Chapter 29
Axl
Ciar looms next to me, staring out at the envoy that has arrived on campus. He reaches over to open the window and push it open, levelling his gun.
“Really?” I ask. “You’re just going to shoot him from here?”
“Why not? I can get him right between the eyes.”
I look over at Sorcha, and she shrugs. “I mean, why do we have to do it the hard way?”
“The satisfaction of seeing him know he’s cocked up?”
“Boring,” Ciar says and pulls the trigger.
Sorcha is out of her seat the second the crack hits the air, pressing her hands to the window in time to see Kavanagh hit the ground.
“Wow, nice shot, big guy,” I murmur.
Ciar racks the slide on his weapon, ejecting the spent casing. He doesn't look satisfied. He looks like he’s just taken out the fucking bins. It’s a chore. Another body to add to the tally.
Below us, the students don’t appear too fazed. They stare at the body, then carry on with their days as if nothing has happened.
To them, not much has happened. Some guy they don’t know got taken out. It’s simple, really. I suppose this is what happens when your student body is comprised of the next generation of criminals. A public execution is just another day.
Sorcha turns from the window, her eyes glittering with a savage light. There’s a feral satisfaction on her face. "Well. That was efficient."
"Effective," Cillian says.
Below, the men who arrived with Kavanagh are scrambling, a disorganised mess of panic and confusion. Some are reaching for weapons, others are trying to drag their boss's body into one of the cars.
“Ding Dong, the righteous king is dead.”
"Well,” Sorcha huffs. “That didn’t go quite as I expected it to.”
Ciar turns to scowl at her. “What did you expect? Some trash talk and a big bust up?”
“Never underestimate the power of some good trash talk,” I point out.
But the giant has a point. He is pissed.
I mean, pissed right the fuck off with being shot with a crossbow bolt while he drank coffee in our own damn house.
Now he has dealt with the man who gave the order. In his own brutal, beautiful way.
But now I want my pound of flesh for being abducted.
“I’m going for a souvenir,” I say without a look back.
Sorcha hurries to keep up as I march down the stairs. “What about his guys?”
“Their paymaster is dead. Usually, unless someone takes the reins, they will flee.”
Cillian and Ciar are right behind us as we emerge into the sunlight.
Kavanagh’s men are scrambling as we approach, but level their weapons as we get closer.
“Looks like we get the big bust up, after all,” I say and pull my blade out.
I could shoot every one of these arseholes in their kneecaps and sleep like a baby, but I want to do this old school.
I want to walk into the middle of their little militia and let them see with their own eyes that the Kavanaghs—no, all the fucking traitors—could never match a Rhodes when it comes down to the wire.
Blood, steel, and ego; that is what will always outplay a backyard coup.
I step into the centre of the quad and shout, “It’s over. Your king is dead. Drop the fucking guns, or I’ll keep count of who cowers fastest.”
The first one lowers his weapon before I get to two. These aren’t the kind of men who know how to function without a leash-holder. They’re the kind who follow the meanest, loudest arsehole in the room because thinking for themselves is a foreign concept. I almost want to pity them.
Sorcha stands beside me, Bessie in one hand, the gun in the other. I don’t think she has the slightest clue how to use it, but it looks good in her grip.
Ciar and Cillian flank us. There’s a heavy, silent moment where even the birds seem to stop, the campus suspended in violence and potential energy. Then it breaks all at once: two of Kavanagh’s men open fire.
The world explodes into motion. It’s the kind of beautiful chaos I live for. I’m moving before the first echo dies. Sorcha drops, rolling behind a stone bench with a grace that’s pure street fighter, Bessie flashing in her hand.
Cillian doesn’t waste time with posturing. Two shots, clean and precise. One of the shooters drops, a neat hole in his forehead. The other stumbles back, clutching a blossoming red stain on his chest.
Ciar doesn’t even seem to feel the recoil of his weapon, putting down another man who was a second too slow on the draw.
That leaves one for me. The one who started it.
I close the distance between us, my blade a whisper-thin promise of pain.
He raises the gun, but it’s too late. I sidestep, my knife slicing across his wrist. The gun clatters on the paving stones.
He opens his mouth to scream, but I’m already there, my other hand clamping over his mouth, my blade sinking into the soft flesh under his jaw.
His body goes limp. I let him drop, then crouch beside Kavanagh’s cooling corpse.
“Time to collect,” I murmur, my knife glinting in the morning sun. A souvenir for the new Warden’s office. I glance at Kavanagh’s corpse and spot my trophy. The little finger on his right hand, displaying a fancy gold ring with a crest. Perfect.
I work the knife around the knuckle. A quick twist, a satisfying pop, and the finger comes free. I hold it up, admiring the heavy gold of the signet ring against the pale, waxy skin. A perfect little trophy.
Pulling Kavanagh’s pocket handkerchief from his pocket, I stand, wiping the blood from my blade onto the expensive cotton before sheathing it. I wrap the finger up and pocket it. Sorcha’s eyes are full of lust and passion, and it sends a bolt of desire straight to my cock.
“Someone call the fucking groundskeeper,” Ciar grunts, nudging one of the bodies with his boot. “The lawns are a mess.”
Sorcha smirks, turning her gaze from the carnage to the main building. Her building. “Forget the groundskeeper,” she says, her voice ringing out with a newfound authority that sends a fucking shiver down my spine. “Get me the registrar. It’s time to make some changes to the student handbook.”
“Now you’re talking,” I say, but then a woman slips into view from behind a tree. There is no doubt in my mind that this is Camille.
She’s just a kid. Pale face, wide, terrified eyes fixed on her father’s corpse.
A loose end. My gaze flicks to Sorcha. It’s her board now, her move to make.
The girl doesn’t scream or cry. She just stands there, a ghost at the edge of the carnage, her world just having been blown apart right in front of her.
Or was it?
She raises her eyebrow, and her eyes meet mine.
That deer-in-headlights look melts away in an instant, and she smirks. “Which one of you do I thank?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. It’s a low, appreciative sound. Infinitely more entertaining than a hysterical, grieving daughter. This girl has been playing her own game.
“That would be the big, grumpy one with the excellent aim,” I say, gesturing with my thumb towards Ciar. “The rest of us were just cleanup.”
Camille’s gaze flicks to Ciar, assessing him. “My hero,” she says, her tone dripping with a sarcasm that could rival mine.
“Well, now. It seems the little pawn had a crown of her own.”
Ciar just grunts, unimpressed by her. He’s a man of action, not words. Cillian remains silent, a stone-cold observer taking in every detail, his gaze weighing her, judging.
“He was a monster,” Camille says, her gaze finally dropping to her father’s body.
There’s no grief there. Just a cold finality.
“Now I’m free. An orphan with a considerable inheritance.
” Her eyes flick back to us, a calculating glint in their depths.
“I’ll be seeing you around.” She turns and strides off without another word, melting back into the shadows of the ancient campus from which she appeared.
“Well,” Sorcha says, turning on her heel, her gaze sweeping over the quad. “This is a mess.”
“Nothing a few bin bags and a power washer won’t fix,” Ciar grunts, already bored now that the main event is over.
Sorcha doesn’t wait for us. She just starts walking, her stride confident, purposeful. The new queen surveying her kingdom of corpses. We fall into step behind her, a fucking royal guard of killers. The students who had been watching from a safe distance part for us like the fucking Red Sea.
This is a good start. Chaos, bloodshed, and a clear message sent. The old board is out. The new board is in, and the new board doesn’t take prisoners. The redecorating has officially begun. I can’t wait to see what she does with the place.