Page 37 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

As soon as the study door closes behind me, I take off.

I don’t care if I’m supposed to tell someone that I’m going outside.

I don’t care if he lets the murder dog loose on my heels.

I need air. I need to get out of this building where I can simmer in self-loathing in, well, not private exactly, but as close to it as I can manage.

As I hurry down the steps leading into the gardens, I mentally kick myself.

What was I thinking? Rambling to Cathal about how we’d be free someday.

Did I mean free from my husband? Or freeing my brother from the facility?

It doesn’t matter to Patrick, he heard what he heard and reacted how he reacted.

No room for dissent, no room for ambiguity, no room to fucking explain myself.

This man lives in absolutes, binary, zeros or ones, this or that, with no shades or depths, nothing beyond the walls of duality.

It’s a safety measure. Da was the same in many ways, but Patrick’s need to be in control of every damn thing, to never appear weak, to let “the job” dictate his every move means he’s strangling his own potential. His growth.

Regardless of what I said to Cathal, or my intentions behind it, Patrick and I both know that there was never a chance of me actually escaping from him. He’s making sure I don’t even think about trying to escape. Well, suck on this, arsehole. You can’t control what someone dreams about.

As far as I’m concerned, his reiteration of threats was an unnecessary flex, but to Patrick, fear and control are his main methods of governance.

I’m not even angry at his blathering about Cathal and being his bullying bastard self. That’s just who he is, but I am beyond furious that he used me and dismissed me. Again. And after he promised he wouldn’t treat me like that again.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice. Well. Let’s just say my knees are staying closed to my husband for the foreseeable. I’m not letting him make me feel like… this for a third time.

I rub at my chest, shame sticking to my skin in the cool evening breeze. Where the hell was my self-respect? Where was my voice, my demand before I sucked him off that he wouldn’t simply take what he needed from me and discard me like yesterday’s rubbish?

Spurred by a hurricane of hurt and hellfire in my veins, I huff my way through the flower beds to the orchard.

It’s too dark to read, but maybe not to kick off my shoes and touch grass.

And hopefully, after a few minutes of pacing between the apple trees, I’ll feel less inclined to beat that fucker to death with my shoe.

I wish I’d taken Mairead’s steak knife back with me on the plane, but I wasn’t sure whether or not Patrick would have me searched for contraband. If I had it in my grasp tonight, I might go back in there and cut off his dick to prove my point.

It was naive of me to think that something would shift after we got married or something else would shift when we had sex for the first time.

There’s no affection for me in him. I’m literally a cum receptacle, something to dip his dick in, but if he wants to keep doing that, he’s going to have to change.

This pussy is closed until further notice.

“Want a smoke?” A voice scares the life out of me, making me squeal.

It’s not pitch black yet, but I didn’t see anyone else out here on my rampage through the flowers.

I cover my mouth with both hands to drown out my noise because the last thing I want is for a team of armed men rushing out into the garden. Or worse, Patrick.

I’d rather take my chances with whatever sinister creature’s lurking in the shadows than my husband. The irony is something else.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Andrew, Dylan’s underboss, leans against a tree, cigarette in one hand as he holds out an open pack to me.

I look over my shoulder for signs of a chaperone.

No one is here, just us. And based on what I saw in New York, I wish there was someone.

I don’t trust Andrew and I don’t fucking like him.

Anyone who’d spur someone on to beat their wife is no friend of mine.

“You didn’t,” I lie.

Andrew pushes off from the tree trunk and walks a few feet toward me. “Are you okay? Did something happen?”

I back up. “N-no. I’m fine, th-thanks.” Andrew is an untrustworthy prick who hates Patrick with every fiber of his being.

It’s not a guess. The man has a truly awful poker face.

It doesn’t take a lifelong-trained mafia genius to figure out why either.

He wanted Dylan’s empire, and now that Patrick has it, he’s butthurt.

Well. I’m not giving him any fuel against Patrick. He may be a shit husband, but he’s my husband all the same.

Andrew takes another step toward me. Again, I step back.

“Are you sure? You’re shaking. Or… vibrating with rage. I can’t quite tell.” He holds his hands up, cigarette glowing between his fingers. “If the urge to kill strikes, I request that I’m not the victim.” There’s warmth and humor in his voice. All fake. “I get it.” He shrugs.

Bet you don’t.

“I’m a stranger you’d rather not share feelings with. But surely there’s someone in that big old house you could confide in? A problem shared is a problem halved and all that.”

He’s talking more than I’ve heard him talk in the short time I’ve known him, but I can smell a ruse that stinks of horseshit. Whatever I say, he’ll use against me. To many men in this world, women are a means to an end.

“I know what it’s like to be here against your will.”

I suck in a breath and don’t let go. If he’s going to share dirt on the Mahoneys, I’m all ears. But he’s not getting anything out of me in return.

“They’re treating me like an outsider, not the boss’s right-hand man.

” There’s bitterness in his voice that sounds like it shouldn’t be ignored.

Something inside my bones tells me I need to warn Patrick about this man.

The way he spat out that sentence is more than him sharing his feelings.

There’s retribution threaded into every syllable.

“For years I did everything but wipe the man’s arse, and this is what I get for my trouble?

” He waves his hand at the tall perimeter wall that encloses the Mahoney property.

“And now I can’t even hold meetings without a fucking babysitter.

Do you know how that makes me look?” He straightens his back, towering over me.

The urge to run surges through me. Instead, I inch away again, widening the space between us. Andrew doesn’t seem to notice, too caught up in his stream of consciousness.

“I can barely take a shit without having to report it to them.”

I glance at the house, scanning the windows. No one is watching. I’m on my own.

“Um, I should…” I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “It’s getting late.”

He looks at the house too, then returns his attention to me, hands at the sides of his head in an attempt at reassuring me. I’m not reassured, I’m freaked out. I feel cornered.

“My apologies, I didn’t mean to speak out of turn. I’m frustrated, that’s all.” He takes another drag of his cigarette before flicking it into the near distance. “Still grieving Dylan, you know.”

Even in the fading light, his eyes swim with lethal intent. My survival instincts are screaming. Trust Patrick to call off his goons the one time I need them.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, not even close.

“You understand grief. You know, Sorcha, we could be allies. We’re both trapped, both prisoners, both at the mercy of the fucking king.

” Bitterness leaks out of him. A man with revenge on his mind is a danger to be around, especially when it’s just us out here in the almost-dark orchard.

For all his faults, I have never seen Patrick come close to raising a hand to a woman or speak to a woman the way I heard that man in New York speak, and this man standing in front of me was all too eager to spur him on. That’s not an ally; that’s an enemy.

“I’d better go.” Turning around slowly, I make my way back to the house, Andrew’s stare burning into the back of my head. As soon as I know I’m out of sight, I break into a run. It’s only when I’m safely in my bedroom that I take a full breath.

However angry I am with Patrick, I have to find the right time to warn him about Andrew and hope he listens.