Chapter 12 Ciar
Ciar
Somehow, this entire fucking plan has made me feel better. The pain is dulled, I don’t feel like I’m about to pass out, but Cillian and Sorcha won’t let go of me.
Liam Ahearne. The little prick got exactly what he wanted without lifting a finger. Her plan was reckless, stupid, and it fucking worked.
“Get off me,” I mutter, shaking Cillian off.
He lets me go without a word, but I can see him hovering, and it pisses me off.
I am not a fucking liability. I’m a fucking king and kings don’t fail.
They don’t get weak in the face of being shot with a crossbow.
They thrive. It runs hot in my blood, and I shake Sorcha off as well.
She is more reluctant to let go, but she does eventually.
As we cross over campus, we see Bishop Brady doing the rounds with the staff fawning all over him.
The old vulture circles his nest, a flock in suits trailing behind him.
His gaze sweeps over the lawns, the ancient stone, and then it lands on us. It fucking sticks.
Sorcha mutters a curse and tries to pull my arm, to keep us moving forward. I stand my ground, my feet planted. “No,” I say, my voice a low growl. “We don’t fucking hide.”
Brady’s path changes. He’s coming for us.
The suits part, leaving a clear path between us and him.
His eyes, small and sharp, are fixed on Sorcha.
I shift my weight, putting my shoulder slightly in front of hers.
This is the next move on the board. He knows who she is.
He knows what she represents. A Gannon, a Rhodes, a fucking storm about to break over his perfectly manicured world.
“Mr MacMahon,” Brady says, his voice smooth as old whiskey as he stops a few feet away. His gaze flicks over to Cillian, before returning to Sorcha. “And Miss Gannon, or should I say, Lady Rhodes. I was hoping to have a word.”
“We’re busy,” I bite out.
Sorcha’s fingers dig into my arm, a silent warning. “Nothing alarming, I hope?”
He gives a thin, humourless smile. “A formality. The board is convening an emergency meeting. Your presence has been requested.”
Cillian’s gaze bores into mine, but Sorcha nods. “Of course. Although I’m not sure what I can do at a board meeting. I only just started here.”
Brady smiles but says nothing. “Half past twelve. Don’t be late.”
He drifts off without another word, his sheep following him eagerly.
“This is not good,” I mutter.
“Actually, it might be very good,” Sorcha says. “Something is brewing, and now we will get to find out exactly what that is.”
“You can’t go in there alone,” I snap.
“I won’t be. Axl will be coming with me.” She shoots me an innocent smile that gets me going, but I can’t refute her statement. Axl will be fucking going with her if I have to chain him to her.
She turns and walks towards the townhouse, her shoulders straight, every inch the queen she is, whether she knows it or not.
I follow, the pain in my chest a dull, constant throb that’s nothing compared to the rage burning in my gut.
I hate this. Hate that I can’t be the one walking into that meeting beside her.
Cillian stays close, a silent, bruised shadow. He knows I’m on the edge, held together by sheer fucking will.
We walk back into the townhouse to find Axl coming down the stairs, looking like he owns the fucking world. “Well?”
“The Ahearne family won’t be a problem,” I state.
“Okay, so why the menace?”
“Bishop Brady is on site. He just invited Sorcha, or should I say Lady Rhodes,” I mock in Brady’s tone, “to the board meeting at half twelve. You are going with her.”
Axl’s eyes narrow. “Did he now? Interesting.”
Sorcha looks between us, a flicker of something—annoyance, maybe, or just sheer fucking exhaustion—in her eyes. “What about the DNA test? The results should be in soon.”
“We wait,” Dad says, appearing in the doorway, his face a hard mask. Alex is right behind him. “But you don’t be late. You go to that meeting, you listen, you say nothing. Let them show their hand.”
“And if they ask about any of this?” Axl asks, waving his hand to the study to incorporate the cross, the key, the deed, and god knows what else.
“You know nothing,” Alex says, his voice like stone. “Play dumb. Shouldn’t be hard in your case.”
Axl snorts. “Nice.”
I tune them out. It’s solid advice. It’s also fucking infuriating. Playing defence isn’t my style.
“So, we just sit here?”
“You sit here,” Dad corrects me, his eyes pinning me to the spot. “You heal. They go to the meeting. We wait. It’s the only move we have that doesn’t give everything away and starts a war we are in no way prepared for.”
I hate it. Every fucking part of it. Watching Sorcha walk into a room full of sharks with Axl at her side while I’m stuck here, useless, is a new kind of fucking hell.
She looks at me, her eyes seeing right through the bullshit, right to the rage coiling in my gut.
She gives me a slight, almost imperceptible nod. A promise. We’ve got this.
I fucking hope so. Because if they touch her, I’ll burn that entire fucking college to the ground, Bishop, board members and all.
They head upstairs to change, and I’m left with Cillian and the dads, a room full of caged predators. I collapse onto the sofa and push myself deeper into the cushions, the movement pulling at my stitches. It’s better than the alternative—the fucking helplessness clawing at my throat.
Cillian moves to the drinks cabinet, pours two glasses of water, and hands one to me without a word. I take it, my fingers tight around the glass. I want to smash it. I want to follow them upstairs and lock Sorcha in a room where nothing can touch her. But I can’t.
“She’ll be fine,” Cillian says. He’s not trying to reassure me; he’s stating a fact. He has as much faith in her as I do. It’s not her I’m worried about. It’s them. The old men who think they run the world.
When she comes back down, she’s wearing a fresh pair of black jeans, a black shirt, and a new black cashmere coat to finish it off.
She looks like a warrior, and I love the fact that she decided to be her and not fall into the trappings of being Lady Rhodes.
Axl is beside her in a suit that probably costs more than his Brabus.
She stops in front of me, her hand brushing my cheek, but before she can say anything, her phone buzzes with a message.
She gulps visibly and pulls it out of her coat pocket.
“It’s Cian,” she mutters and swipes the screen. Her face goes blank. A perfect, unreadable mask. I hate when she does that. It means the walls are up, the shields are in place. The silence in the room stretches, tight as a fucking garrotte. Every eye is on her.
“Well?” Axl prompts, his usual casual tone gone, replaced with a sharp edge.
Sorcha looks up from the screen. “It’s a match,” she says, her voice low and steady. “I am Oisin’s daughter.”
“Never doubted it,” I say, searching her eyes.
She did. She doubted it. She doubted this entire thing, and I think a part of her hoped it would come back negative so she could walk away from it all.
Her gaze drops as if she suspects I’m seeing too much.
She pockets the phone, the movement sharp, decisive.
The war is over. She lost. Or won. I can’t fucking tell which way she sees it. A heavy weight settles over the room.
“Let’s go,” she says, her jaw is tight. She looks like she’s walking to her own execution, not a fucking meeting. She gives me one last look, a silent message passing between us. Stay down. Behave. As if I have a fucking choice.
They walk out the door, Axl’s hand resting on the small of her back.
He’ll keep her safe. It doesn’t stop the acid churning in my gut.
I can’t protect her. I can’t be there. Every instinct I have bellows at me to follow, to stand between her and whatever those vultures have planned.
But that would undoubtedly make things worse.
I stand up.
Cillian is in front of me in under a second. “No,” he says.
“We need to be there waiting when they get out,” I state and push past him. Nothing, not even nearly dying, is going to stop me from being there when she walks out of that meeting, so I know she is safe and protected.