Chapter 28
Sorcha
The words hang in the air, a fucking starting gun. Evict the squatters. It’s a simple plan. A violent plan. My favourite kind.
The shift in the room is instant, a physical change in atmospheric pressure.
Ciar leans forward and picks up the bag his dad left. “Who’s doing the honours?”
“Already?” I ask. “Is it not a bit soon?” But I move towards him anyway.
“I highly doubt I’m going to overdose from a couple of injections,” he states, thrusting it out to me. “Just do it.”
Seeing his point, but also a bit wary, I take the bag and root around for the injections. “I have never done this before,” I say.
“I trust you,” he replies and rolls up his sleeve.
Well, that’s nice. Too bad I don’t trust myself. I pull out the pre-filled syringe, my fingers fumbling slightly. The clear liquid inside looks innocuous, but the needle is a fucking weapon. I flick it with my finger like I saw Iain do.
Ciar’s arm is a roadmap of muscle and vein, a solid, unmoving target.
I take a steadying breath, swab his skin with an alcohol wipe from the bag, and press the needle in.
The skin gives way with a slight resistance that makes my stomach clench.
I push the plunger, the liquid disappearing into his muscle.
He doesn’t even flinch, just watches my face, his blue eyes dark and unreadable.
I pull the needle out in one smooth motion and press the swab against the tiny pinprick of blood.
“There,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Don’t say I never do anything for you.”
He gives me a smile that melts my insides. “I’d rather you suck my cock and swallow my cum like a good fucking girl, but this will do for now.”
I roll my eyes, but a hot flush creeps up my neck. The bastard knows exactly what to say to make my cunt clench. I toss the empty syringe into the bag. “Get in line.”
“Gladly,” he murmurs, his eyes dark with a promise that makes my stomach flip as all I can picture now are the three of them looming over me while I’m on my knees, sucking their dicks and jerking them off until they cover me with cum. It’s a hot, insistent thought that I push away reluctantly.
Ciar pushes himself to his feet, the painkillers working their magic. He’s ready. We’re all ready.
Cillian is already by the door. The bag of weapons sits open on the coffee table, a fucking buffet of retribution.
I walk over and pick up a gun. It’s solid in my hand and unfamiliar.
But it makes a statement. I have Bessie to fight with.
This is just for show. I shove it into the front of my jeans, hoping I don’t blow a hole in my pussy before the day is out.
Ciar and Axl arm themselves, the clicks of magazines sliding into place the only sound in the room.
This is it. No more hiding. No more waiting.
The sun is up, the sky is blue, save for a few white clouds dotted about. It’s a glorious day after all the rainfall. A perfect fucking day for a coronation.
Or a slaughter.
It doesn’t matter which. St. Bart’s is mine, and we’re going home.
The short walk to campus feels like a fucking parade, only we’re the invading army, not the welcome party. We pass the destroyed townhouse, bustling with OCU staff. It strikes me as odd that no one came looking for us to answer questions. Maybe Alex took care of that as well.
“Ms Gannon,” a sharp voice clips out as we walk across the quad full of students already going about their day, not knowing a reckoning is coming.
I turn at the sound of Bishop Brady’s voice.
He stands there, a smug little toad in a cassock, flanked by two security guards who look like they’ve eaten too many pies washed down with a few pints at the local pub.
The students milling around the quad slow their pace, a ripple of interest spreading through the morning crowd. They smell a confrontation.
“It’s Lady Rhodes of Banbury,” I say, my voice carrying in the crisp air.
“Bamburgh,” Axl hisses, trying not to laugh and spoil my moment.
“Bamburgh,” I correct as if nothing in the world fazes me. “And I believe you’re trespassing.”
Brady’s face tightens, his self-satisfied smirk faltering for a fraction of a second. “I warned you what would happen if you returned to this campus.”
“And I’m telling you to get the fuck off my property, Bishop, before I have you removed,” I counter, my tone bored. I give him a slow, deliberate head-to-toe look of disgust.
Brady’s face mottles with rage. “This is absurd. You have no authority here. I am Chancellor of this institution; you cannot remove me without board approval.”
I smile, a cold, sharp thing that holds no warmth. “Oh, Bishop. That’s where you’re wrong. I have all the authority. Meet the new board. Our decision is unanimous.”
I turn my back on him without waiting for a reply, the ultimate dismissal. The four of us start walking towards the main building, a unified front of fucking retribution, leaving him sputtering in our wake.
We don’t look back.
The whispers of the students follow us like a ripple in a pond.
We hit the main building’s heavy oak doors, and I shove them open without breaking stride.
The same receptionist from yesterday is staring at us with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.
She opens her mouth, probably to tell us we can’t be here, but the words die on her lips as Cillian gives her a look that could freeze fire.
We ignore her, our boots echoing a war drum cadence on the stone floor. We’re not asking for permission. We’re not sneaking in. We’re taking the fucking castle. We head straight for the staircase, the one that leads to the Vice-Chancellor’s office. The office of power.
Emma is waiting for us with a big beam, looking as polished and professional as the first time I saw her. She says nothing, simply averts her eyes back to her screen to carry on her warp speed typing while she answers the phone with her headset.
“It’s going to be a good day,” I say, pushing open the door and looking around.
It’s been cleaned up after Smythe’s grisly demise, thankfully. Striding over to the desk, I take it all in as I sit down.
I’m bored already.
I was assuming that Kavanagh would be waiting with his righteous army of arseholes, and instead, all we got was a bewildered Bishop with no idea what just happened.
“This is anti-climactic,” I point out the obvious.
“I guess that’s what happens when you make moves without news filtering through,” Cillian says.
“Do you people never learn?” Axl murmurs, staring out of the window.
“Do we have company?”
“Better get out the good china,” he says. “We’ve got more than company. We’ve got the guest of honour.”