark the main entrance to St. Bart’s. They’re a work of art of curling vines and snarling beasts frozen in black metal, around thirty feet high that run along the wall that encompasses the main buildings.
“Well, here goes nothing,” I mutter, pulling the heavy iron key from my pocket. It feels ancient in my palm, a solid piece of history.
I slide the key into the lock. It grates, fighting me for a second, and then sinks into the mechanism with a satisfying clunk.
“Moment of truth,” Axl murmurs.
Cillian stands back, watching. Always watching.
I take a breath and turn the key.
For a second, nothing. Then, with a low groan, something deep inside gives way. The mechanism shifts, a heavy, grinding turn that vibrates up my arm.
“Well, there you have it. Glaringly obvious and as subtle as a sledgehammer.”
“The keys to the kingdom,” Axl says.
I look from the lock to the sprawling campus behind us. This isn’t just a key. It’s control. It’s power. It’s our own fortress against a world that is gunning for us.
I turn it again to slide the locking mechanism back into place and pull the key out. “So, what now?”
“Now we go home and wait for the DNA results. We can’t make a move unless we have receipts.”
We walk back, the key heavy in my pocket. It’s more than just metal; it’s a burden, a weapon, a future I never asked for. Axl walks beside me, his expression grim. Cillian is a shadow on my other side, his silence more potent than any words.
The townhouse is quiet when we step inside, but it’s a coiled, waiting kind of quiet. Ciar is still on the sofa, his breathing shallow. Iain sits in a chair opposite him, a silent guard. Alex is in the corner, staring out of the window.
I don’t need to say anything; the answer is on my face.
I move to the sofa, kneeling beside Ciar again.
His skin is clammy, his face etched with pain even in his deep sleep.
I brush a strand of dark hair from his forehead.
This is my fault. All of it. The key, the deed, the fight for a place I don’t even want. It’s costing them everything.
“I’ll stay with him now,” I say quietly and wait for all of them to move out. Hopefully, Cillian and Axl will go upstairs and get some rest.
“Hey,” I whisper, stroking Ciar’s face. “Anyone ever tell you, you are a stubborn ox?”
“No,” he croaks. “Wanna try?”
I giggle, relief flooding through me that he is okay enough to make jokes. Or threats. It’s hard to tell.
His eyes flutter open, dark and hazy with pain, but they find me. They always find me. He tries to shift, a low grunt escaping his lips as the movement pulls on his wound.
“Don’t,” I whisper, my hand moving from his face to his shoulder, pressing gently. “Don’t you dare move.”
He settles back with a grimace, his fingers gripping mine on the duvet. “What’s the plan?”
“Apart from you resting and recovering? Nothing. Cian is dealing with Robert Gannon. It was unanimous. Your father voted on your behalf.”
He snorts. “Okay, then.”
“You good with that?”
“Do I have much choice?”
“Not really,” I say honestly. “We have bigger shit to deal with.”
He nods, closing his eyes again. He takes my hand and moves it over his cock. “Ride me.”
“Are you fucking joking?” I blurt out. “I’ll kill you.”
“Then I’ll die a happy man.”
“Your father is lurking somewhere.”
“Close the door.”
“Full of good ideas, aren’t you?”
He smirks. “It will make me feel better.”
“You’re insane. But I’m not going to argue.”
His grin widens, a flash of pure, wicked Ciar that makes my heart ache. He’s alive. He’s mine.
I rise silently and cross over to the door, clicking it shut and hoping for the best. When I turn back, his eyes are tracking my every move, a possessive fire burning in their hazy depths.
I kick off my boots and pull my pants off quickly before I shove the duvet aside and climb over him, straddling his hips with a care that feels foreign. I grind down gently on his hard cock.
“Don’t stop,” he rasps, his hand coming up to fist in my hoodie.
Straddling him in just my knickers and a hoodie, I feel ridiculously exposed and powerful all at once.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against my hipbone.
I reach down, freeing his cock from the tight scrubs.
He’s thick and hard, a solid, living promise.
My stomach clenches with a fierce, desperate need.
Pushing my knickers aside, I lower myself onto him, my movements slow and deliberate, taking him inside me, inch by agonising inch.
He groans, his head falling back against the cushions, his eyes fluttering shut. I pause, my heart in my throat.
“Don’t fucking stop,” he growls, his eyes snapping open.
I set a gentle rhythm, my hips rolling in a hypnotic sway that’s more about connection than friction.
Every careful shift sends a jolt through me, a mixture of pleasure and the sharp, metallic tang of fear.
I’m so fucking scared of hurting him more, of ripping open the wound, but the look in his eyes keeps me moving.
It’s a raw, possessive hunger that says this is more important than the pain.
This is about proving he’s still here, still capable of taking me, of owning me.
His hands grip my hips, his fingers digging in. A low growl rumbles in his chest, a sound of pure, primal satisfaction that vibrates right through me. It’s just us. Him, broken and bleeding beneath me. Me, claiming him, marking him, refusing to let him go.
The pleasure builds, a slow, coiling burn in my core.
I watch his face, the lines of pain etched around his eyes warring with the bliss taking over.
He’s mine. In this moment, in this act of beautiful, reckless madness, he is completely and utterly mine.
My orgasm breaks with a soft, shuddering gasp, my pussy clenching around him.
He follows a second later, a silent, rigid jerk of his hips, his jaw clenched tight as he spills himself inside me.
His grunt of pain makes me move off him and kneel beside him again.
“Who told you, you could move?”
“Me. You’re going to bleed out all over Axl’s fancy couch.”
He just smirks, a faint, tired movement of his lips. “Worth it.”
I want to hit him. I want to kiss him. I settle for glaring as I hastily pull my clothes back on, my hands fumbling. “You’re a fucking liability.”
“Your liability,” he corrects, his eyes closing again. He’s spent. The brief surge of adrenaline is gone, leaving him pale and dangerously still.
I watch him closely as he falls into sleep, and I stifle the yawn that wants to come out. I’m fucking exhausted. But sleeping isn’t an option. Not when all of this happened last time I was curled up in dreamland.
Not happening again.
I rest my head on the arm of the couch, near Ciar’s, just sitting, waiting, watching.