Chapter 13 Sorcha
Sorcha
Ishove the last bite of my sandwich into my mouth, chewing through the knot of frustration twisting in my gut.
Axl’s words hang there like a dare, but he’s not wrong—I’ve committed now, blood and all, and backing out wasn’t an option from the start.
The dining hall buzzes around us, muted whispers and stolen glances bouncing off the high ceilings, but I tune it out, focusing on the solid warmth of Cillian’s thigh pressed against mine under the table.
It’s grounding, a reminder that this chaotic mess is mine, ours, and no amount of second-guessing will change that.
Ciar leans forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the remnants of our lunch. “We stick to the plan for tonight. The Pit opens at ten. You fight whoever shows, Red, and make it count. Show them what happens when they come for what’s ours.”
I nod, wiping my hands on my jeans, the faint sting in my palm from the fresh cut pulsing like a heartbeat.
“I need this. After today, I feel like I could take on the whole fucking campus.” The adrenaline from the binding still simmers under my skin, mixing with a restless energy that begs for release.
Liam’s face flashes in my mind, that smug bastard, and I clench my fist, imagining it connecting with his jaw.
The thought of Cian storming in, all righteous fury and brotherly bullshit, lights a fire in my chest. He thinks he can dictate my life? I’ll show him exactly how wrong he is, right there in the Pit if I have to.
Cillian’s hand finds my knee under the table, squeezing once. It’s a silent promise of backup, of violence if needed. “He won’t touch you. Not now.” His touch lingers, warm and possessive, sending a shiver up my spine that has nothing to do with fear.
We push back from the table as one, trays in hand, the scrape of chairs drawing more eyes our way.
I feel them on me, these spoiled heirs and their hangers-on, judging, whispering, but it doesn’t faze me.
Annastasia O’Shea is glowering at me like I’ve personally affronted her.
Okay, I suppose I did by double-crossing her.
I meet her eyes with a smirk, daring her to say something. She looks away first.
Outside, the mist has thickened into a proper drizzle again, coating everything in a slick sheen.
We cut across the quad, the site of our little ritual still drawing a few lingering stares from students huddled under umbrellas.
“Next lecture’s in twenty,” Axl says, checking his watch.
“We keep our heads down, act like it’s just another day. ”
“Easier said than done,” I mutter.
Ciar falls into step beside me, his presence a wall against the world. “You love us,” he says quietly, like he’s testing the words again, a rare softness edging his usual growl.
We come to a stop when VC Smythe steps in front of us. “My office. Now.”
I stare at Smythe, his face all pinched and red like he’s about to burst a vein.
He spins on his heel without another word, marching off towards the admin building, and we follow, the guys closing ranks around me like a protective shield.
Smythe knows something’s up; the whole campus is whispering by now, and he’s probably got his knickers in a twist over the ‘ritual’ we just pulled in his precious quad.
We trail him into the building, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the stone walls, and I catch Axl exchanging a quick glance with Ciar—silent strategy, always planning.
Smythe doesn’t look back, just storms into his office and holds the door open like he’s herding cattle.
I step inside first, chin up, refusing to let him see any cracks.
The office is a testament to his position.
Dark wood, red carpet, books, and certificates of excellence on the walls.
“Sit,” he snaps, pointing at the chairs opposite his desk, but we stay standing. The guys flank me, Cillian’s presence a solid heat at my back, and Smythe’s eyes narrow as he slams the door shut. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing? Blood rituals in the quad in front of everyone?”
“It was necessary to protect Sorcha,” Ciar says, taking point. I let him because I have no idea what to say.
Smythe’s face goes dark. “Using my campus as the site of a declaration of war on every family within a hundred-mile radius, and beyond, is not acceptable.”
“Too bad,” Axl says, turning from Smythe to examine some of the certificates. “It’s done. Miss Gannon was in danger, and now she’s not.”
“Your father will hear about this,” Smythe growls at him.
Axl turns with a casual smile. “He already knows. You don’t really think I would add a member to the Rhodes family without a blessing, do you?”
Smythe’s face turns puce. “Add a member?” he spits out.
I stare at Axl, but he ignores me. He is calling Smythe’s bluff. He didn’t tell his dad shit, and I definitely didn’t get a blessing.
Smythe’s face twists into something ugly, all blotchy red and sputtering outrage, like he’s about to keel over from the sheer audacity of us.
I keep my mouth shut, letting Axl’s lie hang in the air, because damn if it doesn’t feel like the perfect jab—turning the tables on this pompous prick who thinks he runs the show.
He slams a hand on his desk, papers scattering, but it doesn’t intimidate me. “This isn’t some game, Rhodes.”
“Whoever said it was. It’s deadly serious. Emphasis on the deadly. I think my father quite enjoys the display. The Rhodes have never been ones to exist in the shadows. If they had, this institution wouldn’t exist.”
Smythe’s eyes dart to me, narrowing, as if I’m the root of all his problems. I meet his stare head-on, fire building in my chest. “Miss Gannon,” he says, trying for authority but sounding desperate, “this... whatever you’ve done out there, it’s dangerous. Reckless. Your brother—”
I cut him off with a hiss. I might’ve fucking known.
“Cian Gannon is not my brother. He has no claim on me, and if it were him who paid my tuition for this year, you can send it right back. I’ve got the money to spare.
Or maybe, I’ll just walk away and take three of the most prominent heirs on this campus with me. ”
Axl grimaces at me.
Okay, I spoke for them, and that was wrong.
I can do whatever the fuck I like, these three, however, are tied to this place through their families.
I glare back at him, hoping to convey that it’s another bluff.
Axl’s grimace deepens, but he plays along, shifting his stance like he’s bored with the whole charade.
Smythe isn’t buying my threat entirely. I can see it in the way his eyes flick between us, calculating the odds of me actually dragging these three heirs out of St. Bart’s.
The room feels smaller suddenly, the air thick with that old-money tension, like the walls are closing in on his precious legacy.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Smythe finally spits, his voice cracking just a fraction. He straightens his tie, trying to reclaim some dignity, but it’s pathetic. “This institution has stood for centuries. Your little rebellion won’t touch it.”
I lean forward, planting my hands on his desk, ignoring the twinge in my fresh-cut palm.
“Try me. I’ve got nothing to lose, unlike you.
One word from us, and every family pulling strings here starts asking why their golden boys are walking away.
You think the Rhodes, MacMahons, or Sullivans will let that slide without repercussions? ”
Cillian is a solid presence at my back, silent but radiating that quiet menace he does so well.
Smythe’s gaze darts to him, then to Ciar, who’s cracking his knuckles like he’s itching to rearrange the Vice Chancellor’s face.
The power dynamic flips in that instant.
Smythe deflates just a bit, his bluster crumbling under the weight of who we’re connected to.
“Fine,” he mutters, sinking into his chair like a deflated balloon. “But keep your... activities contained. No more public spectacles. And if this blows back on the university—”
“It won’t,” Axl cuts in smoothly, all charm now that we’ve got the upper hand. “Consider it handled. We’re all on the same side here, Vice Chancellor. Protecting assets.”
Smythe waves us off with a disgusted flick of his hand, already reaching for his phone like he’s about to tattle to someone higher up the food chain. We don’t wait for more bullshit; Ciar shoulders the door open, and we file out into the hallway, the echo of our boots sharp against the stone.
Once we’re clear of the building, the drizzle hitting my face like a cold slap, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “That was close. Think he’ll actually cause trouble?”
Ciar snorts, slinging an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close enough that his warmth cuts through the chill. “He’s a paper pusher. We’ve got real power backing us now—you.”
The compliment hits different, warming me from the inside out, but I shove it down, focusing on the path ahead.
The quad’s emptying out as classes resume, but I catch a few lingering stares, phones pointed our way like they’re documenting history.
Word’s spreading fast, and by tonight, the Pit will be packed with everyone wanting a piece of the action—or a glimpse of the Gannon girl who just blood-bound herself to the Cerberus Order, who just made a family for herself and one consisting of three extremely powerful mafia heirs.
We split for the next lecture block, Axl and I peeling off towards PT, while Ciar and Cillian head to whatever bullshit classes they’re enduring.
The hallway’s a crush of bodies, but people give us space now, like we’ve got an invisible force field.
Axl’s hand brushes mine as we walk, a quick, possessive touch that sends a spark up my arm.
“You handled Smythe like a pro,” he murmurs, leaning in close. “Knew you had it in you.”
I smirk, even as my pulse races from the adrenaline still pumping. “Had to. Can’t let pricks like him think they own us.”
He drops me off at the ladies’ changing rooms, and I grimace as my abs twinge in protest. But it’ll be a warm-up for tonight. I’m raring to go.
As I change into my kit, an announcement comes over the intercom from Smythe. “Change of plans, everyone. We are practising cross country again for the next lecture. We will beat St. Brid’s, so move out.”
I bite the inside of my lip. That was sudden. Was it on purpose? Am I about to find myself jogging through the woods, only to be abducted?
I slip out of the changing room to come face-to-face with guys. They are unimpressed. “Do not move from my side, even if shit hits the fan out there,” Ciar growls.
“You think this is deliberate?”
“I think we are about to come up against whoever Smythe answers to, and it isn’t going to be pretty.”