Chapter 6
Sorcha
Istare at the bench, then at the rack of weights beside it. My arms feel like overcooked spaghetti, and he wants me to lift heavy things. A hysterical bubble rises in me, something between amusement and despair, but dies before it reaches my lips, crushed beneath the weight of my own heaving lungs.
“You’re fucking with me,” I say, but the words have no bite.
“Do I look like I’m fucking with you?” His expression is deadly serious, a promise of pain and progress.
I drag my feet over to the bench and lie back, the cold vinyl a shock against my damp skin. He places the bar into my hands, his fingers brushing mine. The weight is surprisingly heavy, cold and solid.
“Just the bar,” he instructs, his voice a low command right beside my ear. “Lower it to your chest. Slow. Controlled. Then push.”
I do as he says, my arms trembling under the strain. It’s pathetic. The bar comes up, wobbly and uneven.
“Again,” he says, his hands hovering just above the bar, not helping, just watching.
I do it again. And again. The repetitive motion burns a line of fire across my chest and down my arms. Each lift is a war against my own weakness. I glance over and see Ciar watching me, his expression grim and intense. He’s assessing me. Judging me.
“I’m going to add weights,” Cillian says, and slides a small weight onto each end of the bar.
“I can’t,” I gasp, the words tasting like failure.
“Try. If it’s too difficult, say. Don’t push through it and hurt yourself.”
It’s fair, but I still want to cut his testicles off.
My jaw clenches. I grit my teeth and push. The bar moves, inch by agonising inch. My arms scream, my chest feels like it’s going to tear in two. Cillian’s hands hover, a safety net I refuse to use. The bar reaches the top, my arms locked and shaking.
“Down,” he says.
The descent is a controlled fall. I manage three reps before my vision starts to grey at the edges. On the fourth, my arms give out. The bar plummets towards my chest, but Cillian catches it effortlessly, his hands closing over the bar in between mine.
“Enough,” he says, lifting the weight and racking it.
I lie there, panting, sweating, feeling failure hit me like a bus.
“That was a test,” Ciar says from across the room. I turn my head to glare at him. “You didn’t quit when it got hard. You didn’t let your pride get in the way of safety. You did what you were told.”
It’s not praise, not really. It’s an assessment. A passing grade at best.
“Get up,” Cillian says, pulling me into a sitting position. “We’re not done. Not even close.”
He leads me over to the pull-up bar, and I just stare at it. He wants me to pull my own body weight up after my arms have been turned to jelly. I must look as defeated as I feel because a slow, sexy smile crosses his face. “Don’t worry. I’ll help.”
I can’t help but giggle. I can turn this session into an activity I will enjoy. His promise hangs in the air, thick with unspoken meaning. I look from his face to the bar, then back again. “Oh, I bet you will. What kind of hands-on help are we talking about, Sullivan?”
He steps closer, crowding me. His body heat is a furnace against my back. “The kind that teaches you to use every muscle you have,” he murmurs, his voice a low vibration against my ear that sends a ripple of desire through my veins.
His hands settle on my waist, firm and possessive. They’re a brand, staking a claim. “Jump,” he commands.
I obey, my hands finding the bar. Instead of letting me hang, he holds my weight, his grip solid, keeping my body pressed against his. My breath hitches. This isn’t training. This is a seduction wrapped in iron and sweat.
“Pull,” he orders.
I try, my muscles screaming in protest, but his strength is there, supporting me, guiding the movement. He lifts me, his hands sliding from my waist to just under my arse, boosting me upwards until my chin clears the bar. My gasp is sharp, part effort, part pleasure.
“You’re stronger than you think.”
“Hardly,” I scoff. “You’re doing all the work.”
He lowers me slowly, letting my body slide down his until my feet touch the floor. His hands linger on my hips, fingers digging in just enough to remind me who’s in control.
I turn in his arms, my chest heaving, my body thrumming with a mixture of exhaustion and raw want. His eyes are dark, a storm of lust and possession that promises to drown me. He lets me go with a reluctant pat on the arse that’s both a dismissal and a claim. “Mats. Now.”
I stumble over, my legs feeling disconnected from my brain. The soft mat is a cruel temptation. I want to collapse on it, but I know what’s coming.
He holds my feet. “Twenty reps, all the way up.”
I groan, but at least my arms are getting a bit of a break before they break.
I pull myself up into a sit-up, wanting to cry, but twenty reps is doable.
It has to be. I won’t fail. I count the reps in my head, each number a curse.
One. The muscles in my stomach scream, a tight, burning knot.
Two. My vision swims. Three. I can feel Cillian’s stare on me, a physical weight pushing me down even as his hands hold me in place. He’s dissecting my every weakness.
By ten, my body is a single, quivering muscle of agony. Sweat drips into my eyes, stinging. I want to stop. I want to tell him to fuck himself. But weakness is a death in this world. Fast with a blade doesn’t always work out.
I force my body up again, the motion pure agony.
Eleven. My muscles are shredding, tearing apart under the strain.
Twelve. I see Liam’s face, his hand on my throat, the smug confidence that I was his to take.
Thirteen. I am nobody’s fucking property.
Fourteen. The burn is so intense, I think I might throw up.
“Five more,” Cillian says, his voice a relentless drill in my ear. “Show me you want this.”
I want it. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything.
I want to be their equal, the queen to their fucking kings.
Sixteen. My vision tunnels, the edges going dark.
Seventeen. Ciar’s shadow moves closer, a silent predator waiting for me to fail.
Eighteen. I will not fail. I refuse. Nineteen.
My body gives one final, agonising heave.
The last one is a barely controlled collapse back to the mat. I lie there, a boneless, twitching heap, every muscle screaming. I feel utterly broken.
Cillian releases my feet and looms over me. I expect a command to get up, to move on to the next torture device. Instead, he crouches down, his face inches from mine.
“Good girl,” he says. The words are a brand on my soul. “You didn’t break. Shower, food and rest.”
“What about lectures?”
“They can wait until tomorrow,” he says. “I’ll call you in sick.”
I snort. “Thanks, Daddy.”
He freezes, but the deep lust in his eyes is hard to look away from. I open my mouth to backtrack, to make it clear I do not have daddy issues, but he speaks first.
“I’m not sure if I should be insulted or what? Your daddy wasn’t a great role model.”
“He wasn’t a great anything,” I say.
“He was a great leader,” Ciar says, holding his hand out to help me up.
I take it, pushing my pride aside. “Well, that remains to be seen.”
Axl appears with a bottle of water and a towel.
“Thanks,” I say, taking both. I practically rip the cap off the bottle and guzzle it down like I haven’t had liquid for days.
“Need some help getting upstairs?” he asks.
I give him a scathing glare that he chuckles at.
“I’m good, thanks.” I stalk past him, willing myself to stay on my feet and not collapse in a pile of goo as my legs scream in protest at the stairs.
I still have to get up the main staircase, and I’m already ready to throw in the towel.
But I lift my chin and move my arse. I can rest when I’m dead.
Hopefully, that won’t be anytime soon.
But that’s the whole point of this. To keep me alive for as long as possible and out of the clutches of families like the Ahearnes.
It keeps me going, it keeps one foot in front of the other until I get to my bedroom and close the door.
With a sob of agony, I lean against the door, allowing myself two seconds of pity, before I haul my carcass to the bathroom, stripping off my sweaty clothes as I go.