Page 75 of Stolen Rival
“That you planned to stab me in my sleep? No. I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t tried to fight for your freedom. But I hope that you’re more accepting of your fate now.”
Am I? It’s exhausting fighting all the time, I know that. And things are far easier now than they were in the beginning.
“Getting there.”
He checks the water level in the kettle, then flicks it on. “I’m glad to hear that, Sorcha.”
I pull out a chair, sit at the kitchen table, and Titan curls up at my feet once more. She seems to like me more than her owner. In this house, I’ll take whatever wins I can get.
Patrick silently pads about the kitchen, and I track his movements. Am I ogling the toned muscles of his back and arms flexing under all that ink while he reaches for the mugs in the cupboard above the kettle?
Maybe.
Does his arse fill out those gray tracksuit bottoms nicely?
Also, maybe.
“Are you hungry?” He doesn’t turn to me when he asks, crossing the kitchen to the fridge.
“Are you going to cook for me?”
He chuckles. “That’s one thing you don’t want me to do for you. Much to my mother’s disappointment, I never could master how to cook. I can make a fry, barely, although not without setting off the smoke alarm. Maeve generally leaves a plate of cold meats and cheese in the fridge.”
“Because there’s rarely a night that goes by where one of you isn’t awake past bedtime.”
Nodding as he removes the cling film from the plate, he puts it in front of me then grabs a box of crackers from a cupboard next to the fridge. After making two mugs of tea, he sits on the chair perpendicular to mine.
Curious. Before tonight, Patrick would have taken the seat directly across from me, without fail. Now he’s sitting much closer, so much so that our knees brush against each other as he gets settled.
He’s clearly tired, his eyes underlined by dark rings, his face pale, and his shoulders tense. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Sitting here is the man behind the mafia, not the machine I see every day.
We sit in awkward silence for a few minutes. It’s as though neither of us know how to talk to the other when we’re not threatening to hurt each other, or verbally sparring, or when we don’t have the buffer of outsiders to help us, like we did earlier at dinner.
“You want to talk about it?” I draw my finger over the handle of my mug.
He tips his head in question.
“Whatever has you awake after one in the morning? I know you can’t tell me mafia secrets or anything, but I’m a good listener.”
“I’m fine.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell you mymafia secretsearlier, but you still heard them.”
“If you don’t want me to listen to your work talk, don’t talk about work right next to my ears.” I shrug. “We can employ a no-business-discussions rule at the table if you’d like?”
He shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary.” After a beat he speaks again, “I really am fine.”
At the high arch of my brow, he heaves out a sigh. “I am. I knew absorbing Dylan’s business into mine would be an adjustment, and that’s exactly what it is, an adjustment. It’s just on top of everything else that it’s a little… tricky. I’ll figure it out, though. I always have.”
Over the years, I saw Da like this exactly two times. I don’t know what drove him to reach the point of looking so worn out and beat down, but I recognize the signs of a man who’s treading water.
“It’ll take time.” I cup my mug in my hands and take a long slow drink of tea while Patrick loads up some crackers with corned beef and cheddar cheese.
“I don’t really have time.” It’s almost a whisper, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, like he’s afraid if he speaks it aloud, that may make it true.
Silence settles between us again, and on his next sigh, he meets me with a serious stare. “When I was seventeen, I almost ran from this life. Had a bag packed. Bus ticket bought. Thought I’d run away to the States, find a job and disappear. Never made it to the station.”
His admission hangs heavy in the air.
“Your da caught you?”
