Page 46 of Stolen Rival
She laughs. “Don’t look so concerned. This baby is way too comfy in there. They won’t be making an appearance today.”
Not the part of this process I was concerned about. But she’s sweet to try to assure me her water won’t break on my feet.
The din around the room ripples into quiet, drawing my attention to the door to my left. A nurse, dressed in pale-blue scrubs, pushes Dylan into the room. He’s connected to a drip, his shoulders rounded, his face ashen, and to be completely honest, he looks like the last place he should be is in this room.
He points at me, and his nurse directs the wheelchair in my direction. I ignore the urge to seek out Patrick for reassurance. I need to face this alone, to prove to everyone and myself that I can do it.
Because right now, in a sea of people, who fifteen short days ago were considered the enemy, I’m not sure I can. I stand up straight, channel Da’s way with people and Ronan’s cool head under pressure, and offer a warm smile as the wheelchair approaches.
I make the first move, offering my hand. “Dylan, it’s so good to see you again.” He looks marginally better than when I met him earlier today, but he’s obviously extremely sick.
“There’s no need to lie to a dying man, Sorcha. But I appreciate the sentiment.” He winks at me. Winks. It’s unexpected, but something tight and painful inside my stomach begins to unwind, and the people around us return to their own conversations. “I presume that cousin of mine is treating you well?” Dylan briefly pats the back of my hand.
I allow my smile to widen, hoping no one will realize it’s fragile, fake, and if it gets much bigger, my whole face will crack. “I can’t complain.”
He grins. “You could, but you’re not.”
What was it Patrick said earlier about Dylan being astute? He’s not wrong. The man may be at death’s door, but he’s still clued in. Da used to say “there’s no flies on him.” He knows exactly who I am, how I got here, and he sees right through the pretense I’m doing my best to keep up.
Tension coils in my muscles. No matter how brave I’m trying to be, I’m still in the lion’s den, and my very life—and Cathal’s—depends on this interaction going well. These people might be putting on a friendly face, but they’re all of the same ilk: dangerous.
“Come on, let’s eat.”
I dutifully follow him into the dining room, presuming the rest of the family will follow suit and Patrick will catch up to me after he’s finished negotiating with the littlest of the group.
When Dylan’s chair is placed at the head of the table, he pats the space directly to his left. “Sit, love. Let’s have a chat about your intentions with my cousin.”
I snort, and the corners of his mouth tick up. My intentions are usually to murder the fuck out of his cousin, and from that little smirk he’s giving me, he knows it, too. He’s much more amenable than I’d expected him to be, softer around the edges. From age or from illness, I’m not sure.
There’s a twinkle in his eye, but from the way he holds himself, even when his body is ravaged with cancer, I know in my gut that twinkle could easily turn to an icy glint. But he’s not the cold-hearted old bastard I expected him to be. Patrick set the tone for the Mahoney family. Distant, ruthless, unyielding. But Dylan is a different beast entirely. With his family, he doesn’t seem to be very beastly at all, even though most of them aren’t blood relatives.
If they were, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Patrickwouldn’t be here courting him for his blessing because Dylan would have bestowed his kingdom to his sons.
As we get settled, the little kids take turns running up to him to plant kisses on his cheeks, and the grown-ups do the same, patting his shoulder, or hand, and giving me a nod or a smile as they do.
It’s a well-practiced ritual but seemingly born out of love and adoration, rather than a directive. This chosen family adores their patriarch. It’s clear from the watery smiles, warm glances, and the way they all want to sit in the seats closest to him. As nice as he’s being, though, I’m all too aware that he wouldn’t have reached his position if he wasn’t utterly ruthless.
If Patrick was more genial, like his cousin, I wouldn’t be so fearful and filled with abject horror at the idea of spending all of eternity with him.
“So, tell me, Sorcha. How are you adjusting to life as a Mahoney?”
Plates of food appear from the wings like they’ve been kept waiting for the head of the household to arrive. None are placed in front of him, and when I raise an inquisitive brow, he gestures at me to eat my salad.
I’m not sure what he’s really asking, so I skirt the question as best I can. “Patrick has been very kind to me.”
The old man snorts. “Then he’s been abducted by aliens.”
The quip catches me off guard and makes me laugh out loud. I like this genial man; it’s a shame he’s so sick. He could have been someone I enjoyed spending time with during my stretch at Mahoney prison.
“Or had a personality transplant.” It’s an overstep, but hopefully he won’t have my head for poking fun at his surly cousin.
Our laughter draws stares from around the table, but I tryto ignore my husband’s heated gaze making my cheek sizzle and, instead, enjoy conversation with the man who’s really in charge. At least for now.
“It’s not going to be an easy adjustment for you in many ways, Sorcha. I knew your da. We had a few irons in the same fires over the years and until this business with the O’Sullivans.” He shakes his head like he still can’t believe what happened. “Well, let’s just say, he wasn’t the worst of us.”
That feels like a massive thing to admit for a man in his position, and maybe he’s simply saying it out of kindness to make me feel better—and it does.
“I know he generally kept the women of the family out of the business side of things.”
