Page 12 of Stolen Rival
Right here iswhy I don’t ever allow myself to lose control, to make hasty decisions. Because when I do, shit happens. And the pile of shit I’ve stumbled into this time comes in the form of a disobedient, wild redhead with a solid reason to kill me the second I turn my back.
I should have chained her to the fucking radiator like a dog. Liam’s expression is filled with questions I don’t have answers for. When I got back here with Little Miss Firecracker, both Liam and Darragh were out, and I figured I’d have a couple of hours to come up with why she’s not lying in an unmarked grave with a bullet between her eyes.
Just my luck.
Why didn’t I shoot her?
I had the barrel of the gun pressed between her eyes. One squeeze of the trigger, and it would’ve been lights out for the last remaining McCarthy scum. Instead, I hauled her back here, and when questioned, doubled down on the whole fiancée gig.
Shards of glass litter the thick carpet, and a brisk wind chills the room. I’ve half a mind to leave her here to freeze, butI wouldn’t put it past the desperate bitch to jump out of the window.
From this height, she’d seriously injure herself, and while I shouldn’t give a flying fuck if she shatters every bone in her body, if there’s any breakages happening, they’ll happen at my hand.
“Call Aran and have that window fixed,” I bark at Liam, gripping Sorcha by her upper arm. “And as for you.” I let go of her and shove her toward the hallway. “Just fucking test me and see what happens.”
Manhandling her like she’s little more than a rag doll, I steer her down the corridor to another room and force her inside. She stumbles, cries out, and presses a hand to her side. There’s a growing red stain on her top.
“Jesus Christ.” I grip her biceps again and sit her on the bed. She feebly flails her arms, her fighting spirit waning. I reach for the hem of her shirt.
“No.” She tries to push me off, but given the color of her, I’d wager she’s about ten seconds from passing out. Make my life fucking easier if she did.
“You’re bleeding. Stop being a brat and fucking fighting, and let me take a look, or I’ll bind your hands and feet and do what I want anyway.”
She freezes, but while the fire in her body is out, the venom in her eyes burns as fresh as ever. I’ll have fun breaking this one. I don’t mind submission, but surrender is boring as fuck. As much as I’d accepted my marriage to Niamh, she’d never have challenged me like this McCarthy woman will with every breath she takes.
There isn’t a single defeatist bone in her body.
When I lift her shirt, the reason for the bleeding isclear. She’s popped three of her stitches, and the bullet wound is oozing blood. I heave a sigh.
“Wait here.” I take down a heavy antique mirror and head for the door. In her state, I doubt she’d have the strength to lift it, but underestimating this firecracker again is a mistake I don’t intend to make. She’ll stab me in the back as quick as look at me.
I prop the mirror against the wall outside her room, lock the door, and jog downstairs. As I enter the kitchen, both Liam and Darragh give me their well-practiced “What the fuck?” expressions. Ignoring them, I open the kitchen cupboard where we keep a comprehensive first aid kit. In our line of work, it gets heavy use. I grab two bottles of water, too.
“You can run but you can’t hide,” Liam calls after me as I take off up the stairs.
Sorcha is lying down on the bed when I enter. She doesn’t open her eyes, nor acknowledge me at all, as I kneel on the floor and open the first aid kit.
“This’ll sting a bit.” I open the top of the alcohol rub and pour a glug onto a wad of gauze. As I press it to the wound, she hisses and her entire body tenses, but she still doesn’t say a word or open her eyes. But when I thread a needle and pinch her skin together, I get her full attention.
“I need anesthetic, you dick.” She makes another attempt to fend me off, wasting valuable energy with a pointless activity. “What are you? An animal?”
“Yes.” I twist my lips. “Anesthetic is for real injuries. This is barely a scratch.” I stick her with the needle, and she screams as though I’ve knifed her between the ribs.
“Ow, ow, ow!”
“Shut up and stop wriggling. It’ll be over faster.”
“It hurts,” she wails.
“It’ll hurt far more if I punch you in the face. Now stop fucking moving, or I will make sure that you do.”
That threat does the trick. She’s not to know I’d never follow through, not on a woman. She clenches her teeth and flinches her way through the ninety seconds it takes to seal her wound and bandage her back up. I pack up the first aid kit and hand her one of the bottles of water.
“Drink. You need to replace the fluids.”
“What’s the point? I’d rather dehydrate to death than marry you.”
“Fine.” I snatch the bottle out of her hand. “Go thirsty. Doesn’t matter to me.” I unscrew the plastic cap and tip it over her head.
