Chapter 34
Sorcha
In one of those weird twists of fate that makes me wonder if the universe is listening, my phone buzzes as we step outside, and I pull it from my pocket, clicking my thumb over the cracked screen to answer the call, already knowing who it is.
“Yeah?”
“Sorcha Gannon.” The voice is soft, female and sounds exactly like fucking Camille Kavanagh.
“Camille,” I say, ignoring the glares of my guys and moving a bit further away. “What can I do for you?” Play it nice for now. More flies with honey, and all that.
“I’m challenging you to a fight for the kingdom. The Pit, two hours. Loser walks away.”
She hangs up before I can even tell her to go to hell.
Mind you, could it really be as simple as that?
I pocket my phone. “She is challenging me to a duel,” I say, turning back to the guys. “The Pit, two hours. Loser walks away.”
“Absolutely fucking not,” Ciar snarls.
“How very theatrical,” Axl murmurs, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “A duel for the kingdom. I’m surprised she didn’t come over to you and slap you with a leather glove.”
“You’re not fighting,” Ciar states, stepping in front of me as if he can physically block me from the idea. “I’ll handle her.”
“No, you won’t. This isn’t your fight. It’s mine. She challenged the Warden, not Ciar MacMahon. If I let you fight my battles, I’ve already lost.”
His jaw is a hard, unforgiving line, but he sees the truth in my words. This is about power, about establishing my rule. Backing down isn’t an option. It’s a fucking death sentence for my authority before it’s even begun.
“She is eighteen years old and looks like a bloody damsel. How hard can it be?” I ask, with a shrug.
The groans at my stupidity hit me with force as Ciar rubs a hand over his face, shaking his head at me. “Never, ever underestimate your enemy,” he says. “She has done this knowing she can beat you.”
“Can but won’t,” I point out. But then I frown.
“What is it?” Cillian asks, knowing my face too well.
“She is a Kavanagh. She is the sole heir to this righteous legacy. She is under pressure from someone to pick up the mantle.”
“So?” Axl asks, not following.
“She challenged me the old school way. An actual duel like the old days. If she loses, she loses and she walks away. Truly free.”
“Oh, that’s a stretch, even for you,” Ciar hisses. “You always see the good in people.”
“And you always see the bad,” I counter.
“This is about understanding the game. She’s giving us a clean ending.
She challenged me, the Warden. If I don’t show, I look weak.
If I send one of you, I look like a puppet.
Either way, I lose my authority before I’ve even had a chance to piss on the furniture. ”
Ciar’s face is a mask of thunder. “And if you lose the fight?” The question is a punch to the gut.
“I won’t,” I say, the words a fucking vow. “I need to change into fighting gear, and then we are going to the crypt. Call the students and tell them the underground fighting ring is back in business and to place their bets on the new owner of St. Bart’s.”
I turn on my heel and march across campus, needing to get back to Cillian’s house and hope that the dads remembered me when they bought clothes over for the guys.
My guys fall into step behind me, a silent, grim-faced honour guard.
Ciar’s silence is the loudest, a blanket of disapproval and worry that I refuse to acknowledge.
He’s wrong. This isn’t about strength or skill.
It’s about a declaration. I am the Warden of the Order of St. Bartholomew’s.
Whatever the fuck that means in this day and age.
I certainly have no intention of overthrowing any monarchy, but maybe we can forge it into something more modern that fits with the Ireland of today.
Either way, this is my kingdom, and I don’t delegate executions.
Back at Cillian’s bungalow, I find a bag with my name on it left by the front door.
God bless the dads. Inside, there are a multitude of clothes, but upon digging, I find black leggings, a tight-fitting black sports top, and trainers.
A uniform for a fight. I hit the shower, letting the scalding water wash away the grime and the ghosts of my mother’s flat.
I scrub my skin raw, but the image of her sobbing on the floor is seared into my brain.
With a hiss, I twist the dial to ice-cold, the shock a brutal, welcome baptism that sharpens my focus.
This isn’t about her. This is about establishing my reign.
Ten minutes later, when I walk back into the living room, dressed for war, the three of them are a silent tribunal of muscle and disagreement.
“You don’t have to do this,” Ciar says, his voice a low growl.
“Yes,” I say, my voice flat. “I do.”
Axl tosses a roll of athletic tape onto the coffee table. “A hundred thousand on the new Warden.”
My eyes widen for a fraction of a second, but then I nod grimly. He just threw down the gauntlet and made sure I will fight like a motherfucker.
I shove Bessie into the back of my leggings, primed and ready. “Let’s go,” I say, and this time, no one argues.
The walk to the crypt is a fucking parade of whispers and stares. The entire student body is migrating towards the mausoleum. They want a show. I’ll give them a fucking coronation.
The heavy stone door of the mausoleum is already propped open, a gaping mouth swallowing the stream of students. We descend the familiar steps, the air growing cold and thick with the scent of damp stone and anticipation. It’s a fucking bloodlust I can taste on the back of my tongue.
The students are packed in tight, a wall of bodies buzzing with energy. Money is changing hands, voices a low hum of bets and speculation. They have no idea what this fight is really about, they just know they’re going to be entertained and maybe make some money on the side.
Camille is already here, as I expected. She stands on the opposite side of the makeshift ring. She’s dressed in black tactical gear, her posture relaxed but ready. She looks like she was born for this. There’s a cold, hard focus in her eyes as they lock onto mine. No fear. No hesitation.
It still doesn’t convince me she is out to win this. She will throw the fight about three-quarters of the way in. I know it in my gut.
The crowd parts for me as I step into the cleared space. Axl catches my eye and gives me a slow, deliberate nod. A hundred thousand on the new Warden. The words are a brand on my focus. Losing isn’t an option.