Chapter 37 Sorcha
Sorcha
Dawn brings with it an unexpected visitor.
I crack an eyelid when I sense the presence in the room with me, and see Cian standing at the window, staring out at the small garden.
“Good thing I’m not naked under here,” I murmur.
“Your guys checked first.”
I snort. “Good boys. What do you want that you couldn’t at least wait for me to wake up and have coffee?”
He turns to face me. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks. It was well-earned.”
“So I hear. I’m proud of you, Sorcha. You have my blessing.”
My ribs scream a protest as I push myself into a sitting position, the oversized tee shifting over a landscape of fresh bruises. “Your blessing? For what? Becoming the new owner of this madhouse, or for getting the shit kicked out of me to keep it?”
A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “For all of it. You didn’t run. You didn’t hide. You stood your ground and fought for what’s yours. That is the only thing that matters. True Gannon style.”
“Gannon style,” I repeat. “Is that what we’re calling getting your face rearranged?”
He doesn’t rise to the bait. His gaze is intense, analytical. “It’s what we call winning when the odds are stacked against you. Dad would’ve been proud.”
It’s like being doused with arctic water. Dad. Not my dad, but theirs. He was merely a man who had a hand in creating me.
But I can’t help the feeling of warmth that follows the chill. “Does this mean you are going to leave me to live my life in relative peace with my guys?”
He laughs darkly. “There is no such thing in our world, Sorcha. You should know that by now. This place is a world of sharks, just waiting for blood in the water.”
“Thanks, big brother, for the sage advice.”
He raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
“Robert?” I ask shortly, needing to change the topic in case he decides to get all mushy on my arse.
“Dealt with. He has been sidelined for a while, so he can reflect on his idiotic mistakes.”
“How boring for him,” I remark. “I’m sure he will see the error of his ways.”
“He already has.”
End. Of. Story.
“Fair enough,” I murmur. “Is that it? Is that all you came to say?”
Cian’s gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the purple bloom on my cheek. “Not quite. I came to give you this.”
He picks up a thick folder from the windowsill and tosses it onto the bed. It lands with a soft thud next to my hip.
“What is it?” I ask, not moving to touch it.
“A dossier on all of the Gannon family still in Ireland. Pick and choose who you will contact and form alliances with. You’re going to need it.”
“Big family,” I murmur, picking up the heavy folder.
“You have no fucking idea.”
“You ever heard of Ciarán?”
He nods. “Cousins in Manchester. One of triplets.”
“He contacted me. He’s been watching me.”
“I know,” he says with a slow smile.
“You fucking jerk,” I growl, rolling my eyes.
“Someone has to keep an eye on you, sis. You are fucking trouble.”
I scowl at him. “I’m not trouble,” I snap, the words a lie even to me. “I’m a fucking solution.”
He just chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that grates on my last nerve. “Keep telling yourself that. It might even keep you alive.”
He moves towards the door. “Read the file. Know your allies before you need them. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way.” He pauses, his hand on the handle, and looks back at me. “And for fuck’s sake, let your men take care of you. You fought like a hellcat to keep them after all.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that leaves the room feeling empty and too quiet.
I stare at the closed door, a thousand angry retorts dying on my tongue.
My gaze drops to the folder. My extended family. A concept so foreign it feels like a different language. My fingers trace the plain manila cover before I flip it open.
Page after page of faces, names, and affiliations stare back at me. A web of connections, of power, of potential allies and definite enemies. It’s overwhelming. A fucking legacy, dropped right into my lap.
The door opens again, and I look up, expecting Cian to have one last piece of unsolicited advice. But it’s Ciar.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
“I should be asking you that?”
“I’m fine.”
“So am I,” I reply with a soft smirk.
He shakes his head. “You are impossible.”
“But you love me anyway.”
“I do,” he says seriously, sitting heavily on the bed. His eyes flick to the folder on the bed. “What’s this?”
“My brother’s parting gift,” I say, picking it up. “A who’s who of our esteemed family. Apparently, I’m supposed to make friends. As if I know how to do that.”
He takes it from me and flips it open. “We’ll figure it out.” He looks back at me, his expression serious. “But first, if you really are going to run cross country, it’s time to get moving.”
“I’m moving, just slowly.”
“You don’t have to run,” he says.
“I lead from the front. Plain and simple.”
“Even when you will be hobbling at the back?”
“Fuck you, MacMahon. You can barely even walk.”
He laughs. “This really pisses me off, you know.”
I cup his face and smile. “I know. But if I can walk, I can run.” I swing my legs over the side of the bed, a chorus of aches and protests screaming through my body. Every muscle is a tight, angry knot. I grit my teeth against a groan.
I emerge from the bedroom to the sound of a running shower and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Axl hands me a mug while Cillian leads me to the steamy bathroom. I take a gulp of the hot coffee and sigh in bliss.
“I can manage,” I say to Cillian as I hand him the mug.
He hesitates, but then nods. The truth is, I need to do this alone. I want to stand under the hot spray for a while and let it seep into my bones. I want to fix myself under the protection of the water cascading down, with no one staring at me like I might break.
The lock clicks, a small, satisfying sound that seals me in.
I strip off my tee and step under the hot spray.
The water is a blessed relief, sluicing over the landscape of aches and bruises.
I lean my forehead against the cool, wet tiles, letting the steam envelop me, a temporary shield from the world.
Every muscle screams. I turn my face up into the spray.
The pain is a fucking anthem. A reminder that I’m still here, still standing.
I wash quickly, my movements stiff and deliberate. When I’m done, I turn the water off, the sudden silence a shock. I grab a towel, wrap it around my body, and then stop to stare into space for a while.
But as much as I want to, I can’t stay in here forever.
The real world awaits. I unlock the door and step out, the towel clutched tight.
The guys are waiting. Their eyes rake over me, taking in the damage, and I see something other than passion, than lust, than the raw, possessive hunger that has nothing to do with pity. It’s pride.