Chapter 26
Cillian
Words are fucking useless. We’ve never needed them.
She sees me, and I see all of her, whether she wants me to or not.
The bedroom door clicks shut behind us. The air in here is still, separate from the coiled tension in the other room.
She watches me, her ice-blue eyes seeing straight through the bullshit.
I pull her against me, one hand tangling in her hair, tilting her head back.
My mouth covers hers, not a gentle kiss, but my kiss.
I take what’s mine, the taste of her a potent mix of coffee and defiance.
She meets it with equal force, her hands coming up to grip my tee.
She’s a fucking firestorm, and I’m the eye of it.
My hand slides down her back, over the curve of her arse, and I lift her, pinning her against the wall. She wraps her legs around my waist without hesitation, her body arching into mine. This isn’t about fucking. It’s about reminding ourselves what we’re fighting for. It’s about possession.
I break the kiss, my forehead resting against hers. Her breath is coming in short, sharp pants. My gaze is locked on hers as I reach around and pull my blade from the back of my pants. “You are his,” I murmur, flashing the steel, so she knows my intentions. “He lets us have you.”
“No,” she says, shaking her head.
“Shh,” I cup my free hand over her mouth, keeping her pinned to the wall with my body. “Ciar lets us have you. You might be Axl’s wife, but you belong to Ciar MacMahon. The scar on your back says so.”
Her pupils dilate. “Then make me yours.”
I grip her arse and turn us, dropping her lightly on the bed. Leaning over her, I unbutton her jeans and lower the zip. “Turn around.”
She does as she is told, like a good little girl, and it makes my cock stiffer.
I place the blade between my teeth as I lift her top over her hips and pull her jeans down enough to show me the top of her arse.
Gripping the handle of the blade, I lower it to her skin, pressing the tip deep into the flesh of her lower back.
She hisses, a sharp intake of breath against the mattress, but she doesn’t fucking move.
She pushes back into the pressure, accepting it.
Accepting me. I drag the blade slowly, deliberately, carving the first curve of my initial into the pale skin.
Blood wells up in its wake, a perfect, crimson line against her flawless skin.
A fucking masterpiece. Her muscles clench under my free hand, but she remains perfectly still, trusting me.
I complete the ‘C’ and move onto the ‘I’.
The blade glides, a cold, sharp kiss against her warmth.
She doesn’t flinch, just takes it, her body a canvas for my claim.
I finish the ‘I’, then the two ‘L’s, each line a deliberate stroke, a wordless vow.
Blood wells, bright and stark against her skin.
My mark. Permanent. The last three letters are in quick succession, and she breathes out.
Her skin is flushed, and she stays perfectly still.
I retrieve a clean cloth from the bathroom, returning to her, still where I left her on the bed.
I press the cool, damp cloth to the fresh cuts, cleaning away the excess blood with a slow, possessive care.
She shivers, a ripple of sensation that runs right through me.
“There,” I murmur, my voice a low rasp against her ear. “Mine.”
She turns her head, her eyes dark, bottomless pools. “I was always yours.”
The words are a fucking stamp on my soul. I pull her up, turning her to face me. We own her. All of us.
Dragging her jeans the rest of the way down her legs, stopping at her boots, I straighten up and release my cock.
She takes me in her mouth, eagerly sucking me, my cock sliding against her tongue as she works me in the way only she can.
My hand fists in her hair, not gently. I set the pace, a hard, punishing rhythm that would make another woman gag.
Not her. She takes it, her eyes locked on mine over the length of my cock, a silent challenge. She can take whatever I dish out.
I don’t let myself come in her mouth. I pull out just before the edge, my control absolute.
I turn her around, pushing her face down onto the bed, her arse in the air.
Her jeans are still tangled around her boots.
I shove my cock into her cunt from behind.
It’s tight, hot, and she cries out my name.
My thrusts are deep, brutal. I grip her hips, my fingers bruising her skin, lifting her to meet each slam of my cock as I stare at the bloody letters carved into her back. Mine. Fucking mine.
This isn’t about her pleasure. It’s about mine. It’s about leaving my mark inside and out. My release is a fucking explosion, a raw, guttural groan tearing from my throat as I empty myself deep inside her.
I pull out, leaving her trembling on the bed.
She flips over, her eyes defiant as she takes her hand to herself.
I stifle the groan of longing, wishing my cock could pound into her again already.
I watch her, my cock twitching, already hardening again at the sight.
She’s a fucking masterpiece of defiance, her fingers slick as they work her clit, her gaze locked on mine.
She’s not asking for permission. She’s showing me.
Showing me that even after I’ve marked her, claimed her, she is still her own.
It’s why she’s ours. Why she’s mine. A lesser woman would break under the weight of our world. She just gets harder.
Her fingers slide through the slick mix of my cum and her own juices, her movements sure and deliberate. Her gaze never leaves mine, a challenge and an invitation all at once. My cock, still slick and half-hard, jumps at the sight. She knows the effect she has.
Her breath hitches, her fingers moving faster, circling her clit in a way that makes me pant. She arches her back, her pussy clenching as she comes, a low, feral moan escaping her lips.
“Fuck, Sorcha,” I murmur, dropping to my knees and devouring her with my mouth.
I lap at her, my tongue tracing the slick folds of her cunt, tasting the sharp, sweet tang of her climax mixed with mine. It’s the taste of victory. She arches against my mouth, a broken sound escaping her lips as her orgasm thunders over her, twice as potent as the one she coaxed out herself.
“See,” I murmur against her spasming pussy. “You need us.”
“Shut up and fuck me with your fucking mouth,” she hisses.
My tongue plunges inside her, lapping at her clit, drinking her down as she writhes on the bed. She’s a fucking inferno, and I’m happy to burn. I grip her hips, holding her steady as I worship her, my tongue a relentless weapon until she’s screaming my name.
I stay there for a moment, tasting her, letting the aftershocks ripple through her. This is what she does. She takes the violence, the pain, the claiming, and she throws it right back, demanding more. It’s why she’ll survive this. It’s why she’ll win.
I pull back, my gaze meeting hers. They’re dark, blown wide, but the fire is still there. “Happy now?” I ask, my voice a low rasp.
A slow, wicked smile curves her lips. “Getting there.”
“Do you want your husband?”
“Always,” she murmurs, her eyes lighting up at the word.
For all her defiance about this marriage, she is starting to accept it. Enjoy it, even. She feels like she finally belongs somewhere.
“Don’t move,” I murmur and put my dick away, wiping away the traces of her from my lips.
I walk back into the living room. Axl is cleaning a blade, his movements precise. Ciar is still in the armchair, silent, primed.
Axl looks up, a question in his eyes.
“She wants you,” I say. No bullshit. No games. It’s a fucking statement of fact.
He wipes the blade clean on a cloth, sheathes it, and stands. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t need them. We understand each other.
He walks past me into the hallway without a word. The bedroom door clicks shut.
I turn my attention to Ciar. His eyes are closed, but I know he’s not asleep.
I take up a position by the window. Kavanagh has no fucking idea he just signed up for his own execution. The only question left is which one of us gets to pull the trigger.