Page 32 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

When Patrick pulled me against his rock-hard chest yesterday on the plane and let me cry myself empty, I thought we’d made progress.

But considering we’re sitting at the bottom of the driveway to my childhood home, the place where virtually all my living relatives were slaughtered, I have to wonder, was it all an act?

Is this his way of driving home another arrow into my chest?

I get it. Heads he wins, tails I lose, no matter what the game, no matter what the stakes.

He will always come out on top. Patrick Mahoney is the master of his universe.

The driver taps the code into the keypad beside the gate—a code Patrick shouldn’t know, but then he knows everything—then steers the car to the front of the house.

Patrick exits the vehicle and I follow him.

As I gaze up at my family home, I draw in a deep breath, but it doesn’t oxygenate my blood.

My legs tremble, knees threatening to buckle, and my chin quivers.

I don’t want to be here. Anywhere but here. Please.

I blink back the brutal images seared into my mind from the worst night of my life; the night my husband stole everything from me. Sinking my teeth into my lip doesn’t help clear the smell of blood from inside my nostrils or erase the consuming ache of grief blooming in my chest.

Why are we here?

I stumble forward on the gravel, but before my knees hit the ground, Patrick’s arms are around me. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, mo mhuirnín.”

With one hand, he holds me steady on my feet, his eyes searching my face. With his other hand, he produces a tissue and wipes tears I didn’t know were falling from my cheeks. “Easy. It’s okay. Just breathe.” His eyes are dark, but it doesn’t look like he’s annoyed with me.

I let him lead me inside, bracing myself to come face to face with the horrors of that fateful night.

There’s no police tape warning people away, and there are no bloody handprints on the door.

When we cross the threshold into the foyer, the bloodbath I’d left behind me only a few short weeks ago is nowhere to be seen, and there’s a citrus tang in the air.

Someone’s been in here and cleaned everything up. Each time I blink, flashes of the gruesome horrors play on a loop through my mind, but the fact I’m not walking through streaks of my family’s blood takes the edge off.

Patrick squeezes my hand. “I know this is hard for you. But I thought you might want to pick up some of your belongings, and I didn’t think it would be…

” He swallows hard. It’s not like Patrick to be uncomfortable or struggle with communicating his thoughts.

“Appropriate to send someone to collect them for you now that we’re married. ”

So, he’s fine with massacring my family, but having a stranger go through my underwear drawer? That’s a step too far? It would be laughable if it wasn’t so fucked up.

“Th-thank you for having the place cleaned.” The words grate against my tongue like sandpaper. “I appreciate it.” I truly do, but being here has set off a chain reaction of grief that has my chest caving in.

His eyes say a million different things; he didn’t want to make this experience worse for me, maybe even that he wishes he could say sorry, but nothing comes out of his mouth. He remains stoic, silent as he leads me upstairs to my old room.

There are two empty suitcases lying open on my bed. A sob catches in my throat at the familiarity of all my worldly possessions. A couple of stuffies, jewelry, a framed picture of my family sitting on the bedside table.

There’s nothing wild or unusual, nothing overly personal except a shoebox of old cards and photos in my closet, but being here, being surrounded by my old life sends a shot of comfort into my veins.

“You can decide what you want to do with the place at a later date. I’ll make sure it’s well maintained.”

“Do with the place?”

He gestures to the walls around us. “Most of your family’s assets have been absorbed into my portfolio or repurposed.”

So that’s why my cards didn’t work when I got out of the hospital. So much has happened since then, I’d forgotten they were defunct. It’s not like I’ve had cause to use them since he stole me from this very house.

“But I thought you may wish to keep your family home,” he continues, shrugging like he hasn’t just offered me a massive gift, one I wouldn’t have expected from him. “It’s not something you need to decide right now.” He moves toward the door. “Take however long you need. I’ll be downstairs.”

I nod, silently, and spin in a slow circle to take in all of my belongings.

“Sorcha? ”

I turn back to where he’s still standing in the doorway. “If you’d like to take one of your father’s cars home with you, I can arrange for that, too.”

He waits for a beat, but when all I can do is slow blink at him, he nods and leaves me with my old bedroom.

Has anyone checked if hell has frozen over?

Or if body switching has been made possible?

Because there’s a man masquerading in my husband’s body, and he isn’t being an absolute raging arsehole.

It’s the least he could fucking do considering he ruined my whole life, but at the same time there’s something…

almost kind in this moment. A kindness that gives me the tiniest grain of hope that I might find some peace with this man.

It’s not as if he’ll ever let me go, so maybe it’s time I begin to think of how I build a life within my prison walls.

Between bouts of tears and nostalgia, forty-five minutes pass before I’ve selected the items I want to take to Patrick’s house. For a fleeting moment, I consider grabbing some of my family members’ things, but my heart just can’t face it today.

Going through my stuff is trying enough. While I’m glad Patrick has been providing me with clothes and necessities, there’s nothing quite like zipping up two full cases of my own belongings.

Leaving my heavy suitcases on the bed, I reach the bottom of the stairs, but no one’s there. “Patrick?”

“He’s outside, Mrs. Mahoney.” One of the bodyguards answers from the front door.

“Oh.”

“Are you finished upstairs?”

I nod. “Yeah, I couldn’t manage the cases by myself.”

His brows jump like he’s surprised I even tried. “One of the team will bring them downstairs.”

I offer him a smile. “Thanks.” Making my way outside feels so final, like once I get into the car I won’t be back here, even though Patrick has gifted the house back to me.

Do I want to keep it? A living shrine to my past, all my worst moments rolled into one building? Do I want someone else to have it?

A shiver rolls through me as I search for Patrick. He’s leaning against the car bonnet, staring at the house with an indecipherable look on his face. It looks like a cross between constipation and consternation. He’s such a hard man to read. He looks up when my feet hit the gravel. “Finished?”

I nod. “For now, yes. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to go through my things.” I pause.

“And for not rushing me.” I twist my hands together in front of my body.

“It wasn’t easy being in there.” I shake my head as the traumatizing images living in the recesses of my mind threaten to overwhelm me.

“But I’m glad to have some of my own stuff back.

Those fancy guddies just aren’t me.” I offer a brittle smile, but I’m truly glad I got the chance to pick up my beloved crap.

“Did you think about a car?” He pushes off the bonnet.

“I did. I think I’ll take the Saab 9-3 convertible.

Da gifted it to Ma on their tenth wedding anniversary.

He told me it was her favorite thing in all the world.

I’d like to have it close by.” I’m not kidding myself that he’ll ever let me take it for a solo joyride along the winding country roads surrounding the Mahoney’s mansion, but maybe he’ll let me take her for a spin with one of my designated babysitters along for the ride.

“I’ll have it brought to the house for you.”

Patrick opens the car door for me, and I slide into the back seat. “Are we going back to your, eh.” I swallow, the word burning in my mouth. “Home?” My mouth dries at the word.

“No, mo mhuirnín. I thought after being away for a few days, you might like to go and see your brother.”