Chapter 28 Sorcha
Sorcha
The memory floods back in, and I can’t stop it.
I’m eight years old again, in the bath, my mother’s drunk boyfriend shoving me under the water as punishment for something I didn’t do.
The cold bite of fear, the way my stomach dropped as I fell, the water closing over my head, filling my nose and mouth as I thrashed.
The panic of drowning, of being helpless, of—
“Sorcha!” Ciar’s voice cuts through the trauma like a knife. “Stay with me.”
“I can’t,” I whisper, my voice cracking, not even knowing where this memory came from. It’s not like I haven’t bathed since then and been totally fine. Why now, in a situation that isn’t even remarkably similar?
“Yes, you can,” Ciar says, his voice dropping to that low, commanding tone that cuts through the panic. “Three steps. That’s all. I’ll catch you.”
I force myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth. My fingers are cramping from gripping the wall so hard, and my legs are shaking.
“One step,” Ciar says. “Just one. Don’t think about the rest.”
I drag my foot forward, the stone scraping under my boot. My balance wavers, and I press harder against the wall.
“Good,” Ciar says. “Again.”
I nod and look down at the rushing water. Gulping, I move my foot, but I’m too focused on not reliving the memory that I slip, and this time I can’t steady myself.
I’m falling.
The world tilts sideways, and I feel my body leave the ledge. My stomach lurches into my throat as gravity takes hold, and all I can think is that I’m about to drown in this black water, just like I nearly did when I was eight.
Except I don’t hit the water.
A massive hand clamps around my wrist, yanking me sideways with brutal force. My shoulder screams in protest as Ciar hauls me against his chest, my feet dangling over the rushing stream below.
“Got you,” he growls in my ear, his arm banding around my waist like iron.
I can’t speak. Can’t breathe. My entire body is shaking, adrenaline flooding my system so hard I feel like I might vomit.
“I’ve got you,” Ciar repeats, and slowly, carefully, he pulls us both back from the edge until we’re on the wider platform.
The panic attack hits me full force now that the immediate danger has passed, my chest tight, my vision swimming.
“Fuck,” I manage, curling in on myself.
Ciar drops down beside me, his hand on my back. “Breathe, Red. In and out. Match my breathing.”
I try, but it’s like my lungs have forgotten how to work. Everything is too much. The darkness, the sound of the water, the memory of being held under, helpless. It’s all crashing over me like a wave.
“Look at me,” Ciar demands, his hands framing my face, forcing me to meet his eyes.
I focus on his face, on those blue eyes that are steady and sure, even when everything else is spinning out of control.
“That’s it,” he says. “Keep your eyes on mine.”
Behind us, I hear Cillian and Axl crossing the ledge, but I can’t look. Can’t do anything except try to remember how to fucking breathe.
“What happened?” Axl asks, his voice tight with concern as he reaches us.
“Panic attack,” Ciar says, not taking his eyes off me. “She’s okay.”
I’m not okay. I’m the furthest thing from okay. But I nod anyway because what else can I do? We’re trapped down here, hunted above ground, and I just nearly fell into a fucking underground river because my brain decided now was the perfect time to relive childhood trauma.
I force myself to drag air into my lungs in shaky gasps. My hands are trembling, and I curl them into fists, nails biting into my palms. The pain grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of that memory.
“Sorry,” I manage, my voice rough. “I don’t know where that came from.”
“Don’t apologise,” Axl says, crouching beside us. “You nearly fell into a fucking underground river. Anyone would freak out.”
But it wasn’t the almost falling that did it. It was the memory. The feeling of being powerless, of water closing over my head while someone held me under. I thought I’d buried that shit deep enough that it couldn’t touch me anymore, but apparently not.
“Can you stand?” Cillian asks, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it.
I nod and let Ciar haul me to my feet. My legs feel like jelly, but they hold. Barely.
“We need to keep moving,” I say, forcing the words out past the tightness in my throat. “They’re still looking for us up there.”
“They can wait,” Ciar says. “You need a minute.”
“I don’t have a minute,” I snap, some of my fire returning. “None of us do. So, let’s just fucking go.” Humiliation has crashed into me now that the panic has been boxed back up. I’m so embarrassed, I wish Ciar had let me hit the river, so I could’ve been washed away.
I glare at it, rushing past us and wonder for just one moment what it would be like to jump and have all of this shit end…
But then Axl grips my hand and gives it a squeeze.
I squeeze back, drawing strength from that simple touch. The humiliation still burns, but it’s manageable now. I can shove it down with all the other shit I don’t have time to process.
“Let’s go,” I say again, my voice steadier this time.
Ciar releases me slowly, like he’s not sure I won’t bolt or collapse. But I’m done being weak. I survived worse than this as a kid, and I’ll survive this too.
We move deeper into the tunnel, leaving the ledge behind. My boots splash through shallow puddles, and I focus on that sensation, on the physical reality of where I am now instead of where my mind wants to drag me.
The passage narrows again, but not as badly as before. I can still walk upright, and there’s enough room that I don’t feel like the walls are closing in. Small mercies.
Ciar’s flashlight catches another symbol carved into the stone. “Still on track,” he announces.
“Good,” I mutter, keeping my eyes forward. I don’t want to look at him, at any of them. Don’t want to see pity or concern in their faces.
The tunnel curves sharply to the left, even as the water rushes right and we follow it.
The air changes, becoming cooler, fresher. There’s a draft coming from somewhere ahead.
“Feel that?” Axl asks from behind me.
“Yeah.” I pick up my pace, eager to get out of these tunnels. The draft grows stronger with each step, and I can smell something different now, Earth and grass, not just old stone and stagnant water.
The passage opens into another chamber, but this one feels different. My phone light sweeps across the space, revealing something that makes my breath catch.
“Holy shit,” I whisper.
The chamber is massive, easily the size of a small cathedral. The ceiling arches high above us, supported by carved pillars that must be original to St. Bart’s founding. But it’s not the architecture that stops me cold.
It’s the door.
Set into the far wall is an enormous iron door, easily three metres tall and two wide. It’s covered in the same interlocking circle symbols we’ve been following, but these are more elaborate, more deliberate. They spiral across the surface in a pattern that makes my eyes hurt to follow.
“Where the fuck does that lead to?” I ask, not expecting an answer.
“Only one way to find out,” Cillian says and strides up to the door, gripping the iron ring and twisting it.
I hold my breath as he yanks the door open with a loud screech that makes me wince. Then I breathe out as the taskforce doesn’t come streaming in to arrest me. “What’s there?”
“Steps leading up,” Cillian says.
“Up?” I ask with a frown. “So we’ve done all of this, just to go back up?”
“The thing is,” Ciar says, “that this place was built for fortification. We said it before, it’s a maze. Unless you know exactly where you’re going, you’re fucked.”
“And the map isn’t helping,” Axl says. “This isn’t even on it.”
“That you know of,” I point out. “We could be anywhere on there.”
“True, but I was sure we were under the quad by the river ledge. Now… who the fuck knows?”
“So we go up,” I sigh. “And hope we don’t burst out into the middle of the taskforce.”
“Either that or we stay here,” Cillian says.
I appreciate the fact that he doesn’t say “or go back”. I’m not going back to that ledge for all the euros in Ireland.
“Up it is,” I say, moving towards the door before I can second-guess myself.
Cillian steps aside, and I peer through the opening.
Stone steps spiral upward into darkness, worn smooth by centuries of use.
I stare at the steps disappearing into darkness above us, and my skin prickles with unease.
We have no idea where this leads, but staying put isn’t an option.
The taskforce is up there somewhere, hunting for me, and every second we waste gives them more time to lock down the campus.
At this point, if we’re walking into an ambush, I’d rather face it than wait for it to find us.
The steps are steep and worn smooth by centuries of use. I keep one hand on the wall for balance, my other hand clutching my phone. The light bounces off damp stone, creating shadows that make my nerves scream.
Behind me, I hear the guys following, their footsteps heavy and reassuring. At least I’m not alone in this madness.
The staircase spirals upward, and I count the steps to distract myself from the enclosed space. Twenty. Thirty. Fifty. My thighs burn from the climb, but I push through it.
“You good?” Ciar asks from behind me.
“Always,” I grit out, because admitting I’m terrified seems like a shit idea right now.
At step seventy-three, the stairs level out onto a small landing. Another door blocks our path, this one smaller than the last but just as ancient. Iron bands reinforce the wood, and there’s a heavy bolt drawn across it.
The scent of a wet Irish day hits my nose, and I gulp. “This leads to the outside… somewhere. Axl? Do you have any idea where?”
“Nope. Open it and hope for the best.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
With a shaking hand, I reach for the handle and twist it, pulling the door slowly towards me. I peer out over the lake from what appears to be a small stone building on the edge of the woods.
“Well?” Cillian asks when I don’t say anything.
“We’re on the edge of the woods on the other side of the lake.
I think Axl’s right about the fortification.
We used an escape tunnel.” I step out, feeling a bit more confident in our surroundings now.
I scan the area, my pulse hammering in my ears despite the relative safety of being in the fresh air and away from the campus.
The lake stretches before us, grey and choppy under the overcast sky.
Through the trees, I can just make out the outline of the main campus buildings in the distance.
“We need to move,” Ciar says, emerging behind me. His massive frame blocks the doorway as he surveys our surroundings with the same wariness I feel. “They’ll have people searching the grounds by now.”
“Where do we go?” I ask.
“Back to the townhouse. We can hide you until we hear from Dad,” Axl says.
“Hide me?” I croak. “Where exactly? In the massive bathtub?” I gulp as the trauma resurfaces, but I push it down. We don’t have time for that shit.
“No, not in the bathtub,” Axl says. “Remember, I told you that place has hidey-holes all over.”
“Hidey hole? You want me to sit in some cramped space while you guys are out in the open having a grand old time?”
“That’s not what—”
“Save it,” I snarl. “Emma Ryan clearly set me up, but why when she is the executor? We need to figure this shit out, and I can’t do that hiding in a hole in the wall.”
“Psst.”
We freeze, but then Axl rolls his eyes. “Dad, what are you doing?”
I turn to see Alex, lurking in the bushes. He gestures to us.
We move quickly, staying low as we cross the distance between the stone building and the tree line. My boots squelch in the wet grass, and I pray no one’s watching from the campus side of the lake.
Alex grabs my arm the second I’m within reach, pulling me down into the undergrowth. “The taskforce has the entire campus locked down,” he says, his voice low.
“So what now? They’re looking for me. I was set up.”
“By Emma Ryan. That bitch,” Axl spits out.
Alex frowns. “Emma Ryan? Smythe’s secretary? She set you up?”
“Seems that way. She is also the executor.”
“Huh,” Alex says. “We investigated her. Nothing came up.”
“Who is she to Mickey Ryan?” Cillian asks.
Alex’s eyes narrow. “No one, as far as we know. What’s Mickey Ryan got to do with this?”
I watch Alex’s face carefully as Ciar fills him in on what Annastasia told us this morning about Mickey Ryan being on campus. The Marquess’s expression shifts from confusion to something darker, more calculating.
“Mickey Ryan doesn’t take small jobs,” Alex says, his jaw tightening. “If he’s here, someone paid him a fortune to make a problem disappear.”
“Yeah, we figured that much,” I mutter, hugging myself against the cold. The adrenaline from our escape is wearing off, leaving me shaky and exhausted. “The question is who hired him and what problem needs disappearing.”
“Smythe,” Alex says, and I could kick myself for not realising that sooner. It makes sense, seeing as Smythe is dead the same morning this fixer shows up.
“Okay, but why?”
But then the penny drops, and my mouth goes dry. “Smythe was the executor, not Emma.”