Page 34 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

If I hadn’t heard the mad craic the Mahoneys were having downstairs over what sounds like a poker game—where at least one of them is being accused of cheating—I’d think I was here by myself.

That’s not actually possible. I’m never alone anymore, not really. But I haven’t seen much of Patrick in three days, not since our trip to visit Cathal, and when I have seen my husband, he’s been back to his cold, dismissive, aloof self.

I feel like a pinball ricocheting around this colossal, too-quiet house, and part of me got my hopes up about maybe having a sex do-over with my husband now we’ve sort of buried the hatchet.

And, to everyone’s surprise, not in each other’s backs.

But apparently, Patrick is so arrogant he thinks fucking me once is enough to get me knocked up.

Must be a one-and-done kind of guy. Either that or he simply doesn’t have the same kind of drive I do.

Every night, I’m haunted by the phantom touches of his fingers on my skin.

Every morning, I wake up hot, bothered, and ready to ride my favorite vibrator—which I remembered to snag from my parents’ house before we left.

That’s not the point. The point is, I feel like he’s avoiding me, and I have no idea why. And if he thinks he’s getting out of his agreement to let me escape from this gilded cage and go and do something fun , then the ax I thought we’d buried will end up sticking out of his forehead.

I can’t stay here much longer, or I’ll go crazy.

Aside from the housekeeper and a few of the staff, there’s too much testosterone flying around in this building.

I miss my friends, my girls , spending time with people who don’t have a permanent overhanging frown, a surly disposition, and a constant short fuse.

I’d even take Eabha’s constant oversharing of her sex life in granular detail instead of this.

When I push the door to the study open, three heads turn in my direction.

Crotchety Smurf, Testy Smurf, and Prickly Smurf all have cards in their hands and stacks of money on the table in front of them.

Both Liam and Darragh have glasses of whiskey, but I notice that Patrick is drinking water.

Hmm. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen my husband touch alcohol once.

Is he a recovering alcoholic or teetotal out of choice?

Liam stares at the side of Patrick’s face, and when his older brother doesn’t say a word, he offers me a bone. “You need something, Sorcha?”

Darragh drums his fingers on the table next to his glass. I’ve been in here less than a minute, and it’s already driving me daft. How does he still have all his fingers? Patrick’s patience and tolerance for his brothers is higher than I had for mine.

“I was hoping to borrow my husband for a moment.”

Patrick eventually puts his cards face down on the table and gives me his attention. “What do you need?”

I rock back on my heels. He seems disinclined to move, to leave the room and give me a private audience, but little does he know, I’m a determined little thing—or so Granny Moore used to call me.

It seems determination passed down the maternal line of the family, as Da used to say that Mammy was the exact same. “Here? Now?”

Patrick picks up his tumbler, swirling the iced water around in the glass. “It’s as good a time as any.”

Fine. We’re doing this. “I’d like for you to fulfill your part of our deal and let me go out.”

“And you need to talk to me about it right now?”

I shrug, ignoring the questioning stares of all three Mahoney brothers.

I’m not backing down from this. I don’t care that they’re in the middle of a fucking card game.

“I’d like to go tomorrow. I tried to wait for a break in play, but it’s getting late, and I want to sleep.

” I fake a yawn and stretch my arms over my head to drive home my point.

Liam smirks. “Do you play poker, Sorcha?”

As a matter of fact, I do. Da sometimes let me play when the stakes were low, and my brothers used me to help them practice for the more important games where they won more than sweets. “Yes” almost slips out of my mouth, but Patrick’s glower makes me shake my head instead. “Not well.”

Patrick taps out a beat on his hand of cards, still lying on the table. “And where is it that you would like to go tomorrow, mo mhuirnín ?”

The pet name makes Darragh’s brows jump. He has a terrible poker face.

I fold my arms, readying myself for a fight. “Out.”

A muscle in Patrick’s cheek twitches. “Out where?”

“Does everyone in the house have to log their whereabouts with you at every minute of every day?”

Liam hisses a breath out through his teeth .

“You said I could go out as long as I took a babysitter. So, I want to go out.” I’m being petty, and petulant, but I don’t care. He’s treating me like a stranger, and if this is the only way to get a reaction from him, then so be it.

Patrick takes a sip of water. “Not everyone, but I’d like to know where my wife is going to be.” His voice is level, almost indifferent, like he doesn’t give a flying fuck where I’ll be.

“I want to get my nails done. They’re starting to grow out after the wedding.”

Silence.

“And I’m overdue a sports massage.” Understatement of the century considering the rocks that now live in my muscles. I roll my neck from side to side.

He fixes me with a hard glare, and I open my mouth to call him all the lying fuckers of the day. “But you said?—”

“Okay.”

My words die on a squeak. “What?”

“As agreed, you’ll have a bodyguard, but Garrett’s wife, Rosanna, will go with you as well.”

Another condition tacked on without warning. I grit my teeth. “Who are Garrett and Rosanna?”

Liam’s got a grin on his face that tells me he wishes he’d brought popcorn to our exchange.

“Garrett is one of my senior captains.”

When I open my mouth to say I’ll have my bodyguard with me, he holds up his hand. “You will like Rosanna. She’s a lot like you.”

I snort. “How do you know? You don’t even know me.”

Patrick sighs. I’m surely on borrowed time before his patience snaps. “Don’t you want to make friends? To look at someone other than the three of us?”

Liam’s grin grows. “Speak for yourself. Some of us are quite nice to look at.” He brushes a flat palm across his shoulder.

“I have friends,” I press. And I do, or at least did. Shit. Did Patrick’s destruction go a step further than blood relations? I almost smile, because if he did have someone kill Eabha, she’d have dragged them to fucking hell on her way down.

“Those are McCarthy friends, from your past. Your new friends will be part of your new family, our family, our future.” His tone suggests there’s no room to push back, and if his facial expression didn’t telegraph his impatience, the fact he picks his cards back up tells me that the conversation is over.

My chest aches at the idea of never seeing my girls again and for them to live the rest of their lives not knowing what happened to me.

One of these days, I’ll get access to the internet and try to contact them that way.

Whatever happens, I’m not giving up. I refuse to accept that their faces will only ever live in my memories.

“Those are your options. Go out with Rosanna or stay here.” He tosses a bill onto the pile in the middle. “Call.”

And just like that, I’m dismissed once again. As I head upstairs to bed, I resolve to have a taste of normality with my new mafia-approved bestie, Rosanna. Maybe I’ll pick up some new shoes and find a greasy cheeseburger while I’m at it.

Tomorrow, I get to escape the clutches of my husband for a few precious hours, and I’m determined to make every second count.