Chapter 15 Sorcha
Sorcha
Ichange quickly, taking Ciar’s threat seriously. Matron Ironpants, as she will forever now be known, is a formidable force. I wouldn’t want one of my guys going up against her.
Pushing open the doors, I see them still hovering, Axl glaring at his phone. “What?” I ask, eyes narrowed.
“We have a challenger for tonight—” he starts.
I hold my hand up. “I don’t want to know. I want it to be a surprise.”
He raises an eyebrow as Cillian snorts. “Oh, you are fun.”
“She’s fucking tougher than anyone gives her credit for,” Ciar says. “You sure?”
I nod. It makes no difference who the fuck it is. I will beat them down and give Bessie a night out.
The silence that follows my declaration is heavy.
“Let’s go,” I say, pushing past them. “I’m starving again, and I want to get a few hours of sleep before tonight.”
“You’re a machine,” Axl remarks, falling into step beside me. “Fight, fuck, eat, sleep, repeat.”
“It’s a good life,” I shoot back, and one I don’t intend on losing to become some little woman in Cian’s household. Maybe I’m overdramatising this, but I really feel strongly about this. I have never needed him to take care of me. I sure as shit don’t need him now.
Blowing off the rest of our lectures, we head back to the townhouse, the drizzle a constant, annoying patter on my shoulders.
The earlier adrenaline has faded, leaving a deep-seated ache in my muscles and a sharp, humming anticipation for the fight.
It’s a feeling I know well. The calm before I unleash hell.
I need the violence, the clean, simple release of it.
After the blood binding, the confrontation with Smythe, and the so-called ambush, my nerves are frayed wires ready to snap.
Back in the kitchen, I demolish a plate of leftover lasagne while they watch me like I’m some kind of fascinating, feral creature they’ve brought home.
I don’t care. The food is delicious, better than I’ve eaten in my lifetime.
Also, it’s fuel, and tonight I plan to burn through every last drop.
I need to prove to everyone, especially myself, that binding myself to these three guys hasn’t made me weaker.
It’s made me stronger. I place the dirty plate in the sink, rinse it off, and grab a can of Coke from the fridge.
Ciar watches me with that look he gets when he’s trying to decide if he’s more turned on or nervous about my imminent arrest record. “You done?” he asks, voice low.
I suck down half the Coke in one go. “For now. You boys want anything before I grab an hour of sleep? Sex, fighting, food, existential conversation?”
Axl smirks. “We should probably let you rest,” he says, but there’s a gleam in his eye that says he’d happily try to wear me out again before dinner.
Cillian doesn’t even bother with words. He just stands, scoops me up bridal-style, and starts carrying me towards the stairs.
I protest, for about two seconds, until he nips my jaw and says, “Just sleep. We’ll be here when you wake up.
” His arms are so strong, and it’s so safe, I want to stay here for a while longer.
Cillian deposits me on his bed and takes my shoes off. He yanks the covers up and tucks me in. I close my eyes and, shockingly, fall asleep nearly instantly.
When I wake, it’s to the muffled sound of noise from downstairs.
I check the time on my phone. An hour and a half has passed in what felt like three minutes.
My body feels rested enough, nerves hot-wired for the night ahead.
I sit up and swing my legs out of bed, flexing my hands.
The scab on my palm is dark, blood and promise.
I slip out of Cillian’s room and enter mine down the hall to change.
I grab a pair of black leggings, a black cotton vest, and yank my hair back so tightly my eyes seem wider, more predatory.
I listen for a minute to what’s happening below.
It’s calm, easy laughter, so no crises are imminent.
Hopefully. I shove Bessie into the back of my leggings and move out.
Downstairs, Ciar is carving something with a paring knife at the table, his muscles tense under a plain white tee. Axl is at the stove, checking a pot of something that smells rich and herbaceous. Cillian is on lookout at the window, tapping his phone as he scans the drive.
“Ready?” Cillian asks, not turning.
“As I’ll ever be.”
Axl turns, and his eyes travel up and down, slow and deliberate. “There’s our champion. You want pasta or a protein shake?”
“Neither. If I puke in the Pit, it’ll be on purpose.”
They laugh, but it’s a sharp noise, edged with wariness. We’re all keyed up. The tension is better than caffeine.
Ciar stands. “You want to know who’s first?”
“No. I want to see their face when I break their nose.”
“We need to move. Cian’s deadline is looming, and I’d rather have you in the Pit, kicking someone’s arse when he arrives than sitting around here like a fucking sofa princess.”
I snicker as Cillian turns from the window. “Not that there is an issue with you being a sofa princess, if that’s what you choose,” he says, shooting Ciar an annoyed glare. “Whatever you want.”
“I have never been, nor will I ever be, a sofa princess, so thanks for giving me the choice, but I choose violence.”
Ciar moves into my space, gripping my chin tightly. “And that’s why we love you.”
“But… we would still love you—” Cillian starts.
“Shut up,” I giggle. “I get it.”
We walk out together, Ciar’s hand on the back of my neck, steering me possessively through the darkening campus.
The drizzle has thickened, pinpricks of cold against my skin, but I barely feel it.
Nerves override everything else; my adrenaline is already humming.
It’s not just the thought of fighting that has my blood up, it’s the knowledge that this will be the last big fuck-you to every single bastard who ever tried to own me, corral me, put me on a leash.
Tonight, they’ll see I am nobody’s victim.
We head across campus towards the lake, where the old crypt is. When it comes into view, my palms start to sweat. Suddenly, nerves hit me and I gulp back a breath. “It’s not Cian, isn’t it?” I ask, stopping dead on the path, causing Axl to crash into me from behind.
“Who isn’t?” he asks, stepping back.
“My first fight. It’s not Cian?”
He shakes his head as if that thought had never even crossed his mind. “No, it’s—”
“Don’t tell me,” I say, putting my hand up. “As long as it’s not him.”
“Not him,” he confirms again.
I nod and keep walking with Ciar and Cillian exchanging a glance they think I won’t see, with it being over a foot over my head. Arseholes.
We approach the crypt, and Ciar pulls at the flapping police tape before opening the door.
Students close in from every angle, clearly already here, lurking in the shadows, waiting for the Cerberus Order to open up.
I step to the side with Axl as Ciar and Cillian usher everyone inside and down the steps into the Pit.
The air in the crypt is damp and smells of sweat and stone. The steps open out onto the Pit, the old flagstones ringed with students pressed in tight. Phones glow. Bets are placed. Voices bounce off the walls until Ciar raises a hand and the noise drops.
I strip off my jacket and pass it to Axl. My leggings and vest cling. My skin hums. I walk out into the centre and roll my shoulders. The cut on my palm pulls when I flex my fingers. Good. A reminder.
Ciar’s voice carries. “First challenger.” He doesn’t dress it up. He doesn’t need to.
A path opens through the bodies. Annastasia O’Shea steps into the Pit with her wrists taped and her chin high.
She’s in black shorts and a cropped top.
Her hair’s braided back. Her eyes are cold.
She is dressed to kill. Me. She is out for blood, and she isn’t going to stop until she gets it.
She is slightly heavier built than me, with more muscle density.
She’s been physically training for years, whereas I’ve just been scrapping, fuelled by cheap vodka and rage. That makes her dangerous.
I look past her at my guys.
Axl gives me a look that screams, ‘I wanted to tell you’.
I shrug, trying to convey that it’s all good, but underneath, it’s not great.
If she is anything like her dad, which she didn’t deny when I asked her, I’m about to get my arse kicked.
Daddy O’Shea was the bare-knuckle boxing champion for several years running a while back.
Everyone knows he can knock your block off with a single punch.
What this means for me?
I’ve got to be faster than her. That’s my strength. I’m faster. I know I am.
I stretch my fingers, roll my neck, and step forward. All eyes are on us, but I ignore it. Annastasia squares up, chin tucked, guard tight. She’s done this before. Good. I want a real fight.
Ciar lifts his hand. “On my mark.” His stare pins us both. “Go.”
I keep my guard high and circle left. She mirrors me, careful, testing. The first jab comes fast. I slip it, the second kisses my cheekbone. A sharp sting, hot and clean. I don’t back up. I step in and snap a low kick into her lead calf. Solid contact. She grunts and adjusts.
She throws a cross. I parry and fire an elbow over the top.
It clips her temple. She blinks, surprised, then surges in with a body shot that knocks the air out of me.
I take the hit, clinch, and drive my knee into her thigh.
Once. Twice. She tries to wrench free. I grind my forearm into her jaw, forcing her head back, then whip a short hook to her ribs.
She snarls and stomps down on my foot. Pain flares.
I release before she can twist my knee and hop back, resetting.