Chapter 37 Sorcha
Sorcha
His weight is a comfort, pinning me to the wall as the last of his orgasm shudders through him. I sag against him, my body screaming with a different kind of exhaustion now. The water sluices over us, washing away the blood and grime, but it can’t touch the deep, aching tiredness in my soul.
He pulls out slowly, and my feet drop to the shower floor. His arm is a steel band around my waist, holding me up as he shuts off the water. The sudden silence is deafening. He grabs a towel, his movements efficient as he wraps it around me, his hands rough but careful.
“Better?” he asks, his voice a low rumble against my ear.
“Definitely better,” I say, leaning my head against his shoulder. My mind is a fucking mess of dead bodies, dark tunnels, and solid gold. The sex didn’t erase it, but it pushed it back, cauterised the wound for a little while.
He doesn’t answer, just steers me out of the shower and towards the bed. I collapse onto the mattress, not caring that I’m still damp. He pulls the duvet over me, his shadow a looming, protective presence in the dark room.
“Sleep, Sorcha,” he orders softly. “Nothing else gets to you tonight.”
I want to argue, to say I don’t need his protection, but the fight has gone out of me.
For now, at least. My eyes drift shut as he quietly leaves to get dressed in his own room.
I’m on the brink of oblivion when my phone buzzes on the bathroom floor in my wet pants, the echo from the tiles making it louder.
My eyes snap open, and I climb out of bed to get it, throwing the wet clothes in the sink to deal with later.
It’s Cian.
You are coming home. End. Of. Story.
I stare at the message, my stomach dropping.
Of course Cian knows. Of course he’s already heard about the shitstorm on campus.
The man has eyes everywhere, and I’ve just given him a front-row seat to the latest disaster.
God only knows what he will do when the news of James Ahearne going ‘missing’ leaks out.
I tap out a response, my fingers trembling slightly.
Not happening. I’m Lady Rhodes now. You can’t touch me.
The dots appear immediately.
Are you fucking with me?
I blink. He didn’t know about my marriage to Axl? Interesting.
Nope. So leave me alone. I’m fine.
He fires back a response in record time.
This isn’t over, Sorcha. Not even close.
I switch my phone off and toss it onto the bedside table, climbing back into bed. The sheets are cool against my skin, and I burrow deeper under the duvet, trying to find warmth. My body aches everywhere. Muscles I didn’t know I had are screaming in protest from the swim, the fight.
I close my eyes, but I can’t sleep. I’m too wired now.
If Cian shows up on the doorstep, which I’m sure he will, this is going to be a serious pain in my arse.
Flinging the covers back, I throw on some leggings and a tee, not even bothering with underwear, and head downstairs.
The house is quiet, but I can hear low voices coming from the kitchen.
I push the door open to find all three of them gathered around the table, various bottles of alcohol uncapped and being poured into glasses.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Axl asks, grabbing a glass and pouring me a generous dollop of vodka.
I grimace at it, but then shrug. Fuck it. I snatch it up and take a sip. “Cian is demanding I come home.”
Cillian’s jaw tightens. “He can demand all he wants.”
“He also didn’t know about the marriage,” I add. “Which is a bit bizarre.”
“Maybe, maybe not. The main thing is that Mickey Ryan knew and released the map.”
“I don’t like this,” I say, chewing my lip. “Something feels off.”
“About what? Cian?” Ciar asks.
“Yeah, but also Ahearne showing up, the cross, everything. Where the fuck is Liam in all of this?”
“Precisely what we were just talking about,” Cillian says, staring at his glass as he sloshes the alcohol around.
“And?” I prompt, taking another sip of the vodka. It burns going down, but it’s a good burn, grounding me in the present instead of letting my mind spiral into all the what-ifs.
“Liam was invested in you. He spent all that time with you while you were running the Red Reapers. He came here to find you, one could argue to warn you, even, to tell you what the score was,” Cillian says thoughtfully.
“After all that, why wasn’t he with his dad when they followed us into the tunnels? ”
“Good question,” I say, sitting down and propping my feet up on the table. “Like I said, something feels off. Where is the cross?”
“In a hidey-hole that not even Alex knows about,” Axl says.
I nod, feeling a bit better about that aspect, but we are still stuck with a priceless artefact that we have no way to prove is mine. The St. Bartholomew’s board, or even the Catholic Church, could claim we stole it, and that claim would hold up in court.
“I know Darragh said that the Smythe murder was a coincidence, but we still don’t know for sure who killed him, and maybe there was a bigger play here…
” I trail off as the vodka hits my brain enough for it to start functioning at a higher level before it succumbs to the inevitable drunkenness that follows.
“What are you thinking?”
“Someone took Smythe out to position someone else as VC. But who and… who?”
Ciar nods. “It makes sense. They used his double-crossing as an excuse to get rid of him permanently.”
“To install someone else. Who is the Chairman of the Board?” I ask, with a frown.
“Eamonn Fitzpatrick,” Axl says.
“Don’t know the name,” I mutter and take another sip of vodka. “How much power does he have in choosing a new VC?”
“Depends on how many board members are loyal to him. It has to be a majority vote.”
“So, they vote?”
Axl nods.
“Which means they could quite easily vote in someone completely of their choosing.”
“That’s usually how it works. Smythe was obviously no longer an asset.”
“Okay, so we need to find out who they are thinking of installing in that position. The Chancellor is Bishop Cornelius Brady, a mere figurehead, but does he have any real power over this vote?”
Ciar shakes his head. “No, not really. As you say, he’s simply a name of prestige to attach to St. Bart’s. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen him on campus.”
I tilt my glass, watching the vodka swirl like a storm in a bottle, before knocking back another sip that burns its way down.
“All right. Fitzpatrick’s got the pull, and the board’s probably stacked with his cronies.
If they’re shoving in a new VC, it’s someone who’ll keep the lid on whatever shit Smythe was stirring and maybe even tighten the screws on us. ”
Ciar leans back, his eyes narrowing like he’s already plotting a hit. “We need eyes on the board. Find out who’s whispering in Fitzpatrick’s ear.”
“Easier said than done,” Cillian mutters, his fingers drumming the table in that restless rhythm he gets when violence is brewing just under his skin.
He’s staring at me, though, like I’m the puzzle he can’t quite solve, and it sends a flicker of heat through my core despite the exhaustion weighing me down.
I set my glass down harder than I mean to, the thud echoing in the quiet kitchen.
“We can’t just sit here speculating. If this new VC is coming in hot, we need leverage—something to dangle or threaten with.
And that cross... it’s not just gold and gems. It’s got to mean more.
Right? Ardal Gannon must’ve known it would be impossible to sell without paperwork. ”
“Not so much two hundred years ago,” Axl mutters. “But I think you’re right. We are missing something.”
The vodka’s warmth spreads through me, loosening the knots in my shoulders, but it doesn’t touch the chill of what we’re facing.
Cian’s texts burn in my mind. He’ll storm in like he owns me, and now with Ahearne’s death, which will come out sooner rather than later, Liam will be coming for me.
To thank me or kill me remains to be seen.
I rub my temples, feeling the weight of it all pressing down.
“First things first. We dig into Fitzpatrick and the board tomorrow. Quietly. No waves until we know who’s pulling strings. ”
“And the cross?” Axl asks, his voice dropping low, that casual indifference masking the hunger I know simmers underneath.
I meet his gaze, feeling the pull between us, the unspoken heat that always lingers. “We ask Alex if he knows more than he’s letting on.”
He nods slowly as if that was his thought too.
I stand slowly and pull my tee over my head, letting my tits bounce enticingly as I strip off my leggings.
I crawl into Cillian’s lap, grinding down on his stiffening cock.
He presses his fingers against my clit, running slowly before sliding them down and thrusting four of them straight into me, no messing.
“Fuck,” I moan, clasping my hands around the back of his neck and throwing my head back.
Cillian’s fingers stretch me wide, a brutal invasion that sends sparks racing up my spine, and I ride them shamelessly, my hips bucking as heat coils tight in my core.
The vodka’s haze sharpens everything. My body craves the release, the burn that blots out the day’s chaos, and these men are my fire, my storm, ready to consume me.
“Fuck, yes,” I gasp, grinding down harder, my nails digging into Cillian’s neck as he twists his fingers just right, hitting that spot that makes my body tremble.
He’s relentless, thrusting deeper, his thumb circling my clit roughly, pushing me right to the edge without mercy.
I lean in, capturing his mouth in a messy kiss, all teeth and tongue, tasting the whiskey on his lips while his free hand grips my hip, guiding my rhythm like he owns every inch of me.
Axl steps behind me, his hands sliding up my sides to cup my breasts, thumbs flicking over my nipples until they’re hard peaks aching for more.