Page 22 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

I’m sure under normal circumstances, this would be a fairly nice wedding.

But it’s not the wedding I would have chosen.

I always wanted the poufy princess dress, the big crowd, every eye in the room on me, and only me for at least the hour-long full mass service.

Not the expedited ten-minute version Patrick demanded.

Being from a rowdy family with brothers who were supposed to inherit the earth, I was often overlooked in favor of the more important penis in the room.

On my wedding day, however, it was supposed to shamelessly be all about me.

Every extravagance paid for by Da. A handsome, funny, and super-smart husband waiting for me at the altar, and the air filled with smiles and love.

I could have overlooked the fact he’d have undoubtedly been a made man and worked for my father.

Instead, I got virtually empty pews, a scowling Patrick Mahoney, and a dress that, in all likelihood, belonged to his ma, or granny, because it certainly wasn’t designed or picked out with my body in mind .

All of us are at Kelly’s Tavern, except for Molly who had to nip home after the babysitter called to say the baby wouldn’t settle, taking my only chance at a real friendship along with her.

Loneliness has settled deep in my bones, every nerve in my body is raw.

I’m exhausted, sore, and constantly on the verge of tears.

Eabha would have organized a mad hen night.

She’d have had us out on the piss, maybe even gone to a fun, vibrant European city for the weekend, albeit with chaperones Da would’ve insisted stayed glued to my side.

And there would almost certainly have been male strippers—more for her than for me.

For my wedding, she’d have stood up beside me, whether she liked my fiancé or not.

If she liked him, she’d have been standing side by side, beaming at me finding true happiness, and if not, she’d have sent him “hurt her and die” messages with her eye daggers.

Does she even know I’m alive? What does she think happened to me?

God, if only I could get my hands on a phone.

I don’t know anyone’s number, but there’s always socials.

At least Cillian congratulated me, although congratulations isn’t a term I’d use for being forced to marry a mafia boss.

He smiled widely when he said it too, like he wasn’t being ironic, like he didn’t know I am an uprooted flower, wilting under the shadows of my new captor, my new husband .

Of course he knows, but as nice as he is, he’s Patrick’s friend, not mine. His loyalties do not lie with me.

I push the food around my plate, my stomach threatening to revolt if I so much as think about putting a fork near my lips.

Just as well, my hands are trembling so much I’m not sure the garlic chicken would make it into my mouth.

I ordered it to piss him off, to make myself as smelly as I could so he wouldn’t try to kiss me again.

Is this what it feels like to be someone’s pawn? An expendable piece in their game, a disposable, replaceable possession. Any power I thought I had, any power I felt was quickly extinguished when Patrick forced his lips against mine.

I might have tried to convince myself he’s ugly, but there’s no denying the man is stop-traffic gorgeous. His face is a work of art.

I can’t fight the urge to glance at his mouth. Despite the amount of venom and ire that spews from it, his lips didn’t feel like sandpaper, and they weren’t covered in drawing pins. Kissing him wasn’t the awful experience I had anticipated.

Shifting in my seat doesn’t make the memory of his kiss dissipate. In fact, it somehow magnifies the feel of his lips in my brain. The way his tongue thrust into my mouth, commanding my submission as he stole my first kiss along with my breath.

If that’s what it feels like to be kissed by someone I hate and who hates me every bit as much, what could it feel like if I kissed someone I was actually attracted to.

A groan almost slips out from me as my cheeks heat, and my nipples press against the fabric of my borrowed dress. The body doesn’t lie.

He may have killed my family, he may be holding my brother’s safety hostage, and he may have forced me to marry him, but there’s no hiding the fact that he’s a handsome man.

My body most definitely reacted to him in such shameful ways in church that I’m surprised God didn’t set me on fire right there in his sanctuary.

“Don’t like the chicken?” Cillian leans toward me, jerking his chin at my plate.

It’s unsurprising he’s noticed I’m not eating; these men notice everything.

I should probably eat a couple bites so my new husband doesn’t take it as an act of disrespect, or worse, defiance.

I’ve pushed him back on a few things, but it’s only a matter of time until he rules with a firmer hand or makes it crystal clear that he’s serious about hurting me and my brother.

I take my time chewing a mouthful of the cream-based chicken dish, fighting back a moan when the garlicky flavor explodes on my tongue. When I’ve swallowed, I turn to Cillian. “It’s a little dry.”

It’s as dry as my pussy having relived my kiss with Patrick Mahoney on repeat since it happened.

So… not at all. From the way the corners of Patrick’s lips tug into, well, not a smile exactly but something other than a frown tells me he’s got one ear on the conversation with his brothers, and one ear on my conversation with Cillian.

When we get back to Mahoney Manor, I’ll be trapped and alone with nothing but my own depressive thoughts to keep me company, so I grasp at the opening for small talk with Cillian. If for no other reason than he’s the most humane of the lot of them. And he’s not going to try to fuck me.

My stomach swoops like I’ve gone over the quick succession of small hills on one of the local country roads. What if Cillian does try to fuck me? Is that the kind of friendship these men have? They share women?

What if Patrick will use me to get pregnant with his child… children? My eyes widen. How many kids is he expecting me to have for him? Will he let his brothers and friends use me at will when he’s done with me?

The newly familiar chill of fear settles in my muscles as I struggle to fill my lungs with air.

“Sorcha? Are you okay?” Cillian touches my hand, and I don’t miss the shift around the table as Patrick sits up straighter.

I have no doubt that if either of his brothers had touched me in such a casual manner, Patrick would have severed their hands with a steak knife without missing a breath. He’s nothing if not dramatic.

There seems to be something about Cillian that allows him to push Patrick’s boundaries.

“Sorcha?” Patrick’s voice pulls my attention from where Cillian’s hand is on mine. Is this the last friendly human contact I’m ever going to get before my husband holds me down and uses me to breed the next generation of the Mahoney mafia?

I blink at him, working my too-thick-for-my-mouth tongue for a second before I dare answer. “I’m fine.” I give him an easy smile that’s anything but easy.

Patrick’s stare stays on me while I turn my head back to his friend. “Cillian, how did you and Patrick meet?”

Cillian’s face lights up at the question, but after a split second, his brows tent and his eyes swim with concern.

“I’m only too happy to share, but are you really okay?

You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or you might vomit, or faint.

” He swallows. “Or both. And I know I’m a surgeon, but I don’t do well with vomit. ”

That makes me laugh and draws Patrick’s attention once again. Surely laughter isn’t that much of a strange sound to his ears?

“You can slice and dice people on an operating table, but a bit of puke is a step too far?”

His face turns somber. “It smells so bad.”

I roll my eyes. “Aye, worse than cauterizing someone’s insides. I can totally see that.”

One of the Mahoneys snorts, making it obvious that everyone’s listening to my conversation. I need to reassure the doctor that I’m okay before I make Patrick unhappy with me, and I’d really rather he wasn’t unhappy before we go to our marital bed later tonight.

“Yes, yes, I’m okay. You know how it is, wedding day jitters, it all kind of hit me in a rush of emotion.” A ball of grief sneaks into my throat, swelling like a wet sponge.

His face fills with sympathy. “Of course, well, let me distract you with the tale of how Patrick Mahoney saved me from having my arse handed to me by a trio of bullies when we were ten years old.”

“They fucking deserved what they got,” he mutters.

Wow. The man cares about something. Just not me.

It’s not much longer before we say our goodbyes to Cillian and head back to the house, which I suppose I should start trying to call home.

I disappear into the library, one of the few places that brings me some kind of comfort in the chaos.

The Brothers Grimm are nowhere to be found when I go outside for a walk around the gardens with today’s babysitter, and I eat dinner by myself at the way-too-big-for-one-person dining table.

I’d prefer to see him, to have his presence around me instead of this. His absence feels sinister, like he’s trying to weird me out before bedtime, before he gets to know me much more intimately than any other person in the world.

When it’s time to get ready for bed, I ignore the frilly lingerie the wedding team brought for me to wear tonight and instead put on my oversized pj’s.

I don’t shower or shave my legs either. If he’s going to insist on a sexual relationship between us, then he takes me as I am.

And if my prickly legs should provide him discomfort in the process? Boo fucking hoo.

I stay in the bathroom for longer than I need to because I’m delaying the inevitable. I don’t know how this works. Will he come into my room? Will he send for someone to bring me to his? Do we have a special fuck-buddy room?

My head swims with worst-case scenarios while my chest flutters with uncontainable anxiety.

By the time I make it onto my cool sheets, I’m trembling.

I know what sex is, even if I haven’t had it yet, and I know it’s going to hurt.

He doesn’t care about hurting me like someone who actually gave a shit about me would.

The more I think about what’s about to befall on me, the tighter my chest gets.

I never thought I’d lose my virginity to my father’s mortal enemy, to the man who killed my family, the man who kidnapped me and forced me to marry him. But here we are.

When the door opens, my lungs stop working. Patrick’s still in his wedding suit as he makes his way into the room. If he thinks I’m going to undress him like some kind of bride for the king, he has another think coming.

He pauses, staring at me, his eyes panning from my head to my feet.

I fully expect him to mention my clothing, and I’m ready to tell him if he expects me to dress in that lace contraption, he should have married someone who liked that kind of thing.

Or even knew how to use it. Da brought me up alone, and that meant dressing me like the boys. I can just about handle a bra.

After a few painful seconds scrape by, he breaks the silence.

“We’re going to America first thing in the morning.

You’ll need to be up and ready to go by seven o’clock.

Pack for a three-day trip. Casual clothes will do.

” He turns as though to leave, then stops and jabs a finger at me.

“Listen up, little lady. You already know how important this trip is to me. If you cause any problems, there’ll be severe consequences. ”

Translation: I’ll kill your brother.

I manage a nod, to let him know I understand and will comply.

“Good.” He hesitates, like he wants to say something else, but instead he turns on his heel and leaves.

A whoosh of breath leaves me in a rush. Is he messing with me?

Trying to drive my anxiety to kill me off before he gets into bed with me?

I mean, if necrophilia is his thing, then he’s going about it the right way.

I press my hand to my chest, my heart racing underneath my palm as I try to remind myself how to breathe.

He doesn’t come back. I stay awake staring at the door, listening for any signs of life approaching my room for over an hour, but there isn’t even a whisper of a sound.

I heave out a sigh of relief as I settle in for the night. I don’t know what Patrick is playing at, but I’ll take any silver lining, any small victory, and spending my wedding night with my virginity intact feels like a pretty big win right now.

Maybe he was all talk, and he doesn’t actually like sex? Or maybe… maybe he’s gay.

I guess I’ll find out soon enough.