Chapter 9
Sorcha
After lunch that was fit for a queen, I groan as I flop onto the sofa in the living room, which looks like it might rival my bed for comfort.
I rub my injured arm and then rip the bandage off.
I’m sick of it. It feels like a weakness.
Before any of the guys can stop me, I start peeling the steri-strips off.
It’s oozing blood from my workout where I practically ripped it apart but fuck it.
“Whoa, there,” Axl says, gripping my hand to stop me. “Let me.”
I nod, and he takes over as Cillian disappears.
Axl plucks the remaining strips away and examines the thin red line where O’Malley cut me. “It’s actually looking okay, despite you tearing it a new one earlier,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, well, don’t blame me. Tell that to your buddy.”
Cillian returns with a smirk and pats the cut with the damp cloth before he pats it with a dry one. “You’ll live.”
“Always.”
“Do you need anything?” Ciar asks, sitting his massive form next to me, making me lean in towards him.
“A new set of abs,” I groan, letting my head fall against his shoulder. His arm comes around me, pulling me securely against his side. It’s like leaning against a mountain. Solid. Immovable. “But I actually feel invigorated. Like I’m doing something productive. Can we go for another run in a bit?”
Cillian raises his eyebrow. “You sure about that? It’s pissing it down outside for a start, and secondly, you’re meant to be in bed with the food poisoning.”
“Huh?”
“That’s the excuse I gave when I called you in sick,” he says.
“Oh, thanks. Explosive vomiting and the shits. You couldn’t have gone with regular flu?”
“That would entail a week’s ‘bed rest’, and we’ve got shit to do,” he says.
“Okay, fair point. I’ll take the hit. Maybe people will hear of it and stay out of my way.”
“Smythe will probably want to talk to you about not suing the catering staff,” Axl says.
“Really?” I say exasperated, shaking my head. “Forget that. Run. I want to go, even if it’s just for a gentle ten minutes.”
“In the rain?”
I nod at Ciar, who is frowning at me.
“Fine. I’ll take you this time. But you just ate enough food to feed the five thousand. How about we wait an hour or so?”
“Deal,” I say, snuggling deeper into Ciar’s side. The food coma is starting to hit, a warm, heavy blanket settling over me. “An hour. But then we go.” I need to keep moving, to keep pushing. Sitting still feels like letting the clock win.
Axl sprawls in an armchair opposite us, looking ridiculously pleased with himself. “You know, for someone who nearly died of exhaustion this morning, you’re surprisingly keen to repeat the experience.”
“It’s called grit,” I shoot back, a small smile playing on my lips. “Something you wouldn’t know about, what with your caviar and your nanny.”
He chuckles, a low, smooth sound. “Oh, I have grit, sunshine. I just prefer to apply it in more... pleasurable arenas.” His eyes rake over me, a hot, knowing look that reminds me of exactly how pleasurable he can be.
Cillian sits on the coffee table, silent and watchful. He’s always watching, his blue eyes missing nothing. The way I shift against Ciar, the way Axl’s gaze lingers on me. He’s the silent guardian, the one who sees all the moving pieces.
My new reality settles around me. This. Three dangerous, possessive men who are ready to start a war for me.
An hour from now, I’ll be punishing my body again, pushing it to its limits.
This time tomorrow, I’ll be binding myself to them with a blade and blood.
It’s insane. It’s terrifying. And it’s the only thing that feels right.
“Lunch time,” I say. “We’ll do the blood binding at lunch time tomorrow. Everyone will be out of lectures and milling about.”
“Assuming it’s not raining,” Cillian says.
“You are obsessed with rain,” I giggle.
“I grew up on the west coast with a dad who owns more farmland than anyone else in Ireland. Obsessed about the weather is in our blood.”
More farmland than anyone else in Ireland? There’s a piece of Cillian Sullivan that I didn’t know a few minutes ago.
“And I grew up on the streets of Dublin, where the only thing in our blood was cheap vodka and desperation. A bit of rain won’t hurt me.”
Ciar’s arm tightens around me, a silent approval. “Lunchtime it is. Right in the middle of the quad if it’s dry, in the dining hall if it’s raining. You may be a hardened street rat, Red, but the rest of these fuckers, might melt. We need to make sure everyone gets a good look.”
I close my eyes and doze against Ciar’s chest, the low rumble of his voice as he talks to the other guys a soothing vibration against my ear. It’s the safest I’ve ever felt, wrapped in the arms of a man whose tattoos are a body count. The thought doesn’t scare me. It comforts me.
“An hour’s up, Red. You still want to go?” Ciar murmurs, his voice waking me from the light sleep.
Opening my eyes, I nod and stretch. “Yeah, just give me a few minutes to get changed and wake up a bit.”
I force myself up from the sofa, every muscle screaming in protest. It’s a good kind of pain, though. The kind that reminds me I’m alive and fighting. I head for the stairs, feeling their eyes on my back. It’s not a violating stare; it’s protective. Possessive. I’m theirs to watch, theirs to build.
Upstairs, I change back into the running gear from this morning.
Why get more clothes sweaty and wet when these will do?
My old life feels like a lifetime ago, a black-and-white film of a girl who was always cold, always hungry, always alone.
Now I’m sore and exhausted, but I’m not alone, and definitely not hungry. I ate a feast fit for a fucking queen.
When I get back downstairs, Ciar is waiting by the door, pulling on his trainers. He looks up, his eyes sweeping over me, and a slow, approving smile touches his lips. He doesn’t say anything, just opens the door.
“Warm-ups first. Especially in this downpour.”
I nod and follow him outside.
Minutes later, we head outside, and I shiver. The rain is coming down in a steady, grey sheet, plastering my hair to my head in seconds. The cold is a shock, but it’s a welcome one, snapping me to full alert.
“Ready, Red?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against the drumming of the rain.
I grin, a wild, fierce thing. “Let’s fucking go.”
We set off at a slow pace, my feet pounding a rhythm on the wet tarmac as we cross the road onto the campus.
The rain is a constant, cold presence, but it feels cleansing, washing away the lingering weakness from this morning.
Ciar runs beside me, a silent, massive shape that cuts through the rainfall.
He doesn’t push the pace, just matches mine, his presence a solid wall I can lean on even from a foot away.
We cross over the quad and around towards the lake.
My lungs burn, a familiar fire, but this time it feels different.
It’s a fire I’m stoking, not one that’s consuming me.
I glance at him, his short black hair slicked to his head, his blue eyes fixed forward.
He’s a machine, his body built for this, for violence, for endurance.
“You’re doing good, Red,” he says. It’s not praise; it’s a statement of fact, an acknowledgement of the work I’m putting in. It means more than any empty compliment.
I don’t waste breath on a reply, just nod, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.
This isn’t about speed. It’s about proving I won’t break.
Proving to him, to them, but mostly to myself, that the girl who arrived at St. Bart’s is being replaced.
In her place is a fucking queen, and she’s just learning how to run her kingdom… while running.
We move around the lake, seeing the police tape across the crypt door, flapping in the wind.
“When do we get to open it up again?” I pant as we pass.
“Soon. Dad said he sorted the O’Malley death out, so there shouldn’t be any more investigations.”
“How?”
He gives me a sidelong glance before staring forward again. “If I wanted to know, I’d ask. I don’t. It’s what he does.”
“What you will do one day.”
He nods. “One day. He wants me here for now.”
“Is that the only reason you came here?”
He nods. “He went, as did his dad before him, blah, blah. You know the score.”
“Can’t say that I do,” I gasp out, the words ripped from my lungs. “My family score is a bit more improvised.” A bitter laugh escapes me, swallowed by the rain. My legacy is a dead gangster I never met and a mother who saw him in me every day and hated it.
“Your score is with us now, Sorcha. You’re writing a new one.” His words are a brand, a promise. He makes it sound so simple, so absolute.
We fall back into a rhythm, the only sounds are our synchronised footsteps on the wet path and the steady hiss of the rain. My legs are starting to feel a deep burn, but I push through. I won’t be the one to slow down. I won’t be weak.
I push harder, my legs pumping, my lungs screaming for air.
I won’t just keep up; I’ll set the fucking pace.
I pull ahead, just by a step, a silent challenge that hangs in the damp air between us.
Ciar doesn’t say anything, but I feel the shift, the subtle increase in his speed to match mine.
It’s a game, a brutal test of will disguised as a training run.
We race back through the campus, cutting through the downpour, each stride a declaration.
We hit the driveway of the townhouse, and I finally allow myself to slow, stumbling to a halt.
My body is a live wire of pain and adrenaline.
I bend over, bracing my hands on my knees, every muscle shaking with the aftershocks of the effort.
Ciar stops beside me, his breathing barely laboured, the bastard.
“You’re a fucking lunatic,” he says, but there’s a raw pride in his voice that makes the agony worth it.
I straighten up and smile at him. “And you’re just figuring that out now?”
He reaches out, his hand wrapping around the back of my neck, pulling me towards him.
His thumb presses into the sensitive skin just below my ear, a possessive, grounding touch.
“No,” he growls, his face just inches from mine as he bends down.
“I’m just figuring out how much I fucking love it.
” His lips crash into mine, and I open up to his kiss without hesitation.
It’s not soft or gentle. It’s a fucking claiming.
His mouth is hard, demanding, his tongue sweeping inside to duel with mine in a battle for dominance I’m happy to lose.
The rain plasters our clothes to our bodies, but all I feel is the heat of his mouth, the bruising pressure of his lips.
My hands fist in his wet tee, pulling him closer, needing more.
He breaks away, leaving me breathless and chasing the ghost of his lips.
We stare at each other, the rain dripping from our faces, our chests heaving in the cold air.
The raw possession in his eyes reflects the wild need clawing its way up my throat.
This is more than lust. It’s a forging, a welding of two jagged pieces into something new and unbreakable.
“Inside,” he commands. He doesn’t let go of my neck, just turns and steers me towards the door, his hold a possessive brand that promises pain and protection.
I go without a word, every inch of my body screaming with a potent cocktail of exhaustion and desire.
He owns this moment. He owns me. I’ve never wanted anything more.