Chapter 40 Sorcha
Sorcha
The morning is cold and drizzly.
Cillian and Axl flank me.
The entire student body has turned out for this race, and adding in St. Bridgid’s College, the campus of St. Bart’s is packed out.
I catch Annastasia’s eye and she grins, giving me a thumbs up. Despite her move, she is running to win this for St. Bart’s. For me.
“Ready?” Axl asks.
“Born ready,” I say, cracking my neck.
“On your marks,” Maggie Collins shouts out, with no need for a megaphone. “Get set. Go!”
The world explodes into a chaotic surge of pounding feet and sharp elbows.
My body screams, every bruise a fresh agony as I’m jostled by the pack.
For a second, the pain threatens to swallow me whole, a white-hot wave of nausea that makes my vision swim.
Fuck that. I grit my teeth, find my footing in the churned-up mud, and push.
Axl is a solid presence on my left, Cillian a shadow on my right.
They aren’t running the race; they’re running interference, a human shield carving a path for me through the mass of bodies.
I see Anastasia a few metres ahead, her long blonde ponytail swinging as she finds her pace.
She’s a machine, all lean muscle and focus.
She’s my pace setter. Keep her in my sights. Focus on her.
The initial shock of pain subsides, replaced by the familiar, dull ache I ran with yesterday.
It’s a part of me now, a constant companion.
I find the rhythm, the cadence of defiance that carried me through three laps of hell.
My breathing evens out, my stride lengthens.
The pack thins as we hit the incline leading to the woods.
This is where the real race begins. The woods swallow us whole, the weak light filtering through the canopy turning everything green.
The path is a fucking nightmare of mud and treacherous roots.
Every footfall sends a jolt of agony up my shins, a fresh argument with my ribs.
A St. Bridgid’s runner tries to cut in front of me, and Axl hip-checks him into a thorny bush without breaking stride.
“Mind your footing, my lady,” he says, his voice a casual murmur laced with amusement.
I don’t have the breath to answer. I just focus on the swinging blonde ponytail a few bodies ahead. Cillian runs on my other side, a silent machine. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer encouragement. He just runs, a steady, unbreakable presence that somehow makes me push harder.
My lungs are on fire. My legs are lead. Every fibre of my being screams at me to stop, to give in to the fucking pain.
But the thought of Ciar waiting at the finish line, of the look on his face if Cillian has to carry me over, is a sharper pain than anything my body can throw at me.
I grit my teeth, tasting blood from my split lip, and lengthen my stride.
I’m closing the gap. Annastasia’s back is getting closer.
I am the fucking owner of this place. I will not be beaten on my own turf.
The mud sucks at my trainers, trying to pull me down, to make me part of this fucking miserable, damp earth.
I ignore it. I draw level with Annastasia.
She glances sideways, her eyes wide with a flicker of surprise that quickly morphs into a grin of pure, competitive fire.
She gives a short, sharp nod. We don’t need words. We’re a team.
Her pace is relentless, and I match it, feeding off her energy.
We fall into a punishing rhythm, our feet pounding the trail in perfect, brutal sync.
Together, we start picking them off. One by one, the St. Bridgid’s runners fall behind us, their faces masks of pained disbelief.
We’re a fucking two-woman wrecking crew, flanked by two of my men, leaving a trail of broken spirits in our wake.
We burst out of the woods, the finish line a distant, beautiful sight across the open field.
Annastasia finds another gear, her long legs eating up the ground.
I dig deep, past the pain, past the exhaustion, into that raw, ugly place where only pure fucking will resides.
I pull level with her again. We’re side by side, a united front, the only two runners that matter.
A hundred metres.
That’s all that’s left.
My vision tunnels, the edges blurring into a grey haze. The only thing that’s real is Annastasia’s ragged breathing beside me, the pounding of our feet on the damp grass, and the dark, unmoving figure of Ciar waiting by the oak tree.
He’s a fucking anchor in the storm of pain and noise.
I focus on him, using his stillness as fuel.
My lungs feel like they’re full of broken glass.
My legs are on fire. A St. Bridgid’s runner makes a last, desperate push to catch us.
Axl materialises beside him, a casual, menacing shadow that makes the guy falter.
“Go,” Annastasia gasps, her voice raw as she pulls back a fraction.
I don’t have the breath to answer. I just nod, digging deeper, finding a last, ragged piece of will.
I cross the line, the fucking winner, somehow.
The world dissolves into a dizzying spin. My legs give out. Before I can hit the mud, I’m swept up into a pair of strong arms. I’m pressed against a solid, familiar chest.
“I will always catch you when you fall,” he growls, his voice a low vibration against my ear.
I just sag against him, too fucking broken to speak. I won. I didn’t fall before the finish line. That’s all that matters.
The world solidifies around me, a chaotic blur of cheering students and the sharp, earthy smell of mud. Ciar’s arms are a steel cage, holding me together when every part of me wants to fly apart.
“You absolute fucking lunatic,” Axl’s voice cuts through the noise, laced with smug satisfaction. He looms into view, a triumphant grin on his face.
Annastasia appears, her face flushed with exertion, a huge grin splitting her face. She punches my shoulder lightly. “You fucking did it.”
“You did it,” I manage to gasp out, my voice a raw croak.
She smiles and holds her hand up for a high five. “Nah, I was fucked.”
I oblige with a grin, knowing she’s lying, but I love her loyalty after everything.
Ciar ignores them all. He adjusts his grip, lifting me higher against his chest, and starts walking.
He moves with a single-minded purpose, parting the sea of students like a fucking god of war carrying his spoils.
The pain in my body is a distant, screaming symphony, but the solid beat of his heart against my ear is the only thing I focus on.
“Let’s go home,” Cillian says, his voice a low rumble from somewhere beside us.
Home. The word hangs in the air, a foreign concept that suddenly feels real.
It doesn’t matter where we live; it could be a dingy, freezing flat in Dublin’s roughest area for all I care.
Home is where they are. I let my head fall back, my gaze fixed on the grey, unforgiving sky.
I fucking won. It cost me, but in this world, everything has a price.
But for the first time in my life, I feel like I can afford it.