Page 10 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

I didn’t think my third chance at escaping this sick motherfucker Mahoney would come quite so soon.

But as I sit cross-legged on my bed, my damp hair making my clean clothes wet, a buzz of excitement zips through my body.

Turns out, he’s handing freedom to me on a silver platter, and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

Especially when that horse killed my whole fucking family. If I could, I’d murder him, and his smug arsehole brothers in their sleep, drink a glass of whatever they have in their bar downstairs, and leave in a blaze of bloody glory.

After that, I’d go get Cathal and break him out of that medical prison, then find somewhere for us both to live out our days in peace. With animals. He fucking loves animals.

A ripple of rage surges through me. I hated that Da put Cathal in a medical institution. He claimed it was the best thing for him, but I think the truth of the matter is that it was easiest for him, and the best thing for the business.

Cathal’s fine there, yes, of course he is.

It’s a state-of-the-art place, nothing but the best for the McCarthy family.

And he’s been there since he was a newborn, therefore he doesn’t know any different, but it has never sat right with me.

He should be with his family. At home. I need to get to Cathal, take him out of that place, and find somewhere that caters for in-home medical care.

And to do that, I need to get rid of King Mahoney.

I don’t know what the hell happened between last night and this morning, but it seems a little beauty sleep has made Patrick a smidge less of a prick.

In the last half hour, he’s brought me some nice-smelling shampoo, conditioner, body wash, my antibiotics, pain meds, a stack of clean clothes, and when I came out of the shower, there was a tray of food sitting on the foot of my plush prison bed.

And it wasn’t even shit food. A full fry, a glass of orange juice, and a bowl of freshly chopped fruit.

I’m sure he didn’t wash and slice the fruit by himself or anything, and I bet he didn’t slave over a hot stove while my bacon and eggs sizzled in a pan either, but he brought them to me.

He’s not letting me starve, and that’s something, right?

Eabha would say, “just because he feeds you doesn’t mean he’s not a kidnapping piece of shit, babe.” She’s not wrong. He’s still a murderous bastard. He’s just a murderous bastard with bacon.

Not only did he feed me, but he says we’re going out soon.

Out. As in not in this room, not even in this house.

A million opportunities for me to find a way to flee.

I fight the urge to clap my hands together in glee.

My body aches more today than yesterday.

All those escape attempts, not to mention the debacle with the bedsheets, are taking a toll on me.

Exhaling a slow breath, I pick up the glass of juice and sip. Is this freshly squeezed? The Mahoneys have it all. The run of Ireland, a gorgeous house that I have done nothing but trash since I arrived, and the perfect amount of pulp in their hand-squeezed orange juice.

Bastards.

Where are we going? Who knows? And does it really matter? When we get to a red light, I’ll open the door and run. They’re so fucking cocky, they think I won’t try to escape again because I’m afraid of them.

And I am, but the joke will be on them while they’re getting strangled by their seat belts as they flap around trying to get out of the car, and I’m taking off like an Olympic sprinter.

I’m coming for you, Cathal.

A sliver of hope nestles its way into my chest as I pick at the food left on my plate.

I wasn’t hungry at first, and I almost refused to eat in case they put something in it to make me more compliant, but knowing I have a chance to get away, to get to my brother, well, that requires energy.

And let’s be honest, I’ve never been known to turn down a free meal.

“We’re leaving in five minutes.” Patrick’s voice booms from somewhere in the house.

Am I supposed to answer? Say yes, sir, Patrick, sir?

Present myself for inspection at my prison cell door?

Everything they’ve given me to wear is not only in my size, but it’s brand new with tags on, right down to the white guddies laced up on my tender feet.

Would they have gone to all this trouble if they were simply taking me somewhere to kill me?

Doubt it.

But at the same time, I wouldn’t put it past them to enjoy making a spectacle when they take someone out. Freshly washed, wild red hair, bright white t-shirt and trainers to get blood splatter all over. I bet they consider murder an art; I know Da used to.

I overheard him talking to his friends about it in the kitchen once, like he was Leonardo da fucking Vinci creating a masterpiece.

My stomach lurches. The only pleasure I take from thinking about murdering the three Mahoney stooges is the fact that I’d be ridding the world of the scum who killed my entire family. And took pleasure in it, too.

Shaking my head, I clear my mind of any bloodthirsty thoughts. I need to seem pliable, placid, friend not foe, when I step down the stairs and join him in the car for our merry voyage.

I pull my hair over my shoulder and weave the long, still-damp strands into a tight plait. I need to be able to bolt when the opportunity arises, I can’t be having my curly mop getting in my eyes and losing me time. Or worse, causing me to fall on my already-busted face.

Once I’m free, I’ll have to get myself some antibiotics, a burner phone, and… shit, too many other things to think about right now or I’ll vomit. Thankfully, they didn’t search my clothing, so I still have a few thousand euros on me to get me started. It’s not much, but I’ll have to make it work.

I scan the room one more time, trying to determine if there’s anything in here that I could tuck into my underwear to later use as a weapon.

Unsurprisingly, I come up short. There’s not even a visible screw in the bed frame that I could untwist, and the cutlery they sent up with my breakfast is that flimsy, plastic shite that snapped before I’d even finished eating my eggs.

It’s just me against the world. Or the Mahoneys. Same difference all things considered.

I hesitate before I leave the room, suddenly afraid of stepping into the unknown. This room feels on the safer side of, well, not at all safe. I don’t like that I have no idea where they’re taking me, what they’re going to do to me, or who they’re going to do it with.

A heavy feeling settles in my stomach, bitterness thick on my tongue as countless possibilities come to mind at once. But if I stay here, surrounded by state-of-the-art security measures, my chances of getting free grow slimmer by the day.

Patrick doesn’t give me another moment to delay, he appears in front of me, a malicious smile on his face and a dangerous glint in his eye. “Ready for our little road trip, mo mhuirnín ?”

What’s he fucking up to?

I plant my feet, crossing my arms despite the way it creates pressure on my wound, and tip my chin. So much for being compliant. “Where are we going?”

His smile turns to a smirk, a sneer maybe? “I’m so glad you asked. You’ll find out in due course.”

He offers me his hand, his eyes telling me to get on board the train or it’ll run me over without so much as a second thought. Resigned to whatever fate awaits me, I reluctantly comply and follow him along the hall, down the stairs, and out to the car where a driver is waiting.

Dressed all in black, he’s adding to the feeling of foreboding that I’m perhaps being driven to my own funeral. Patrick will probably make me dig the hole myself and all.

When we’re settled in the car with the door locks closed, the driver glances over his shoulder at us in the back seat. “Where to, Boss?”

Patrick turns to me, waiting patiently for me to meet his steely stare. “Brannock House, please, Gerard.”