Chapter 14 Axl
Axl
My grip on her hand tightens, a silent signal, but the damage is done. The sharks in the room smell blood. A flicker of triumph crosses Brady’s face. He thinks he’s got her. He thinks he’s won.
He’s an idiot. A man so used to his own petty kingdom, he doesn’t recognise when he’s just threatened a king. I tug Sorcha’s hand to sit, which she does, and lean back in my chair, projecting an air of utter, soul-crushing boredom.
“Terrorism?” I repeat the word, letting it hang in the air like a bad smell.
My voice is calm, almost conversational.
It throws them. They expected shouting, threats.
They didn’t expect a fucking peer of the realm to look at them like they’re something he scraped off his shoe.
“That’s a rather strong accusation, Bishop. On what grounds, precisely?”
Brady’s smile falters. “Your association with known criminal elements, the recent violence on campus, shootings, bloodshed, instilling a sense of fear in that illegal fighting ring… Need I go on? It paints a rather damning picture.”
“Does it?” I raise an eyebrow. “Or does it paint a picture of a board so desperate to consolidate power that they’ll resort to slander and baseless accusations against a founding family?
” I let my gaze sweep over the other members.
A few of them shift uncomfortably. “You have no proof, and my father’s lawyers will have a wonderful time tearing your little institution apart for defamation.
Unless, of course, you have something more substantial? ”
I leave the question hanging. Let them stew in it. Sorcha is quiet beside me, but I can feel the heat of her fury. She’s letting me play this hand. For now. But she is seconds away from doing this her way, which might end with us being ushered out in cuffs.
The woman in the grey suit pales. A few of the others exchange nervous glances.
They’re corporate sharks, used to hostile takeovers, not threats of total annihilation from a family that burns down its enemies for sport.
Brady, however, is made of sterner stuff.
His face hardens, the false pleasantry gone completely.
“Your title holds no sway here, Lord Rhodes,” he says, his voice a low, venomous hiss. “This is our world. Our rules.”
Before I can deliver the killing blow, the one that explains in excruciating detail what my father will do to his ‘world’, Sorcha moves. She pushes her chair back with a loud scrape and stands. The sound is like a gunshot in the silent room.
“Your world?” she asks, her voice deceptively soft.
She laughs. It’s the sound of a blade being sharpened.
It’s unhinged, and it makes my dick hard.
She leans forward, her hands flat on the polished table, her icy gaze pinning Brady to his throne.
“You old, deluded fuck. You don’t have a world.
You have a sandbox. And you just invited the fucking devil to come and play in it. ”
I rise slowly, a smile touching my lips.
I place my hand on her lower back in a silent show of solidarity.
“My wife has a point,” I say, my voice a calm counterpoint to her fire.
“This has been tedious. We’ll see ourselves out.
” We turn and walk towards the door, leaving them in a stunned, simmering silence.
“Keep moving, don’t look back,” I murmur to Sorcha as I steer her out of the boardroom. She is trembling with suppressed rage.
“That’s why they wanted me on my own,” she says as I slam the doors closed behind us to make a point. “They knew I’d bite. They didn’t count on you being there to act like they’re a bunch of idiots.”
“They are a bunch of idiots,” I point out with a laugh. “This is an utter joke, but they have made one thing perfectly clear to me.”
“What’s that?”
I turn to face her, as we hit the stairs. “We are taking over St. Bartholomew’s College at my earliest convenience, which I will push for in the next few days before the cross country with St. Brigid’s. They won’t know what fucking hit them.”
I’m fuming inside but remaining outwardly calm.
No one threatens me with terrorism charges that they more than likely can back up.
That is a serious offence with serious repercussions.
They just made the worst mistake of their lives.
My dad is going to hit the roof before he dismantles every last one of them, and while they are distracted with Marquess Alexander Rhodes of Bamburgh, Sorcha and I will swoop in and take this institution out from under them, placing the four of us as equal owners to land and buildings that belong to Sorcha Gannon.
Let them fucking try to stop it. I fucking dare them.
“You’re growling,” Sorcha says as we emerge into the weak sunlight.
“I’m pissed.”
“What’s the plan?”
“We need to talk to Alex. Then we move.”
“Ciar is in no position to move anywhere.”
“Oh, he will.”
“But—”
“He is a mountain, sunshine. If you think this is going to keep him down, you are sadly mistaken.”
“Oh, I know he’s a mountain. Stubborn and immovable. He could hurt himself worse.”
“He’d rather die on his feet than live on his knees,” I say, my gaze fixed on the man in question. “You know that.” Across the manicured lawn, Ciar and Cillian are waiting. She thinks he’s a liability, but that only makes him more dangerous. A wounded snake and all that.
Brady and his cronies think they can throw around words like ‘terrorism’ and we’ll just tuck our tails and run in fear. They have no idea what they’ve just started. My father will gut them legally. We’ll gut them literally. The thought brings a smile to my face.
“Well?” Ciar growls as we stop in front of them. His eyes are on Sorcha, searching her face for any sign of distress.
“We’ve been expelled,” Sorcha says, her voice flat.
Cillian snorts, but then goes serious as we both stare flatly at him. “Oh, you’re not joking.”
“Nope. It gets worse.”
“We have been threatened with terrorism charges if we come back,” I add, enjoying the way Ciar’s entire body goes rigid. “They’re making a play.”
“Then we make a better one,” Ciar snarls.
“My thoughts exactly,” I say, clapping him on the shoulder and steering him towards the house. “Let’s go tell the dads it’s time to burn this fucking sandbox to the ground.”
We walk back into the townhouse, a fucking storm front of rage and resolve.
Dad and Iain are in the study, joined by Darragh, a decanter of whiskey between them, looking like three kings surveying their battlefield.
They look up as we enter, their expressions hardening as they take in the atmosphere.
“Well?” Dad asks, his voice deceptively mild.
“Expelled,” I say, dropping into a leather armchair and stretching my legs out. “Threatened with terrorism charges if we set foot on campus again.”
The silence that follows is fucking glacial.
“They did what?” Dad’s voice is a low rumble, the sound of an earthquake starting deep beneath the earth.
“Brady’s making his move,” Sorcha says. “He thinks he can scare us off.”
Dad stands up, his movements slow, deliberate. “He thinks he can accuse my heir of terrorism? This is no longer about a college. This is about wiping an entire board of directors and their fucking descendants off the face of the planet.”
Darragh nods, a slow, grim movement. “They’ve drawn a line.”
“And we’re about to piss all over it,” I say. “We have the deed. We have the DNA results. It’s time to expedite the paperwork and watch them flounder.”
“We do more than that,” Dad says, his eyes gleaming. “We cripple them. Every single one of them.”
This is what I was waiting for. Dad does love a good crippling.