Chapter 39 Sorcha
Sorcha
Being slung over Ciar’s shoulder is a special kind of hell.
Every jarring step he takes sends pain through my bruised body.
I can feel the rigid tension in his frame, the way his muscles bunch under my stomach.
He’s hurting, too. The stubborn bastard.
He doesn’t say a word, but his silence is a fucking lecture, a thousand unspoken threats and promises wrapped in one possessive act.
I don’t fight him. I’m too fucking tired to do anything but hang there like a sack of spuds.
He kicks the door open and marches straight through to the bedroom, depositing me on the bed with a distinct lack of gentleness. I land with a groan, my body a fucking museum of pain. He looms over me, his blue eyes blazing with a fury that’s hotter than any fire.
“You are done,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
“For today,” I grit out.
“You’re a fucking liability,” he snarls, but there’s no real heat in it as he hands me a hoodie to pull on.
It’s just fear, twisted into anger. He sits on the edge of the bed, his weight making the mattress dip.
His hands, surprisingly gentle, unlace my trainers. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“Not today, I’m not,” I say, watching his deft fingers work. “Tomorrow, I’m going to win.”
He pulls my trainer off and throws it on the floor. “I know,” he says, his voice rough. “And I’ll be waiting at the finish line to carry your broken body back again.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’m fine. Painkillers.”
“Ciar.”
He avoids looking at me for a moment, but then he drags his reluctant gaze up to mine.
“Don’t,” I say, my voice soft but firm. “Don’t pretend for me.” His shirt has a damp, dark patch. He ripped his stitches open carrying me, saving me from myself. The thought is a lead weight in my gut.
He looks away, his jaw tight. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” I reach out, my fingers brushing the damp fabric. He flinches, a barely perceptible movement, but I feel it. “You can’t protect me if you’re broken.”
“I’ll never be too broken for you,” he growls, his hand capturing mine, his grip firm but not crushing. His thumb strokes over my bruised knuckles. “But this… this self-destruction… you’re going to give me a fucking heart attack.”
“Good,” I whisper, leaning into his touch. “Then we’ll be even.”
A corner of his mouth quirks up, a reluctant smile. “You’re a fucking menace.”
“And you’re a stubborn arsehole. We’re a perfect match.”
The tension breaks. The fury in his eyes recedes, replaced by that familiar, possessive heat that makes my bones melt. He leans in, his forehead resting against mine. We just stay like that for a moment, breathing each other in, the world outside this room ceasing to exist.
“Food’s here,” Axl’s voice calls from the living room, shattering the bubble.
I look up. “Food?”
“A delivery from the finest restaurant in Dublin,” Axl says, gesturing for me to join him.
I get up and grab his hand, leaving Ciar to follow at his own pace.
The kitchen table is loaded with a fucking feast. Spread across it are huge serving dishes of roast potatoes, a whole chicken, vegetables, and a jug of gravy. Cillian is already piling a plate high.
“Dad,” Ciar says from behind me, his voice flat.
His dad doesn’t look up from where he’s carving the chicken. “Someone has to make sure you lot don’t die of malnutrition. You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards, girl.”
“I feel like it, too,” I admit, my stomach rumbling at the sight of actual, proper food.
Iain’s gaze flicks to Ciar’s shirt, and his mouth thins into a hard line. “Sit down, you absolute fucking moron, before you bleed out on the floor.”
Ciar doesn’t argue, just slumps into a chair. Axl hands me a plate, already loaded with food, and pulls out a chair for me. Iain finishes carving, wipes his hands on a tea towel, and then marches over to his son with the medical bag he seems to carry everywhere.
“This is the last time I patch you up,” he grumbles, cutting Ciar’s tee off with a pair of shears. “Next time, I’m letting you bleed out or die from sepsis.”
“No, you won’t,” Ciar says, wincing as Iain inspects the damage.
“No,” Iain agrees, his voice softening for a fraction of a second. “I won’t.”
I watch them, this strange, violent display of fatherly affection, and dig into my food. We eat in a comfortable silence, a fucked-up family having a fucked-up dinner. It’s the most normal I’ve felt in my entire life.
Alex and Darragh appear, bringing with them dessert and booze, both of which are welcomed. I watch as the sons and fathers, the mafia bosses and their heirs, tuck in to excellent food and expensive wine.
“Alex,” I say suddenly, my voice cutting through the chat.
He looks over at me, clearly expecting something more serious than what I’m about to ask him. “You a fan of Guns ’n Roses?”
Axl snorts loudly, spraying red wine all over his food. He pats it with a napkin in disgust, but it doesn’t stop him from shovelling more into his mouth.
Alex’s eyes light up. “What makes you say that?”
“Axl Rhodes. Axl Rose. You know, that isn’t a coincidence,” I say, taking a swig of wine and feeling it slide pleasantly down my throat.
“Well,” he says and settles down as if to tell a tale. “Axl’s mother and I met at one of their concerts, actually.”
“Oh, groan,” Axl mutters. “Do we have to?”
“The Marquess goes to a concert that isn’t Last Night at the Proms?” I ask with a smile.
“We aren’t all dull and boring,” he says with a nostalgic sigh. “Those were the days.”
“Well, mystery solved. It’s been bugging me since Axl told me his name,” I snicker.
The chatter resumes, and I sit back to enjoy it, but then my phone rings.
Everyone hits pause and looks at me.
With a raised eyebrow, I pull it out of my hoodie pocket and frown. “Yeah?”
“It’s Emma. I’ve got a shortlist for you for the VC position.” Straight down to business.
“Okay, set up some meetings.”
“Already done. The first one is in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes?” I splutter. “Jesus, right, fine.” I hang up. “Got some VC candidates to meet and greet,” I say to the guys, hauling my arse out of the chair. “Save me some of that trifle.”
“I’ll join you,” Axl says, and I’m grateful he offered. I don’t have the first clue what I’m looking for, and while I doubt Axl does, at least he can fake it.
“Let’s go.”
“Your business attire is on point, my lady,” Axl murmurs, falling into step beside me as we leave the bungalow. He’s got the half-empty bottle of red wine tucked under his arm.
“Fuck off,” I say without heat. “If they can’t handle a hoodie and leggings, they can’t handle this job.”
The walk across the quad is quiet, the afternoon air cool on my bruised skin. My body is a fucking protest song, but my mind is sharp, clicking into a different gear. From fighter to queen. From survivor to boss.
Emma is waiting outside the VC office, a tablet in her hand. She gives me a small, professional smile and gestures to the closed door.
“She’s waiting.”
“She?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. “Only one?”
Emma nods with a secretive smile that intrigues me more than it pisses me off.
“Fair enough,” I mutter and push open the door. I take in the candidate and move around to sit behind the massive, pretentious desk.
I lock gazes with her.
Hers never falters.
She stares back at me with an authority that most definitely gave her the nickname.
“Maggie Collins,” I say. “I have one question for you.”
She says nothing.
“What makes you think you can do this job when you were teaching Physical Training this morning?”
She smiles.
It’s frosty and I like it.
“Because for the last twenty-five years, while the men in this office were playing politics, I was watching, studying, learning,” she says, her voice as crisp and starched as her outfit.
“I know every student, every professor, and every dirty little secret they try to hide. You’re not looking for an academic.
You’re looking for a warden. And I, Lady Rhodes, have been the warden of this place since before you were born. ”
Fucking hell. I love her.
“Married to the Keeper of Records, too,” Axl murmurs.
Maggie’s gaze doesn’t waver from mine. She’s not intimidated by him, by me, by any of this. She’s assessing me, seeing if I’m strong enough to be her boss.
“You’re hired,” I say, leaning back in the chair. “What do you need?”
“Full autonomy and a direct line to you. No board meetings, no committees. Just results.”
“Done,” I say. “Welcome to the new management, Mrs Collins.”
She gives a single, sharp nod, the deal sealed. “Good. My first act as Vice-Chancellor will be to triple the budget for the infirmary and hire a full-time trauma surgeon. Judging by the recent goings-on, it’s a sound investment.”
Axl snorts, a sound of pure, unadulterated approval. “An excellent first move. My associates and I are prone to accidents.”
Maggie’s gaze is flat, unimpressed. “So I’ve noticed.”
I grin, a painful stretch of my split lip. “Do what you need to do, Mrs Collins. You have my full backing.”
She doesn’t smile. She just gives another one of those sharp, decisive nods. It’s a dismissal. She’s already working, her mind churning through the logistics of her new empire. We’re just a distraction.
“Well,” Axl says, taking a swig from the bottle as we step out into the hallway. “I think I’m in love.”
“Get in line,” I mutter.
“She’s perfect,” Axl continues, his voice laced with amusement. “Terrifying, efficient, and she already knows where all the bodies are buried. Saves us the trouble of a handover.”
It’s been a fucking long few weeks.
“Come on,” I say, my voice rough. “Let’s go see if your dad left any of that trifle.”
“An excellent plan,” Axl agrees, draping a casual arm over my shoulders. “You’ll need the sugar for tomorrow’s victory lap.”
I just groan. Tomorrow. The fucking race. One battle ends, another begins. There’s no fucking peace in this world, just a different kind of war.