Page 13 of Stolen Rival
She squeals, scuttling across the mattress. “You arsehole.”
“Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t fucking push me. You won’t win. All you’ll do is make your life a lot harder than it needs to be.”
I’m at the door when she gives in. “Wait. You can leave the water.”
It’s cute that she says it as though she’s got the upper hand, and she’s the one doing me a favor. I toss an unopened bottle of water onto the foot of the bed and open the door. Turning back, I say, “Oh, and Sorcha? Break another window, and I will make sure you regret it.”
I lock the door and return downstairs, bracing for the third-degree interrogation that’s coming my way. There’s silence as I put away the first aid kit and pour myself a cup of coffee. But as I lean against the counter and take a sip, the first barrage of questions hits me.
“What the fuck, Patrick?”
“I thought you were going tokill her.”
“What happened? You got one look at those plump tits and changed your mind?”
“She’s a wild one. Sure you can handle that?”
“Fiancée? You must’ve lost your fucking mind.”
I’m inclined to agree with the last point, although I keep my mouth shut. After two minutes of rapid-fire questions, my brothers shut the fuck up.
“Finished?” I arch a brow.
“Only just started, brother.” Liam grins. “Sorcha’s a scorcher. Maybe we can all take a ride of her sweet cunt.”
I move fast, gripping him by the scruff of the neck and hauling him to his feet. “No one fucking touches her. You got that?”
His hands shoot into the air. “Easy. Jesus. I was joking.”
“Not fucking funny.” I let him go, shoving him back into his seat. “Truth is, I don’t know why I didn’t kill her. I had the gun pointed right at her, and for reasons I haven’t figured out yet, I chose not to pull the trigger.” Maybe it’s because she seemed clueless as to what had gone down at my wedding. Either that or she’s a fucking good actress. Whatever the reason, I’ll get to the truth, and then I’ll decide her fate.
“So, you’re marrying her because you can’t marry Niamh?” Darragh asks.
I shove a hand through my hair. “I don’t fucking know, all right? Just give me some space to think shit through.”
Storming out of the house, I draw in a lungful of cool air and wait for my racing heart to slow. If I’m to assume control of the U.S. East Coast operations from my terminally ill cousin, Dylan, then I need a wife. His fucking rules, not mine. Apparently, being afamily manis the number one requirement for a boss. I’ve always thought the number one requirement was theability to inject a healthy dose of fear into those I wish to subjugate. Still, I’m at his mercy. And I hate it.
He insisted on a wife. I found a wife who’d give me an easy time. The family of the ballsy spitfire plotting my death upstairs murdered her, and now I’m running out of time. The cancer eating Dylan from the inside could take him at any time, and if I don’t meet his decree, he’ll hand over a multimillion-dollar business to his underboss, a man who’s been Dylan’s right hand for two decades—and who I don’t trust as far as I could throw him.
But marrying Sorcha McCarthy will test every last nerve, and she won’t come quietly or obediently, which won’t do at all.
Luckily for me, I have leverage that will bring her to heel like a well-trained dog. When the time is right, I’ll share what I know and watch her crumble before my eyes.
Chapter 7
SORCHA
Everyone’s gone to bed.
At least, I think they have. Those brutish fuckers aren’t quiet when they’re conscious. They clomp about the house like a herd of wild animals, and I swear, even their breathing is loud as hell. It’s been silent for a while. I even assigned some “buffer time” in case someone wasn’t all-the-way asleep just yet.
A shiver dances down my spine, not sure if it’s the chill in the room or the excitement stirring in my body. When he left me earlier, I had a cry, and frustration turned into hopelessness. But the more I sat on the bed sniffling over what I’ve lost, what that piece of shit has taken from me, the more I thought about Cathal.
And Eabha, too. If she was here, she’d have already found a way out. There’s no situation she can’t talk herself out of (or in to), which we found out one too many times when we tried to get into our local pub as teenagers, and her cousin was the bouncer.
If she were here, she’d come up withfifty different ideas for us to break out of this place, each one more dangerous and extreme than the last. But she’s not here, and there’s no way of me contacting her, no way of letting her know I’m alive, not since that fucker took my phone. He’s probably trashed it by now. Can’t have the prisoner calling for help now, can we? Bastard.
One way or another, I’m getting out of here. I have to. If Cathal’s still alive, he needs me, and I won’t let him down. I’m the only family he has left. That thought brings an already familiar barb of grief into my chest that sucks the wind right out of my body.
