Page 26 of Stolen Rival
The Mahoney brothers are in the study, in various stages of undress. Patrick sits behind his desk, still fully suited and booted. Liam’s lying sideways on an oversized leather chair, his tie and shoes are gone, and the top two buttons on his shirt are open. And Darragh’s stretched out on the sofa adjacent to Patrick’s desk, in his undershirt. Both brothers are sipping a deep golden liquid from tumblers. Patrick, I notice, is drinking coffee.
To draw their attention from whatever they’re talking about, I knock on the door, then push it open wider. If they wanted privacy, they probably should have closed it all the way. They aren’t the only people in the house anymore, and we all need to get used to it.
“Sorcha, to what do we owe this delightful pleasure?” Darragh is clearly tickled by the fact his older brother has landed himself with a troublemaking fiancée.
“I’d like permission to walk the grounds.”
Patrick’s face darkens. “No.”
This is off to a great start.
“Look. I understand that you hold all the cards here, but if you want a dutiful wife to toe the line, you’ve got to give me something in return. Compromise. Do you know what that big word means, Patrick?” I swallow. In for a penny… “If not, I’m sure that colossal library full of dusty old books has a dictionary in there. You could go and look it up.”
From the smirk on Darragh’s face, Patrick has never had to consider the word compromise before in his life.
“No.” Patrick’s monosyllabic—and repetitive—answer beds under my skin like a splinter.
“Fine, then I’ll find a way to off myself for real this time.” I plant my hands on my hips.
Patrick braces his hands on the edge of the oak desk and stands. “Then what’ll happen to poor wee Cathal?” There’s an edge of threat in his voice, but he’s taunting me. I knew he’d throw my brother in my face at the first opportunity. He seems to love reminding me that he has the upper hand.
“I imagine you’d get rid of him, too. Like you did the rest of us.” I wave my hand like it’s no big deal. “I guess then at least my family would all be together in heaven.”
Liam snorts. “Right, like the McCarthys are all up there having the craic with God. People like us don’t end up at the pearly gates.”
That’s a thought I don’t want to dwell on right now, so I give him a dismissive shrug and spin to leave. If Patrick’s going to be an unrelenting prick, there are worse fates to befall me and Cathal than ending up buried in shallow graves.
“Wait.” It’s Darragh who speaks. “Come on, Patrick. Don’t be a stubborn arsehole. If she’s supposed to live here, be your wife, have your kids, do you really expect her to spend all her time cooped up in that one bedroom? That’s shitty, even for you.”
“She has an en suite.” Patrick’s pushback is pathetic and he knows it. There’s not as much fight in his voice. “But I suppose I can spare one of my security team to escort you out into the gardens.”
“Absolutely not.” I turn back to face him. “Why would I need protecting in my own home? In fact, didn’t youtell me that this place was completely secure?” I snort. “Either you’re full of shit, or you think I need protection against your dangerous shrubbery.” I raise a brow at him. “Which is it? Are you full of shit? Or do you have a garden bursting with rogue flora that doesn’t obey your every command?”
I’m playing a dangerous game. He could easily hop his desk, drag me back to my room, and lock me there for the rest of eternity, but there’s a nagging feeling in my stomach that won’t let up. And granted, it still has stitches in it, but my gut doesn’t generally lead me wrong. Patrickneedsme. If he didn’t, I’d be dead already. The man wants me to acquiesce, which means he’s going to have to meet me at least part way, and I’m going to enjoy every second of earning every inch he gives.
“Maybe you’re the dangerous one. Maybe my trees need protection from you.” He points a shiny metal letter opener at me. Jesus Christ, does this man have a micropenis? There has to be some kind of psychological reason for him always grabbing the nearest weapon-adjacent item and using it to threaten people.
“Right, because my injured self is a formidable match against hundred-year-old and fifty-foot-tall trees.” My voice has a snicker to it, but inside, my stomach is withering. Those trees are tall, so are the walls that surround the Mahoney property. There’s no way Sean or anyone else is getting in, or me out, without being discovered.
“Seventy-five feet.” Smug fucker. “And one hundred and eighty-five years old.”
I swallow down the acidic taste on the back of my throat. “I can barely get up and down the stairs without breaking a sweat. You think I’m going to be able to haul my fat arse up seventy-five feet and make a break for it over your wall-mounted electric fence?” There’s literally more chance of my family comingback to life and rescuing me than there is of me being able to scale the walls of this place.
It’s an educated guess that he has electric fences, but I could see the high walls from my window. And Da always said barbed wire could be cut, while electric fences were the smarter option.
“Fuck me, Patrick, I thought you were a smart man, even if you picked a clueless waste of space as a bride.”
As much as I loathe him with every fiber of my being, Patrick isn’t an idiot. He wouldn’t make it easy for people to get into his house.
As expected, that’s the moment something inside him snaps because he’s on me like bees on sugar water in a second, pinning me against the wall with his big hand on my throat. “Don’t speak about yourself that way.” His voice is a low grumble, and with the oxygen deprivation to my brain, it’s possible I’m dreaming that he’s scolding me for calling myself fat and useless as opposed to calling him stupid. “Some men prefer their women with curves rather than stick thin. And your father might have kept you out of the business, but you’re far from stupid, Sorcha McCarthy.”
Whoa? So, I was right. He was scolding me for talking shit about myself. Okay then. And some men… Is he referring to himself?
Back up, back up. Donotask that question. We are not going there.
“Trust is earned, not given,mo mhuirnín,” he continues.“You’ll go out with one of my guards. Behave yourself, and we can negotiate a longer leash.”
He’s so close, his manly scent threatens to hypnotize me into being putty in his hands. Instead, though, I stand on his toe, making him jump back. With a little more distancebetween us, and having caught him off guard, I’m able to push his hand away from my throat.
