Chapter 15 Sorcha
Sorcha
Alex’s words hang in the air, colder and sharper than any blade.
Cripple them. It’s a promise, delivered with the casual finality of a king signing a death warrant.
I watch the three fathers, a united front of old-world power and new-world brutality, and a shiver traces its way down my spine.
Bishop Cornelius Brady will wish he hadn’t started down this path.
“The paperwork had already been filed, so I’ll get Ben to hurry it along,” Alex says. “The claim is ironclad. By lunchtime tomorrow, you will be the legal owner of St. Bartholomew’s College.”
“That quick?” I ask.
He smiles. “Money talks.”
Can’t say that I’d know, but I guess he’s right.
I can’t believe the utter balls on Brady.
What an arsehole. There has to be something bigger at play here.
This isn’t just about the VC position. It’s a powerful place to be, sure, but all of this, threatening a member of the founding family plus a Gannon with severe charges, seems…
excessive. My gaze lands on the cross, which is still sitting on Axl’s desk.
“What are you thinking?” Darragh is the one to ask.
I look at him, blinking a couple of times as I draw my focus away from the dazzling artefact.
All eyes turn to me. “The cross. This is about the cross. It has to be. It makes no sense to go through all this just for a VC position.”
“What about it?” Cillian asks.
“What we found in it. This was a well-kept secret, of course, but people knew. Back then, people knew and before the Rhodes’ decided to be cheaters in this game—”
“Hey,” Alex snaps, but I wave my hand at him dismissively.
“The founding families knew what was at stake. So, who are the other four founding families? Any of them connected to Brady or one of the board?”
“No,” Alex says, “but you might be onto something. This is clearly a relic of the Catholic Church. Brady would know if something of this calibre disappeared if he went looking for something. There would’ve been records of it.”
“So, this is about the cross,” Ciar says, staring at it. “What are we missing?”
“Nothing. We have all the pieces,” I say. “Someone else, though? Someone who knew what the legacy was, would want a Gannon and a member of one of the founding families hitched. Who are the other four founding families?”
Alex’s gaze hardens. “The Fitzwilliams, the O’Riordans, the Delaneys, and the Kavanaghs.”
The names mean nothing to me, but they fill the room with the weight of history. Four other dynasties that lost the race Ardal Gannon set up.
“No one said it has to be a Gannon girl, now did they? One of those females was looking to hook up with a Gannon, or vice versa, or a mutual understanding. Only Axl and I got married first. But the question is… do they know we’ve got the cross and the deed?
” I muse out loud. This is all starting to make a bizarre kind of sense.
It runs hot in my blood, and I curse under my breath.
“Fucking Robert!” I explode. “I’ll kill him with my bare hands! ”
“Jesus!” Ciar growls. “That fucking cunt!”
We share a look that connects us in our fury. It all clicks into place with a sickening thud. Robert wasn’t just making a power play for himself. He had a partner. One of the old families, one of the losers of Ardal’s game, trying for a second chance at the crown.
“Cian?” I gasp as the thought hits me. “Is he in on this? He’s been trying to get me out of the way since I got here.”
Ciar gives me a grim stare. “We can’t rule it out. It tracks.”
He wouldn’t, would he? Would he betray me? But then I shake my head at myself. Of course he would. I’m the bastard, Robert is his brother.
“None of that really matters,” Cillian says calmly. “We now know what we are up against.”
“We are up against nothing,” I say coldly. “Axl and I are married. We completed the task, we got the cross, we have the deed, and it’s been filed. Brady’s threats don’t matter. You can’t expel someone from something they legally own, and you can’t throw around terrorism charges that won’t stick.”
“It’s not about what will stick, Sorcha,” Alex says, his voice dangerously calm. “It’s about what was said. An accusation like that is a challenge. It’s a declaration. You don’t ignore it. You answer it.”
His words are a cold splash of water. I stare at him, at the absolute certainty in his eyes. For me, this is about a deed, a claim, a way to end this madness. For them, it’s about honour and retribution. Two different worlds collide right here in this room.
“He’s right,” Darragh adds, his gaze as hard as flint. “Brady has to be made an example of. So does every member of that board who sat there and said nothing.”
“But if we own the place…” I start, but Axl cuts me off.
“Then we can do whatever the fuck we want to them on our own property,” he finishes. “Think of it as redecorating.”
Ciar pushes himself out of the chair he slumped into, his body still a wreck, but his eyes burning with a fresh fire. “Brady is Chancellor. He won’t be easy to remove.”
“His role as Chancellor is tied to him being a Bishop of good standing. So, we go after the one thing that he thinks makes him untouchable,” Darragh says.
“Expulsion from the church. Oh, the irony,” I mutter.
Darragh grins. “I do enjoy the poignancy of such an annihilation.”
These patriarchs of violence, plotting the complete destruction of a man’s life with the same casual air as discussing the weather. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. This is my family now. A pack of wolves sharpening their teeth.
“Brady’s been Bishop for thirty years,” Iain says. “He won’t have a clean slate. There will be something. Someone he paid off, a scandal he buried. I’ll make some calls.”
“Good,” Alex says, his eyes glinting. “While you do that, I’ll start applying pressure to the board members. Financial audits, inconvenient truths leaking to the press. We’ll have them eating out of our hands by morning.”
Axl leans forward. “Or we could just break their kneecaps.”
“Let’s try subtlety first, son,” Alex says, though there’s a flicker of pride in his eyes.
I look at Ciar, who hasn’t taken his eyes off me.
He’s still pale, but the fury in his gaze is a tangible force.
He’s ready to tear down the world for me, broken body and all.
My gaze holds his, a silent acknowledgement of the brutal, beautiful thing that exists between us.
It’s a terrifying kind of love, the kind that burns cities and topples kingdoms. And it’s all for me.
A part of me, the part that grew up on the streets with nothing, recoils from it.
The other part, the part that’s been fighting for survival since I took my first breath, fucking craves it.
“So,” I say, my voice cutting through the thick atmosphere of plotting. “While you all play your games of corporate espionage and religious blackmail, what do we do?”
“We wait,” Cillian says, his voice a low rumble. “And we prepare.”
“Prepare for what?”
Axl grins, a slow, lethal curve of his lips. “The coronation, of course.”
The word hangs in the air. Coronation. It sounds ridiculous, like something from a fairy tale.
But looking around this room, at the kings and their princes, I know he’s not joking.
This isn’t just a takeover. It’s a fucking ascension.
They’re crowning me queen. I meet Ciar’s gaze again.
He gives me a slow, deliberate nod. He knows what this means.
He knows what it will cost. He’s still here, ready to pay the price. For me. For us.
“I need food,” I murmur as my stomach rumbles. I hastily leave the room, the claustrophobia of the tension getting to me.
Axl is hot on my heels, a master of his kitchen and giving it up to no one.
He moves around the space, pulling out a chopping board, a loaf of bread, the sharp tang of aged cheddar filling the air.
I sit at the table and watch his every move.
It’s surreal. One minute, we’re plotting the systematic destruction of a bishop and his board of directors; the next, he’s making cheese toasties.
“Stop looking at me like I’ve grown a second head,” he says, not turning from his task.
“I’m just trying to reconcile the man who smiles while breaking bones with the one who knows his way around a panini press.”
He shrugs, a lazy movement of his shoulders. “A man has to have hobbies.”
The domesticity is a strange, fragile bubble in the middle of a war zone. Cillian appears in the doorway, his presence a constant reminder that the bubble can pop at any second. He doesn’t speak, just watches us, his bruised face a mask of grim resolve.
Axl places a perfectly golden toastie on a plate and slides it in front of me. “Eat. You’ll need your strength for what I have planned later.”
His seductive tone is unmistakable. “Wanna get rid of the dads first?” I say, biting into the sandwich.
He chuckles and disappears, hopefully to remove the parents from our home so we can fuck like the world is ending.
Cillian sits next to me, unmoving. It should be weird, but it’s not. It’s just Cillian. A constant, steady presence in the chaos. I take another bite, the melted cheese a warm comfort. It’s the calm before the storm, and I’m going to savour every fucking second of it.
Axl returns, a triumphant smirk on his face. “The kings have vacated the castle.”
“Good,” I say, finishing the last of the toastie. My eyes flick to Cillian, then back to Axl. The air shifts, the quiet domesticity replaced by a low, simmering heat.
“What about the wounded soldier?” I ask, my voice dropping.
Axl’s smirk widens. “I gave him a head start to get upstairs.”
I giggle, picturing Ciar’s face as Axl dishes out that particular insult.
As I stand, my phone rings. I frown and pull it out, staring at the screen.
“Who is it?” Cillian asks.
“No Caller ID,” I say, and swipe my thumb across the screen before he can snatch the phone from me. “What?”
A low, dark, masculine chuckle echoes down the line that chills me. “Get out.”
My blood freezes. “What?” I say again.
“Get out.”
My gaze darts around the kitchen, but it’s not the words that have me shell-shocked; it’s the voice. I’d forgotten all about it. “It was you,” I murmur.
“Sorcha?” Axl clips out.
I hold my hand up in a wait gesture.
“What was me?”
“You warned me before Cian blew up the kitchen and took me. Who is this?”
Axl and Cillian surround me.
The airwaves crackle with dark amusement. “Asking questions will get you killed, little Gannon. I gave you a warning. I suggest you take it.”
Axl’s hand closes over mine, trying to take the phone. “Who the fuck is this?” he demands, his voice a low, dangerous command meant for the caller.
I wrench my hand back, pressing the phone harder to my ear. “Why are you helping me?” I ask, my voice a strained whisper. “What’s coming?”
“Let’s just say I have a vested interest in you staying alive. For now. You have sixty seconds.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the blank screen, the sudden silence a deafening roar.
“Sorcha,” Cillian’s voice is a blade at my side. “Talk.”
I look from his taut, bruised face to Axl’s, where the easy smirk has been replaced by a cold, murderous fury. “It’s the same person,” I manage, the words sticking in my throat. “The one who called before Cian… before the explosion. He said we have sixty seconds to get out.”
The words hang between us, a ticking fucking time bomb.
Without another word, Axl is moving, his body a blur of lethal grace. “Upstairs. Ciar,” he barks at Cillian.
Cillian is already gone, taking the stairs two at a time.
The fragile bubble of domesticity hasn’t just popped; it’s fucking evaporated, leaving behind the cold, hard reality of another threat we can’t see, another enemy playing games with our lives.
And I have a horrible feeling I know what’s coming.