Page 98 of Stolen Rival
“Sorcha, you can’t come here. I’m not equipped to handle trauma. You need to have the driver take him to a?—”
“Cillian.” I cut him off, my voice so sharp Liam’s head snaps back, concern spreading across his face. I steel my spine and inject as much confidence as I can into my voice before I let myself speak again. “Patrick was shot twice. You know why we can’t take him to the hospital. We’re coming to you. Figure it out.” I press the fabric down hard onto Patrick’s shoulder, and he moans. Relief floods my veins. Thank God.
He’s still alive.
At least for now.
“Okay, I’ll do what I can.”
A fresh wave of tears spills down my cheek and my chin trembles. This emotion has to be the drugs, right? It’s a side effect of what Andrew gave me. I can’t have feelings this deep for the man who so recently killed my family… right?
“Sorcha?”
“I-I’m here. Y-yes, thank you, Cillian. We’re already on our way.”
“I’m going to stay on the phone with you until you get here, okay?” His voice softens, like he’s talking to a child, and I nod even though he can’t see me anymore than the two men in the front of this car can see me. It’s the dead of night, we’re traveling at speeds I didn’t think cars could actually go, and my husband’s blood is staining my hands.
The realization that, if Patrick dies, Liam and Darragh might want me gone sends another flare of fear into my bloodstream.
They won’t let me go back to my friends, my life, and they won’t have any use for me around the Mahoney place either.
What the fuck happens if Patrick dies?
Yes. That’s what this is. It’s not that I’m developing four-letter-feelings for Patrick. I’m not starting to forgive him for everything he’s done to me, to my family. I’m not falling for him while still being angry, right? I can’t. Because that would suggest I’m excusing what he did.
My brain throbs from all the thinking. I can’t love this man. He’s… Patrick. It’s simply survival instinct kicking in. Without him, there’s no reason to keep me around. I’m a loose end.
“Sorcha?” Cillian’s voice and the heavy sound of Liam’s breathing fill the small space.
“I’m here. I just…” I sniff, unable to wipe my tears or nose because I’m pressing this fucking shirt into a hole in my husband’s body. “There’s so much blood, Cillian. It’s warm and sticky, and there’s justso muchof it.”
“Just keep doing what you’re doing, okay? You’ve got this. Tell me exactly what his injuries are so I know what I’m up against.”
I tell him about the two wounds, the fact Liam put a tourniquet around his thigh, and as we pull into his driveway, Cillian appears in the front door, phone held at his ear.
The doors all open at once. Patrick’s team moves him from the back seat, and someone takes over pressing the wound while I climb out of the car. My legs threaten to go out from under me. Liam catches me by the elbow, helping me regain my balance.
I hold up a hand. “I’m s-s-sorry. I didn’t mean to.”
He turns me to face him, and I expect him to read me the riot act for being so stupid and letting Andrew take me, but instead, he pulls me into a tight hug while Patrick is rushed into the house. It’s quick and somehowoddly healing, and when he steps back from me, his worried eyes meet mine.
“I need you to know that whatever happens to Patrick inside this house tonight, you and Cathal will both be safe.” His tone is low, his words are even, and his eyes genuine. He’s not going to kill us if Patrick dies.
A sob slips out from between my lips before my hand can reach to cover my mouth.
“Patrick has made sure that you’ll be provided for. It’s all in his will.”
So many questions run through my mind, but before I can ask a single one, Cillian hollers from inside the house. “I need help in here.”
I take off, sprinting into the house.
“Sorcha, I need you to come over here and keep him calm until I can get him drugged.” Cillian touches his busted lip. “He woke up and lost his shit.”
Of course he did. I race to my husband’s side. He’s lying flat on Cillian’s dining table. There are a few machines and a table with supplies waiting to be used, but Patrick’s eyes are wild and unfocused, and he’s moving way too much for Cillian to safely get a needle in him, let alone operate.
“Stay still, you mad bastard,” Cillian scolds.
“Hey.” I cup his face with both hands and turn his head to me. “It’s me, Patrick. Your wife. Look at me,mo chroí. Focus on me.”
