Chapter 5
Sorcha
Iwake to the soft grey light of dawn filtering through the curtains. My head feels clearer, the angry throb reduced to a dull ache. For a second, I’m disoriented, the memory of the explosion and Cian’s face a confusing jumble.
Cillian is looming over me, shaking me gently.
“Time to train,” he says with a wicked smile.
“Are you bullshitting me?” I rub my hand over my face. “What time is it?”
“6.30 am. You’ve had five hours’ sleep.”
“Five hours. So, forty-eight is now forty-three.” What a waste of fucking time. That’s five hours I could’ve been doing something productive.
“Yep. Get up and get your joggers on, Gannon. We’re going for a run.”
“You are far too chipper for this hour with a jogging prospect on the horizon,” I groan, but move my arse.
I asked for this. Backtracking now is weak.
I move to the bathroom to do my business, and I’m pleased to note that my period has ended, which gives me a sense of satisfaction knowing I can ride some big, fat cock later. Whose remains to be seen.
The events of last night crash back in full force as I scrub the brush back and forth over my teeth.
Cian’s ultimatum. Their solution. A blood-binding.
It sounded like the perfect ‘fuck you’ in the heat of the moment, a theatrical power play that would shove Cian’s archaic rules back down his throat.
We are out-archaic-ing the archaic. But now, in the quiet light of day, the weight of it settles in my gut.
It’s still a commitment, just not in a church with a big white dress weighing me down.
It’s real. Tying myself to them with blood, a bond older and more visceral than any legal document. It’s a complete surrender of the solitary life I’ve always known.
I spit toothpaste into the sink and rinse my mouth. This is what it means to choose a side. To stop running and start fighting. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s the most alive I’ve ever felt.
Moving back into the bedroom, I spot the black joggers and sports top that Cillian has laid out for me.
“Second thoughts?” he asks, his voice low, his eyes searching my face.
“Never,” I say, meeting his gaze without flinching. “Just processing the fact that my life is about to get a lot more complicated.”
“And a lot less lonely,” he counters. “You ready for this?”
“Which part?”
He smiles. “All of it.”
“I guess,” I mutter and swap last night’s clothes for the sportswear.
I’ve never owned anything like it in my life.
I feel like I could do the cross country now at warp speed, all geared up in these designer labels.
Cillian watches me, a flicker of something possessive in his eyes as I tie my hair back.
It’s not just about the clothes. It’s about me fitting into their world, becoming a part of it.
He nods, satisfied, and leads the way out of the bedroom.
The townhouse is quiet, the air still and heavy with the promise of the day ahead.
Downstairs, Axl and Ciar are already up, with Axl directing the builders around.
Ciar hands me a bottle of water and a protein bar.
“Eat,” he commands, his voice a low rumble.
I tear the wrapper open with my teeth and take a bite, the sweetness a jarring contrast to the tension coiling in my stomach.
“The run first,” Ciar says. “Then Cillian will take you to the gym for strength work. We need to build your stamina and your power. You’re fast with a blade, but against a brute, you need to be able to break bone.”
“Let’s go,” I say, finishing the bar in two more bites. “The clock’s ticking.”
The look they share over my head is one of grim approval. I’m not their liability anymore. I’m their project. Their secret weapon. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them, or myself, down.
The cold morning air hits my exposed skin like a punch as we step outside. The campus is shrouded in a damp, grey mist, silent and sleeping. Ciar steps outside with us, although I get the feeling he is going to hang back as overwatch rather than getting involved in training. That’s Cillian’s job.
“Warm up, first,” Cillian says, stretching on the driveway.
I follow his movements, knowing my arse is sticking out in these tight running pants.
I can feel his eyes on me, a heavy, possessive stare that has nothing to do with my form and everything to do with the fact that he can look, and touch and fuck.
The air is cold and damp, clinging to my skin as we set off at a slow jog, leaving Ciar to pace himself behind us.
“This is about building up stamina, not pushing you until you drop,” Cillian says in a normal tone while I’m already out of breath. “Slow down.”
I nod and focus on my breathing.
In, out. In, out.
Already, my lungs are on fire, each breath a shard of ice. We’ve only been at it about ten minutes. My legs feel like lead weights I’m dragging through wet cement. I hate this. I hate the weakness, the burn, the sheer fucking effort of it all. But I hate the thought of being a liability more.
“Even pace,” Cillian says beside me, his own breathing infuriatingly steady. “Find a rhythm. Don’t think about the finish line, just the next step.”
The next step. And the next. Each one a tiny rebellion against the girl I was yesterday. Every punishing stride is a promise.
We round the corner of the library, the gothic spires black against the lightening sky. He glances at me, and in the dim light, I see the ghost of last night in his eyes. The kiss. The promise of more.
Pushing past the pain, I find a new gear. My lungs scream, but I ignore them.
“Slow down,” Cillian says, his feet pounding the quad as we cut across. “You are pushing too far, too fast.”
“I have to,” I gasp, shaking my head. The words are a ragged tear in the air. “Forty-three hours.”
He doesn’t argue. He just grabs my arm, his grip like iron, and yanks me to a halt. The sudden stop makes the world spin, and I stumble against him, my legs threatening to give out.
“Forty-three hours of smart training,” he corrects, his voice a low growl right next to my ear. His breath is warm against my cold skin. “Not forty-three hours of running yourself into the ground so you’re useless when it matters. Breathe, Sorcha.”
I glare at him, but there’s no fight left in me. Just a burn in my lungs and a shame that feels even hotter. He’s right. This isn’t about pride. It’s about preparation. He’s not just training my body; he’s reprogramming my mind, breaking down the lone-wolf instincts that will get me killed.
He keeps his hand on my arm, a steadying presence as I drag air into my lungs. His thumb strokes over my bicep, a small, possessive gesture that sends a jolt through my exhausted body.
“Again,” he says, once my breathing has evened out slightly. “My pace. Not yours. Or I will get Ciar to hold you back by your ponytail.”
Glowering at him, I nod, too winded to speak, but taking his threat seriously as Ciar snickers. I think he would quite enjoy it.
Cillian lets me go, and we start again, a slower, more measured jog. It’s still torture, but it’s a sustainable kind of torture. A torture with a purpose. Each step is a word in my new vocabulary: discipline, control, power.
I repeat the words in my head, a mantra against the screaming protest of my muscles.
A few early risers are dotted about campus now, ignoring us as we run past.
Finally, we finish back at the townhouse, my legs shaking so badly I have to brace my hands on my knees to stay upright.
I’m drenched in sweat, my lungs feel like they’ve been scraped raw, but I didn’t fall.
I didn’t quit. Axl is waiting on the steps, a fresh bottle of water in his hand.
He doesn’t offer it to me. He unscrews the cap and holds it to my lips.
“Drink,” Ciar orders.
I obey, swallowing the cool liquid greedily. It feels like a reward.
“That was the warm-up,” Cillian says, his voice devoid of sympathy. “Now the real work begins.”
He leads me back inside, to a door that opens onto a set of stairs leading downwards. It’s a personal gym. An armoury of iron and pain, filled with every piece of equipment imaginable.
“Today, we see what you’re made of.” He gestures to a bench. “Let’s start with what you can lift.”
“Lift?” I croak.
He gives me a savage smile. “Lift.”