Page 21 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

PATRICK

“Shouldn’t you be dressed already?”

Frowning, I glance up at Darragh, papers strewn across my desk. “What time is it?”

“Wedding time.” He lifts the sleeve on his crisp white shirt and taps his watch. “Can’t have the bride arrive before the groom.”

Sighing, I gather the papers into a haphazard pile and stuff them in a drawer. “Security sweep?”

“Done.”

“Good. I don’t want anymore fuckups.” Rising from my chair, I stretch my arms overhead, easing out the kinks in my back. “Where is she?”

“Upstairs with her bodyguard. She’ll be leaving shortly, which is why you need to get ready.”

“Fine.” I crick my neck. Before the U.S.

visit, I need to visit my chiropractor. Can’t see my beloved offering to massage out the multiple knots.

I sweep past Darragh and take the stairs two at a time.

My wedding suit is hanging up, washed and pressed after my last attempt to marry.

Some might call it macabre to wear the same suit where a bloodbath took place, but it doesn’t matter to me. A suit is a suit.

Five minutes later, I’m dressed. I peer through the window at the two cars lined up outside my front door, their engines idling. The first one for Sorcha and her bodyguard, the second for me and my brothers.

Unlike my last wedding, this one won’t have guests lining the pews.

It’s us, plus Cillian and Molly. The O’Sullivans had been the ones to insist on a larger wedding, and they, plus several guests, had paid with their lives.

A quick ceremony covering all the legal bases is far more my style.

I’ve never understood the need for all the pomp.

It’s not as though Sorcha has a family left anymore.

I almost chuckle. If they were alive, this union would not be happening.

Old man McCarthy must be spinning in his grave at the idea of one of his rivals marrying—and eventually bedding—his only daughter.

And as for Sorcha’s friends… I don’t know who they are, and I’ve no interest in finding out.

Any friends she makes from here on out will be part of my organization, or she won’t have friends at all.

The journey to the church takes fifteen minutes. The priest greets us at the entrance with a warm handshake and a well-practiced spiel meant to calm the nerves of anxious grooms. It’s wasted on me, but I let him ramble on, nodding at appropriate breaks in the conversation.

He leads the three of us up the aisle and points at where I’m to stand as though he’s forgotten I stood in this exact spot two weeks ago.

Liam moves into position beside me, and Darragh sits on the front pew next to Molly and Cillian.

As I glance back at him, he’s picking at a hole in the wood. A bullet hole.

A fresh deluge of anger rushes through me.

Fucking McCarthys. Their stupid vendetta cost me time and a pliable wife.

Despite Sorcha’s faultless behavior since our trip to the rugby game, I’m not convinced of her act.

A woman doesn’t acquiesce to a man who wiped out her entire family and is holding an ax over the head of her last living relative.

No, she plots and schemes and waits for her opportunity to knife him in the back.

A shiver runs through me. Not born of fear or revulsion, but of sheer excitement.

The thing is, I want her to defy me, to fight me, to give me a reason to subjugate her.

Odd considering I intended to marry Niamh because she had none of those traits.

Despite the trouble Sorcha could cause me in taking over my cousin’s business, her exemplary behavior these last few days has… well, it’s fucking bored me.

The contradiction isn’t lost on me.

“Ready?” Father O’Connor asks.

I nod, facing forward as the organist begins to play. The silence beyond the music is almost deafening. Last time, there were murmurs as the bride walked up the aisle. Now—nothing. Just brittle silence.

Sorcha moves into position beside me, face covered by a veil, head down.

Neither of us says anything to the other.

The priest begins the well-worn ceremony.

When it’s her turn to speak, she utters the words required by law and accepts the ring I push onto her finger.

I keep expecting her to put up a fight or at least come up with one of her sarcastic one-liners, but she goes through with the ritual without a hint of rebellion.

It’s when Father O’Connor gets to the “you may kiss the bride” part that she blinks. Taking two steps away from me, she shakes her head.

“No.”

A single word, her line in the sand drawn wide and deep. I hadn’t planned to kiss her, but you can fucking bet I’m kissing her now.

“Yes.” Grabbing the hem of the veil, I lift it over her head. Her eyes are filled with defiance, with daring.

“Kiss me, and I will bite off your tongue.”

Somewhere off to my left, Liam snickers. I snap one hand around the back of her neck and grip her chin with the other.

“Bite my tongue, and I will rip yours out of your head. That will stop your backchat.” Angling my head, I cover her mouth with mine. I’d only intended the kiss to last a second or two, but the moment our lips fuse together, a fire explodes in my groin.

Fuck.

Releasing her chin, I delve my fingers into her hair and anchor them there. She makes a noise at the back of her throat. Pleasure, or pain? Either works. Both arms hang at her sides, a silent protest, but her uttered threat doesn’t materialize.

I deepen the kiss, tracing her plump bottom lip with the tip of my tongue.

Darragh’s “get a room” wafts over my head.

I wrap my tongue around hers, probing, exploring, pushing her into a reaction that will allow me to retaliate.

Instead, she raises her arms and wraps them around my neck, toying with the tuft of hair at the nape.

Her nails score my skin, not in a way to mark me but a sign she’s enjoying this just as much as I am.

It occurs to me that this could well be the first time she’s ever been kissed.

From what I know, the McCarthys treated her like a prisoner, a vulnerable flower who needed protection, and they doled that out by locking her behind the secure gates of their castle.

I can’t see her da or her brothers sitting back and letting her date without their express approval—and a chaperone.

That day I got her around the throat, she said that “choking wasn’t her kink,” but it came across as a woman regurgitating something she’d read rather than her learned experience.

The truth is, I doubt she knows what her likes and dislikes are, and considering my reaction to a simple kiss, I’m relishing the thought of helping her discover them.

Unwinding my fingers from her hair, I let her go, rising to my full height as I peer down at her swollen lips, her tangled locks, the sheer confusion swimming in her eyes.

“There,” I say, tucking a red strand behind her ear. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

She wipes the back of her hand over her mouth, smearing her lipstick halfway up her cheek. “It was disgusting. Sloppy, uncultured, oh, and your breath stinks.”

Both my brothers laugh, as does Cillian. Father O’Connor widens his eyes, bracing for a possible backlash. I’m sure he’s never heard a single person speak to me like that in the thirty-five years I’ve been coming to this church ever since he baptized me when I was three months old.

“Keep telling yourself that, Mrs. Mahoney.” I clasp her hand, squeezing tighter than will be comfortable for her.

“Come along. Our wedding reception awaits. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.

” I stride down the aisle, forcing my much shorter wife to jog to keep up with me.

“Kelly’s Tavern does a great garlic chicken. ”

The expected comeback never arrives, and when we’re situated in the car, I catch sight of her dabbing at a stray tear trickling from her eye.

A shard of empathy pricks in my chest. I kill it with fire.