Page 29 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

The urge to scream is so all-consuming that I almost give in and let rip. But if Patrick hears me raging at the top of my lungs, at least half a dozen burly guys with no concept of personal space will burst through my door ready to shoot a non-existent intruder.

And if they burst into my room, they’ll find my newly stolen contraband. I need time to figure out where to hide the most recent—and currently only—addition to my arsenal. The steak knife from my delicious dinner.

It was hard to hide my glee, to not throw my fist up in victorious celebration as I snuck the knife from the table to my lap under my napkin, then between my thighs and out of sight.

But somehow, I managed to get it all the way up to my room without it falling to the ground and giving me away with a betraying clang against the tiled floor.

Fingers crossed Mairead’s staff don’t count the individual pieces of cutlery for some reason after every meal, and my secret is safe.

At least for now. Am I brave enough to try to kill the head of the Irish mafia while surrounded by the New York branch of his organization?

Stupid, more like. But I could do it tonight while everyone’s sleeping and flee into the night never to be heard from again.

Has he told anyone about Cathal? That’s the big question. Can I get home to Ireland? Where’s he put my passport?

Shit. The questions keep mounting, and the answers aren’t ones I can get without asking him.

Adrenaline surges through my veins, making me restless. All I want is to be free of this man, but with every passing day, the tethers between us tighten.

We’re married now. Husband and wife. He has full control of my brother. And soon, he’ll claim my body as well.

Which begs the question, why isn’t Patrick touching me? Taking what’s “his”? Isn’t that what he told me? That I am his to do with as he pleases?

You can’t have heirs without sex, and without heirs, the business will pass to Liam or Darragh. Is that what he wants? No kids, no responsibilities, serve his time at the head of the table then pass it along to Liam and his eventual kids?

“Ha!” I don’t contain that exclamation as well as I did my scream.

There’s literally no way on this green earth that Patrick Mahoney went to all that trouble to get his ducks in a row before Dylan died to simply hand his empire over to someone else.

Even if that someone else is Liam, the next brother in line.

And especially when one of those ducks is a permanently incensed redheaded duck who wants to stab him in his sleep.

I start pacing across my room like a caged animal. I’m not good at waiting. Especially when it comes to someone having agency over my body. Is this another power move? It has to be. Patrick always keeps a tight rein on his control.

Making me wait is simply another way to show me that he’s truly in command of all of me. That he calls the shots, right down to the exact moment he decides it’s time for me to lose my virginity? If he’s even aware I’m a virgin.

Fuck. That. Shit.

I don’t know him well enough to work out if he’s simply biding his time because he’s not in the least attracted to me and is dreading intercourse as much as I am.

But when we arrived here in New York, I’d thought that there was…

something. I can’t say it was chemistry, but there was…

a spark? A crackle? Maybe even a sizzle?

It wasn’t a one-off either. My body reacts to him whenever he’s close, which has been basically all the fucking time. Brushing my cheek, sweeping my hair back from my face, caressing my arm, squeezing my shoulder, holding my hand… The man has had his hands on me more often than not.

And he’s a hot man. A really hot man. Evil, vicious, and self-serving, but hot all the same.

If this is some kind of test, a way to make me beg or plead for him to touch me, then he’s in for the disappointment of a lifetime.

An idea hits me like a lightning bolt. If I was in a car, my feet would make a screeching sound as I stutter to a stop.

Screw him. I won’t beg, but maybe I can use seduction as a way to assert control, to show him I’m not a pawn he can use as cannon fodder. Get it over and done with by employing the skills God has already given to me.

It takes me moments to change into the wedding lingerie I shoved in my carry-on luggage on impulse. On the off chance he gave me some warning of taking my virginity, I wanted to feel—or at least look—good while he did.

I stare into the mirror, my gaze traveling to the angry graze where the bullet skimmed my side.

It’s still a bit tender but getting better every day, just like my head wound.

So much so, I hardly notice them anymore.

After fluffing my hair and pinching my cheeks for a little natural splash of pink, I wrap myself in an oversized dressing gown that was laid out on the foot of my bed when we first arrived.

Patrick’s room is next to mine, so I don’t have far to go.

And as bold as I feel sometimes, I’m not “parade around Mairead Mahoney’s house in my lacy lingerie” level of brazen.

I tuck the steak knife under my mattress.

Until I have answers about Cathal and who knows what, I can’t kill him and take off.

Not here in a strange country, at least when I don’t even know where my passport is.

And at the end of the day, killing him won’t bring my family back; it’ll just make me a murderer, too.

That’s a weight I don’t think I could ever carry.

Taking the knife is another sign I’m still not thinking clearly, and perhaps what I’m about to do is a huge mistake, but there’s an unmistakable thrum of excitement humming through my veins. Usurping control is empowering. Husband dearest won’t know what hit him.

I tiptoe out of my room and travel the few short feet to Patrick’s door.

I’m not doing anything wrong. If anyone sees me, they won’t figure anything unusual other than a wife visiting her husband’s bedroom.

For all they know, we could be in separate rooms because he snores loud enough to take the roof off and I need my beauty sleep.

Without knocking, I let myself into Patrick’s room, hoping to catch him doing something…

dirty, like palming his dick. Instead, he’s shirtless, sitting with his back against the headboard of his bed, the table lamp is on, and he’s got a pen shoved in his mouth while he looks over some pages in his hands.

My husband is a handsome man; he commands presence wherever he goes. But seeing him lying in bed with a pair of dark-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose as he nibbles on the end of a pen steals my breath away. It’s so… normal.

When he looks up, his face morphs from engrossed to furious. He opens his mouth, undoubtedly to berate whoever dared enter into his room without permission.

I had planned on taking off my gown like a demure flower, floating across the room to stand at the bottom of his bed while confidently sliding the material down one shoulder, then another.

But the flash of irritation at being disturbed, coupled with the fact he’s half naked with a wall of intricate ink on his body, stops me dead in my tracks.

“Sorcha. You know it’s deemed polite to knock on someone’s bedroom door before you barge in like you’re being chased by the police. Is there a fire?”

“No fire that I’m aware of. But it is important.”

He makes a huffing sound before placing the papers on his lap and folding his hands on top. “I’m all ears. What can I do for you?”

This is it, my time to shine. To manipulate this man into giving me a modicum of power, to see if it’s even possible for the mighty Patrick Mahoney to do something on someone else’s terms.

My mouth is dry, my knees are trembling, and my stomach is on the floor at the idea of this marble statue of a man seeing my naked body, but now I’ve made my bed, it’s time to take my sexuality by the horns and get into it.

“I wanted to show you something the staff gave me before we left Ireland.”

He cants his head to the side, jutting his chin out as if to say “continue,” so I do. I open the belt around my waist and drop the dressing gown into a pool around my feet.

He blinks but says nothing. I’m too far away and the lighting too dim to see if he’s clenching his jaw or if his breathing picks up, but I pretend he’s saying “fuck” a lot in his mind right now to spur myself on and give me the bravery to see this through.

Control, remember.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” I take a few steps into the room, clocking a chaise propped against the left-hand wall of the room, with Patrick’s bed to the right.

Perfect view.

“It probably cost a fortune, wouldn’t you say?

” I let out an airy giggle as I continue sauntering toward the sofa.

“Hard to believe something made of such little material probably cost as much as a week’s worth of groceries.

But it feels so nice against my skin.” As if to emphasize the point, I turn to face him, cup my silk- and lace-clad breasts, and run my palms over them. Adding a soft moan for good measure.

“Sorcha.” My name is barely more than a growl.

“Yes, Patrick?” I flutter my eyelids at him.

Men like that kind of thing, don’t they?

God, I wish I had more experience at this.

Strike that. I wish I had any experience at this.

My heart thrashes against my ribcage as he slowly removes his reading glasses and places his paperwork and specs on the bedside table next to a half-filled glass of water.

“What are you doing?”

I’m playing with fire, that’s what. There’s every chance this man will toss me over his shoulder and drop me into a cold shower.

But there’s also a chance he might touch me and grant me the win I’m so desperate for.

To stop being the woman things happen to and evolve into the woman who makes things happen.

Struggling to ignore the guilt that I’m not at all repulsed by the thought of the man who murdered my family’s putting his hands on my body, I perch on the edge of the chaise, facing him, shoulders back and what I hope is a soft, secret smile on my lips.

If it’s seen as a smirk, I’m fucked. And not in the way I expect to be.

“I can’t sleep.” I spread my legs. “I thought I might join you for a little while.” I walk my fingers along the triangle of fabric between my legs. “In case there was anything you could think of that might make me sleepy.”

He says nothing, but his eyes are fixed on the hand between my thighs. When they flick to lock with my stare, they’re full of heat, but instead of moving, instead of saying anything, he simply… sits.

Alright, stubborn, controlling, infuriating arsehole. Two can play that game. I lean back against the seat and let my hand slide under the soft fabric.

“Sorcha.” It’s a warning this time, and when he says my name, it sounds like he’s dragged it over gravel before letting it fall from his lips.

I don’t answer him. I sink my fingers into my drenched pussy on a sigh so heavy all my muscles loosen. I’ve held out. I haven’t masturbated since we got married, but I can’t hold back any longer, especially now my hand is in my underwear.

The noises I make as I finger myself aren’t exaggerated, but they aren’t quiet either, and I should probably be embarrassed at the audible confirmation of how aroused I actually am, but I’m finding it hard to care. I’m taking something for me, and it is empowering, incredible, freeing.

Pulse racing, chest heaving, and skin warming, my body races toward release.

“I forbid you from coming, Sorcha.”

A snort bursts out of my body. “You might be able to control just about every aspect of my life, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m in charge of this orgasm.”

There, that should be enough to goad him.

Challenging his authority is never met kindly.

He loves reminding everyone that he holds the cards, he has the power, he is the power.

But this might be just what I need to get the upper hand over him.

If it is, I might laugh. Pussy being his undoing is just so… predictable.

Tossing the verbal grenade with the pin pulled works a treat. He springs from his bed in nothing but a pair of black boxers and closes the distance between us in seconds. “Is that so?” he asks, staring down at me, his eyes molten and his dick pressing against the black fabric.

I ignore him, allowing my eyes to flutter closed as I exaggerate aroused gasps and moans. My racing heart reminds me I’m playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man, but when his hand clamps over my wrist and yanks my hand away from my pussy, I know I’ve won.