Chapter 22
LIAM
Sorcha’s in the library, legs curled beneath her, reading a book like she hasn’t a care in the fucking world. Like she wasn’t supposed to come looking for me when she had her heart-to-heart with Rowan.
She turns the page, eyes still on the book rather than on me standing in the entrance, my nostrils flaring like I’m a bull about to charge.
It’s entirely possible I will.
“I can hear you breathing from here. You really should get your sinuses looked at.”
My hands clench, fingernails digging into my palm. “Do you think this is fucking funny? You were supposed to come looking for me after talking to Rowan.”
Her head comes up with zero urgency and a hundred percent chill. “I never agreed to that.”
This woman will be the death of me because one of these days she’s going to push the wrong button, I’ll react, and Patrick will slit my throat.
“Where is she?”
“In her room. Or should I say cell?”
“Did you deadbolt it?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not a cell, is it?”
Sliding a bookmark into the book, she closes it with a snap and balances it on the arm of the sofa. “Haven’t you ever heard of learned helplessness? To her, that room has come to represent safety, and if that woman needs anything right now, it’s to feel safe.”
“I haven’t harmed a fucking hair on her head.” Couldn’t if I wanted to. Not that I feel remotely like sharing that with Sorcha.
“Physically, no.”
I don’t like the way she says that, or how she narrows her eyes and pours judgment into her tone. I’m navigating unfamiliar waters, and my sister-in-law is calling for a storm. She hasn’t finished, either.
“You’re a scary man, Liam, and you know it. I thought after your chat with Darragh in the pub, you’d stop being such a Neanderthal and show that woman some kindness.”
“How do you know about what Darragh said?”
She arches a brow.
I curse. “Fucking traitor.”
Sighing, she puts her legs down, planting her feet on the floor. “He’s worried about you. We all are.”
“Okay, we’re getting way off track here.” Any second now, she’ll shine a fucking light in my eyes. “What did she tell you?”
“Very little.”
I flick my fingers up in a “get on with it” motion. “Let’s have it.”
“She’s holding on to her fake persona because, for some unfathomable reason, she thinks it will protect you. After the way you’ve treated her, you’re lucky she hasn’t thrown you under the fucking bus. I would’ve done.”
Ignoring her seventeenth dig of the day, I frown. I did not expect that to be the cause. “How does that make any fucking sense?”
“I don’t know, but trust me, that woman is absolutely terrified that one wrong move or a slipped word will bring the house down on your head.
Not hers. Yours. Everything she is doing or not doing, saying or not saying, is to guard your safety.
She said someone won’t let her go and something else about leverage. ”
“What kind of leverage?”
“I don’t know. But the more you push, the harder she’s going to clam up.”
I raise my hand and rub the back of my neck. “Was that it?”
“Pretty much the gist, yeah.”
She’s lying. Sorcha’s worked hard to cover her tells, but when she’s hiding something, her eyes flicker up and to the left. She’s probably not even aware she does it.
“I’m going to talk to her.” I whip around. Sorcha moves like a greyhound chasing a rabbit, blocking my exit.
“Leave her be, Liam. The way you get what you want is to earn her trust. Right now, she’d rather face your wrath than fess up to what she’s hiding. You have to set the right tone, the right environment to flip that on its head. And, spoiler alert, that isn’t by threatening her.”
I chew over her words for a few seconds. God, I hate it when she’s right.
“And how do you suggest I do that since you seem to have effortlessly managed it?”
Side note: I also hate asking for her advice, but here we fucking are.
“Show her some kindness and understanding. Stop nagging her about what she’s hiding.
Call her Erin, if that’s what she wants.
It’s just a fucking name; you don’t have to take it as a personal slight on you.
Maybe take her out of this house. I doubt she’ll run, and even if she does, maybe that’s a good thing.
Maybe that way you’ll get the answers you’re looking for. ”
“She better not fucking run.” I growl. “Because I will chase her, and she won’t like what I do when I catch her.”
Sorcha grins. “Angry sex is so much fun.”
What. The actual. Fuck?
“Your mind is a scary fucking place.”
“Oh, come on. Like I said to you earlier, it’s so obvious you’re still carrying a blazing torch for this woman, but right now, your frustration and rage and hurt that she walked out on you is blinding you to your true feelings. Not to mention the possibility that she might be telling the truth.”
“You’re so full of shit. How does Patrick put up with you?”
She opens her mouth to answer.
I snap out a hand. “That was rhetorical.”
“Wow. Rhetorical. I’m surprised a caveman like you knows such big words.”
“Fuck off, Sorcha.”
“Gladly.” Winking, she sidles past me and skips down the hallway, humming some annoying pop shite.
Bloody woman.
I spend the rest of the day mulling over our conversation. Somehow, I have to find a way to tamp down my anger every time Rowan lies to me and instead try to see her through Sorcha’s eyes. If she’s scared of someone more than she’s scared of me, that says a fucking lot.
Unless she knows, deep down, I couldn’t hurt her and all my threats are bullshit and bluster and she’s using that against me.
God, this whole fucked up situation is giving me a migraine. I don’t know what or who to believe. I’ll give Sorcha’s plan a few days, but if Rowan hasn’t opened up to me by Friday, she will not like what happens next.
Dinner is a somber affair. Patrick sits at the head of the table stewing over something or other I’m not in the right mood to ask about.
Sorcha keeps flicking her gaze from me to Rowan and back again as though she’s waiting for it all to kick off.
Darragh, the most likely out of all of us to avoid situations he isn’t comfortable with, is scrolling on his phone.
And as for me? I’m sitting here like a teenager suffering through my first crush and trying to think of a single intelligent thing to say to make the woman playing with her food, rather than eating it, notice me.
When did this shit become so hard?
It’s Sorcha’s fault. She’s burrowed inside my head and is making me question everything when I’ve never had a problem making decisions.
Except, ever since Rowan came back into my life, I can’t seem to make one to save my fucking life.
I drop my fork with a clang and get to my feet. “Erin, would you like to go for a walk?”
The look Rowan gives me is half profound shock and half blatant suspicion. “A walk? But it’s dark. And cold.”
“We can wrap up warm. Go to the pub for a drink, if you like.”
The heat from Sorcha’s stare burns the side of my face. I flick my gaze at her, catching a brief nod of approval. Not that I care what she thinks. Because I don’t.
“Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to escape?”
“No. Like you said, it’s cold and dark, you have no money or means of communication with the outside world. Plus, I’m fast. You run, and I’ll easily catch you.”
Sorcha stifles a giggle. Patrick gives her a quizzical look. “Tell you later,” she says.
I glare at her. “Your wife is full of shite, Patrick.”
“Watch your fucking mouth,” my brother growls.
Sorcha squeezes his hand. “It’s okay. Liam’s having to come to terms with some things he isn’t happy about.” She fires another beaming grin my way.
I heave a sigh and turn back to Rowan. “Well?” Damn. That sounded too harsh, like the way I’d speak to one of my soldiers who was testing my limits. “They have a real fire. And the kitchen serves great apple pie.”
Rowan’s eyes narrow. She’s seventy-five percent suspicious now.
I play my trump card. “Please. Call it an apology.”
“Or you could go with an actual apology.” There’s a gleam in Sorcha’s eye that tells me she’s loving every moment of this.
“Liam never apologizes,” Darragh pipes up. “If he ever does, the world will probably come to an end.”
“Fuck off,” I snap.
“See?” Darragh flips his hands, palms up. “Textbook.”
The next time I’m alone with that fucker, I’m taking his head off. I turn my attention back to Rowan. “Will you come to the pub with me?”
She places her knife and fork together and pushes back her chair. “I’ll go put my boots and coat on.”
I listen for her footsteps on the stairs, and once they fade, I plant my hands on my hips and face my family. “You are all fucking traitors. I am trying to get to the truth and, yes, take Sorcha’s advice to switch to a more… friendly approach. Don’t look so smug, Sorcha.”
“What?” She paints this innocent look on her face. “I’m not being smug. I’m glad I could help.”
I grunt and stomp out of the kitchen to grab my coat, too. They don’t even wait for me to be out of earshot before the laughter starts.
Fuckers. I hate them all.