Page 18 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

PATRICK

“Get your coat on. We’re going out.”

Sorcha glances up from the armchair in the corner of her bedroom where she’s reading Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew.

She must’ve been in my library and helped herself, yet more evidence of the size of her balls.

Not that I care if she’s picked out a book to read, but she doesn’t know that.

Her choice is interesting. She clearly sees similarities between her situation and Katherina’s.

“I’m fine here.” She returns her attention to the book.

“It wasn’t a suggestion, mo mhuirnín .” I stride across the room and snatch the book out of her hands.

“Ow. Paper cuts. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?” She sucks on her thumb, and my groin heats.

Subjugating her will be a fucking joy, one I’m eager to undertake.

But not until we’ve been to see Dylan. She’ll expect me to fuck her right after the wedding.

Not doing so will confuse her and tip her off balance—exactly where I want her to be.

As long as she’s kept busy questioning my next move, she likely won’t make hers .

I snap the hardback shut and toss it on her unmade bed. “You have two minutes to put your shoes and coat on and meet me downstairs.”

“Or?”

A slow smile inches across my face. I almost want her to defy me here where I can control the narrative much easier than when we’re out in public. That way I can put her in her place and show her that for all her backchat, she’s as powerless as a gazelle running from a lion.

I did think killing another of her dad’s soldiers and putting his head on a stick would bring her more to heel.

There’s a part of me that’s impressed with her courage and entirely unimpressed by her father’s lack of foresight.

If she’d been in our ranks, a Mahoney sibling, she’d have been every bit as powerful and equal as Darragh and Liam are.

But she’s been left to languish out of generational misogyny.

It’s a shame, she could come in useful, but if she fucks up my plans, no amount of courage will save her from a bullet.

“Two minutes. And make your fucking bed.” I leave her door wide open and head for the stairs. Her mutterings reach me, but the floorboards creak, which means she’s out of the chair at least. I’m not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed.

“You sure you don’t want to tag along and watch the game?” I ask Liam who’s tucking into a full fry-up like it’s his last meal.

He shakes his head. “Nah. I’m good. Got a bit of business up north.”

“What’s her name?”

“Who says it’s a woman?”

“Darragh told me.”

“Fucking snitch.” He shovels a piece of black pudding into his mouth. “If he got laid a bit more often, it might stop him poking his nose into my sex life.”

“I think he gets laid plenty.”

“Yeah.” A shit-eating grin spreads across his face. “It’s only you who doesn’t.”

He isn’t wrong. It’s been months since I got my dick wet.

Too busy making sure this deal with Dylan goes ahead and preparing for consolidation with the O’Sullivans—a waste of time as it turned out.

From the minute Dylan shared the news three months ago that he was terminal, I’ve been on maneuvers making sure it’s me who inherits his territory.

Just one final piece of the puzzle, and I’ll triple the size of my domain, including the unexpected takeover of the McCarthy turf. And that’s just the start. Once I’ve got a foothold in the United States, I’ll expand.

“Although,” Liam continues, scarfing down the last bite of sausage. “That’s about to change, right?” He flashes another white-toothed smile. “Bet she’s a scrappy little thing in bed. Might have to tape oven gloves to her hands so you get to keep your eyes.”

“I can handle her.”

“I guess we’ll soon see.” He rises from the table and stacks his plate and cutlery in the dishwasher, then dusts off his hands. “Later, brother. Good luck.” Laughing, he disappears into the hallway, and the front door slams shut.

I check my watch. Five minutes have passed since I gave Sorcha a two-minute warning. Fuck’s sake. I’ve got one foot on the stairs when she appears, bundled up in a coat, hat, and a scarf that hides half her face.

“We’re not going to the north pole.”

“I like to be prepared,” she says haughtily, picking her way down the stairs. As she passes me, she barges into my shoulder. “Where are you taking me, anyway?”

“To a rugby game.” I never miss my local team playing, especially as I’m a major sponsor. I like to lend my support in person.

She pivots. “Rugby? Great. Giant men with cauliflower ears and broken noses pointlessly running about a pitch holding a ball as everyone else chases them. Every girl’s dream date.”

I suppress a smile at her clichéd opinion of me. Although it’s unsurprising given she doesn’t know a single thing about me other than what I’ve chosen to show her. “It isn’t a date.”

“Oh, I know. It’s another test, right?”

Huffing, I check my watch. “We’re late. Let’s go.”

As I press my palm to her lower back, she shoots forward as though I’d Tasered her.

If she doesn’t behave herself and keep her pretty little mouth shut, I’ll do worse than that.

One of my soldiers holds the car door open for us.

Sorcha gets in, and he shuts it behind her.

I round the car, climbing into the other side.

“A word of warning,” I say as Gerard points the car toward the electrified gates to my property. “If you try anything stupid, it will displease me.”

“Ooh, big words.” She fake shivers. “Am I supposed to curl up into a ball and cry? Quiver in my shiny new designer trainers? What reaction would best please you?”

Her disrespect should not bring me nearly as much enjoyment as it is. But I won’t have her displaying this level of impudence in public. Snapping out a hand, I grip her chin like a vise.

“If anything other than deference and politeness come out of your mouth, I will nail it shut.”

“You don’t scare me,” she whispers, her wide eyes telling the opposite story.

“Yes, I do. Now behave, or you will discover another head on a spike in my garden.” I release her chin and capture a lock of her hair, winding it around my forefinger. “That of your only living relative.”

She gasps, but my idle threat works because she pulls her gaze from mine and lowers her eyes. “I’ll behave.”

“Good girl.” I let the ringlet go, and she shuffles as far away from me as the confined space will allow, turning her back for good measure.

My phone vibrates. I reach into my inside pocket and withdraw it.

Cillian: On your way?

Me: Yep. Be there in fifteen.

Cillian: Is she with you?

Me: Yes.

Cillian: Ok. I’ll get the drinks in.

I smile, returning my phone to my pocket.

“Who’s that?” Sorcha demands. “Another ordered hit carried out?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“You’re smiling. Can’t think of another reason to make you smile other than bringing suffering and misery to more people who don’t deserve it.”

“Oh, your family deserved it, mo mhuirnín . Believe me.”

“I wasn’t talking about them.” She looks away, dashing the back of her hand over her cheek. “Da shouldn’t have done what he did to the O’Sullivans. I know how this business works. An eye for an eye. But Sean…” Her voice hitches. “He didn’t deserve what happened to him.”

“He planned to take you from me. I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

“Because of Dylan?”

Somehow, I contain my surprise. How the fuck does she know about Dylan? Not that it matters if she’s figured out my motivations for marriage. I still hold the only card in the game; that of her special needs brother. And I will play that card over and over until I get what I want.

“Because no one takes what is mine. And make no mistake, Sorcha. You are mine.”

“I’ll never be yours,” she whispers. “Not in the true sense. Not where it matters.” She punches her chest to accentuate her point. “You can own my body. You can steal my freedom. But you are an empty vessel. A man without a soul. You will never know what it is like to love and be loved.”

She’s wrong. I know how to love those who matter. It’s just that she doesn’t matter beyond the purpose I need her for. A wife, a mother, a warm pussy to fuck whenever I feel like it.

The stooge that will bring me untold power and riches to make my family proud. Being a Mahoney is more than a name. It’s a legacy that my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents built over a century. One I intend to pass on to my children and their children and their children’s children.

Grow or die. Only one of those will be my destiny, and I don’t plan on expiring any time soon.

The car pulls up outside the VIP entrance to Drake Park. I exit the car and fasten my coat, waiting for Sorcha to join me. When she does, I capture her hand and squeeze.

“Smile, mo mhuirnín . You’re with Irish royalty.”

The smile she gives me is loaded with that much fake sugar, I chuckle.

“That will do.” I tow her inside, spotting Cillian standing at the bar talking to a couple in their fifties.

He turns as we approach, his eyes gliding from me to Sorcha.

Ignoring me, he turns his attention—and his charm—onto her.

“You must be Sorcha. I’m Cillian. Ricky-boy here told me you were a beauty, and he didn’t lie.”

I glowered at him using the nickname he’d bestowed on me in our teens, but he isn’t bothered.

Cillian is like a brother to me, a man I’ve known since I was ten years old and who has stood by me through thick and thin.

He’s seen me at my best, and my worst. After my parents died, he propped me up, did his best to convince me what happened wasn’t my fault.

Not that it made any difference. Nothing will ever quash the guilt I carry with me, a crushing weight I don’t deserve to offload.

I’d have given anything to have Cillian join me in my business, especially in those early days when my father’s enemies closed in, sensing an opportunity, a weakness left behind by his untimely death, but Cillian isn’t built for my world. As a trauma surgeon, he saves lives, whereas I take them.

“Thank you.” Sorcha unzips her coat and unwinds the scarf from around her neck. She doesn’t mention the nickname, or react to it at all.

“Here, allow me.” Cillian slides her coat down her arms and places it over the back of a chair, laying her scarf on top.

“I got you a beer, Sorcha.” Twisting, he grabs two bottles off the bar, pressing the alcoholic one into Sorcha’s hand and passing me the non-alcoholic one.

Reaching back for his own drink, he brandishes his bottle in the air.

“To the happy couple.”

Sorcha looks about as miserable as one could, but she touches the neck of her bottle to his before taking a long pull .

“Now, shall we go and watch some rugby?” Cillian says.

“Can’t wait,” Sorcha mutters.

“You’re not a fan?”

“Of grown men running about after a weird shaped ball?” She shakes her head. “Can’t say that I am, no.”

Cillian grins. “What about grown women running about after a weird shaped ball?”

“Women?” She frowns looking at him, then me. “You brought me to a women’s rugby game?”

“Yes.” I clasp her elbow, propelling her toward the door at the far end of the VIP bar that leads to my executive box. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”

“I…” She grimaces. “No, I didn’t.”

“Assuming stereotypes is dangerous, mo mhuirnín . I not only prefer women’s rugby to men’s, but I sponsor this team.”

Her eyes flare, surprise etched into the furrow between her brows. “You’re right.” She tucks her chin into her chest. “I’m sorry.”

A sense of victory fills my veins. Doubt I’ll have anymore trouble with Little Miss Mischief for the rest of today.

I open the door and press the flat of my palm to her lower back. This time, she doesn’t spring forward. Instead—and I could be wrong—I swear she leans into my touch.