Chapter 7
Axl
“She’s going to be sore tomorrow,” Cillian says, wiping down the bench she just used. There’s a dark satisfaction in his voice, the pride of a craftsman who has just tested the limits of his new favourite material.
“She’ll be stronger,” Ciar grunts. “She has the will for it.”
They see the fighter. The soldier. I see that too, but I also see the performance. The sheer, beautiful theatre of it all. This blood binding is just the opening act. It’s a statement, a public execution of the old rules, and I can’t wait to watch the fallout.
“Something tells me she is going to sleep before she eats,” I say.
“Probably. So go make her something that will fill her up when she does,” Cillian says.
“Yes, Daddy,” I say with a mock salute. He growls at me, but I give him the finger.
No one orders me about in my own fucking house.
But I’m way ahead of him. I’m thinking lasagne, garlic bread, garden salad, the works.
She will be fed like a queen and then worshipped like one afterwards.
I head back upstairs, ignoring the building work going on.
They are working quickly, meticulously and in total silence behind a plastic sheet to protect the rest of the kitchen from their work.
They’re not chatting or pissing about, just getting on with the job at hand.
They will be finished by nightfall, which is good.
We need our fortress to be solid around our queen.
I gather ingredients, enjoying the busy work of preparing a meal.
My mother would be appalled, having never even made a sandwich in her life, but I’ve always enjoyed cooking.
It’s an art form. It’s a form of control over a situation and of the people who are going to eat it.
You are dictating to them what they eat and when they eat it.
It’s a beautiful thing. I chop onions, the blade of my ridiculously expensive chef’s knife slicing through with satisfying precision.
Each perfect dice is a small act of order in the chaos Cian Gannon unleashed.
I enjoy this. The methodical preparation, the layering of flavours.
A rich béchamel, a robust bolognese. It’s a lot like planning a hit.
You need the right ingredients, the right timing, and a certain finesse to pull it off perfectly.
Sorcha is the main ingredient in our new recipe for chaos.
She’s the spice that’s going to set the whole fucking campus on fire.
Ciar comes in, grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, and leans against the counter, watching me.
He doesn’t say anything, but I know what he’s thinking.
He’s running through every angle of this blood binding, every possible threat.
He’s the brute force, Cillian is the silent blade, and I’m the one who appreciates the spectacle.
“She’ll be out for hours,” he says, his voice a low rumble.
“Good,” I reply, stirring the sauce. “She’ll wake up hungry. And when she does, I’ll have a feast ready for a queen.”
Ciar pushes off the counter, pacing the small, clear space in front of the plastic sheeting. He’s a caged animal, all coiled muscle and simmering rage. “Forty-eight hours. He’s boxing us in.”
“He’s giving us a deadline,” I correct, adding a generous splash of red wine to the sauce. The rich aroma fills the air. “All the best performances have a deadline. It adds a certain tension, don’t you think?”
He stops pacing and pins me with a look that would make most men piss themselves. I just raise an eyebrow. “This isn’t a fucking game, Axl.”
“Isn’t it?” I smile, turning the heat down. “The Ahearnes make a move. The Gannons counter. We make a spectacle. It’s the most exciting game in the world, and our little firecracker is right in the middle of it.”
My thoughts drift upstairs to her. Sleeping. Healing. Getting ready to be reforged.
“That’s precisely what worries me,” Ciar says. “She has a target on her forehead, and we are the only things standing between her and a life of servitude to some entitled prick.”
“This isn’t just about protecting her anymore. This is about establishing a new order. The old rules are dead. The Ahearnes, the Gannons… they’re playing a game that’s already over. We’re just waiting for them to realise it.”
Cillian appears in the doorway, freshly showered and starving as he heads for the fridge. “The binding will be a declaration of war,” he states, his eyes moving between me and Ciar.
“Exactly,” I say, a slow smile spreading across my face. “War is just theatre with a higher body count, and we’re about to put on the performance of a lifetime.”
“All I care about is keeping her safe,” Ciar says. “We don’t do this binding with theatrics. We do it quickly and without any interruption. We don’t give anyone a reason to fuck this up.”
“The best defence is an ostentatious, terrifying offence. We will give St. Bart’s a show it will never forget,” I say with a smile as I layer sheets of lasagne in a dish.
“I care about a clean line of sight and zero surprises.”
“And that’s what will happen. No one wants Sorcha dead.
They want her alive. They won’t risk shooting at her again, even if it is to get us out of the way.
We surround her, but make sure everyone can see exactly what we’re doing.
When it’s over, we move out and let the news ripple through the criminal underworld that Sorcha Gannon isn’t only affiliated with the Cerberus Order, she is also a part of it, a part of us.
Ours through blood. A Celtic queen surrounded by her kings. ”
“Gee, when you put it like that, I feel my black combat pants and tee is wholly inappropriate blood-binding wear,” Sorcha says from the doorway, her hair still damp from the shower and curling around her face.
“We thought you’d be sleeping,” Cillian says, going to her.
“Nah, too wired. Starving, though. When’s food ready?”
“Later for this,” I say, waving a hand at my lasagne masterpiece before picking it up to slide into the oven. “Right now, I can offer you caviar on toast.”
“Eww,” she says, scrunching up her face. “Do you seriously eat that stuff?”
“His mother weaned him on it,” Ciar snorts with amusement.
I give him a look of mock-horror. “Nanny McCarthy, you mean. My mother wouldn’t have been caught dead trying to feed a small child.”
“And she had you, why?” Sorcha asks darkly.
“Good point, sunshine. Why did your mum have you?”
“Ouch,” she growls. “This is getting personal.”
“You started it,” I point out. “Caviar on toast?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” I pull a bagel from its packet, slice it with perfect symmetry, and slide it into the toaster. Her gaze follows my movements, sharp and assessing.
The bagel pops, and I catch it, spreading a thick layer of cream cheese over the hot halves. I offer it to her. “Better?”
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine with a jolt, quick and electric. She takes a bite, her eyes never leaving my face.
“So,” I say. “What does a Celtic queen wear to her own blood binding?”
She swallows, a slow, deliberate motion. “I’m thinking black. For the funeral.”
Ciar lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Whose funeral?”
“Everyone who isn’t us,” she says, and the cold promise in her voice is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.
I smile. This is the overture to an opera of violence, and she’s standing centre stage, ready to sing her fucking heart out. The next thirty-nine hours can’t pass quickly enough.
“Personally, I think combat pants and a tee are perfect,” I point out. “It has a certain ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe that’s hard to ignore.”
Sorcha finishes the bagel, licking a smear of cream cheese from her thumb. The simple action is loaded with an unconscious sensuality that makes the air in the room thicken. “We need a blade,” she says, her voice flat. “One that is ours.”
“I have a few you might like,” I say, my mind already flicking through my collection. A Fairbairn-Sykes, perhaps. Classic. Elegant. Lethal. Just like her.
“Show me,” she demands.
My cock goes hard as I walk towards her. “To my study.”
I lead the way, Ciar and Cillian following.
I move to the far wall, pressing a discreet panel beside a bookshelf.
A section of the wall slides back with a soft hiss, revealing a recessed case lined with black velvet.
Light glints off a dozen different blades, each one a work of art, a promise of pain.
“No, shit,” Sorcha mutters, impressed. “Secret hidey-holes.”
“This place was built centuries ago. It has more hidey-holes than a whore house during Prohibition.”
She giggles. “Nice.” Her eyes move over the collection, lingering on a stiletto with an ivory handle, a heavy-bladed Gurkha Kukri, a modern combat knife with a serrated edge.
“The Fairbairn-Sykes,” I say, pointing to the classic commando dagger. “Elegant. Efficient. A whisper of death.”
But her gaze settles on something else. A Karambit. A curved, claw-like blade designed for brutal, close-quarters fighting. It’s vicious. Utterly without frills. She points.
“That one.”
She doesn’t want elegance. She wants a tool designed for tearing flesh from bone. I move in closer, smelling the lingering scent of her raspberry shampoo. “An excellent choice, sunshine. It suits you.”
I reach into the case, my fingers closing around the cool, textured grip of the Karambit. I pull it from its velvet bed. The blade curves like a predator’s claw, the dark steel drinking the low light of the study. It’s not a duelling weapon; it’s a tool for butchery.
I hold it out to her, handle first. “It’s Indonesian. Designed to mimic a tiger’s claw.”
She takes it from me, her grip sure and natural. She slides her index finger through the safety ring at the end of the handle, letting the weapon become an extension of her hand. She flips it, the blade arcing through the air in a silver blur that ends inches from Ciar’s throat.
He doesn’t even flinch, just watches her with a dark, hungry approval.
“It’ll do,” she says, her voice a low purr of satisfaction. The blade disappears as she reverses the motion, holding it tight against her own forearm.
“It will be baptised in our blood,” Cillian says, his voice a low vow.
“And consecrated in the blood of our enemies,” I add, a thrill running through me. This is real. She looks at me, a wild, beautiful promise in her eyes.
I close the hidden panel, the hiss of the mechanism sealing the moment. “Now,” I say, turning back to them. “The lasagne should be ready in about half an hour. Go and rest, we will have an early lunch.”
She nods and, without a backwards glance, leaves the study, and we hear her footfalls on the stairs.