Page 40 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

There’s something peaceful about being awake in the dead of night. For some reason, this mammoth old house feels different when everyone’s asleep.

The formal drawing room has become something of a sanctuary to me since I discovered it a few days ago.

It’s after one in the morning, and I’m curled up on an oversized maroon leather chair, with a blanket covering my legs, and Titan—the not-at-all-terrifying guard dog who can kill on command—is snoring softly at my feet.

Dinner with Patrick’s friends was—dare I say it—fun, especially after he sent Andrew “the Mood Hoover” home.

But when I got back to the house, I tossed and turned for over an hour, unable to resolve the man I saw among his nearest and dearest with the monster who slaughtered my family in cold blood.

It’s like he’s two different people, and I’m not sure which one is the real Patrick Mahoney.

After I finished The Taming of the Shrew , I picked up The Count of Monte Cristo , and now I’m onto Les Misérables .

Perhaps subconsciously, I’m on a redemption kick, looking for guidance from literature of old on how to, if not forgive Patrick for what he’s done, maybe to at least, one day, learn to fully accept it.

If the roles were reversed, Da would have done exactly what Patrick did, and I’m honestly not sure what I think about that.

A creak from the doorway pulls my nose out of my book. Patrick stands with yet another unreadable expression on his face. He’s leaning against the doorframe, shirtless, arms crossed like he’s been there for some time, and wearing low-slung gray tracksuit bottoms.

I didn’t think Patrick Mahoney was the kind of man to even own a pair of gray trackies. But they work for him, and the warmth circling my belly says they’re working for me, too.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you.” His voice draws my attention from where his Adonis belt leads down under the band of his trousers.

I place my bookmark between the pages, close the book, and set it on my lap. “Can’t sleep?”

He shakes his head. “I see you are having a similar issue. Would you like some tea?”

“That depends. Are you going to wake up some poor sod to make it for me?”

The edges of his lips pull upward. There are few things I love more than making Patrick smile. He suits it, even if it’s not something he does often.

“I am perfectly capable of boiling a kettle.”

I snort, moving my blanket to the side and standing to stretch. “Prove it. Because I find that hard to believe.”

“You don’t have to come with me.” He doesn’t move as I approach. “I can bring it in here.” For some reason, he doesn’t seem to want to leave, and I have a sneaking suspicion he has some kind of attachment to the formal drawing room.

“What is this room? It seems empty all the time so I thought it would be okay to read in here. I can find somewhere else if I shouldn’t be here.”

His face softens. “This house is your home too, mo mhuirnín . I just find it curious that the room you’ve become most fond of is the room my father used to spend a lot of his time in as well.” After a long sigh, he stands up straight. “He’d have liked you.”

It’s a rare compliment from the man in charge. “Unlike his son.”

Pivoting, he leaves my words hanging between us as he heads for the kitchen with me trailing after him. “I meant it when I said you could stay in there and read. I’m happy to bring tea to you.”

I draw alongside and bump him with my hip. “You need adult supervision to make sure you don’t burn the house down trying to make a cuppa.”

He shakes his head, but there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You really don’t have a high opinion of me at all, do you?”

My first instinct is to retort that he killed my family, but neither of us needs the audible reminder.

“It’s not that. It’s just… All I’ve really seen you do since I got here is sit at the dinner table and eat food that someone else makes and brings to you.

If that’s what being the head of the Irish mafia entails, then I can see why it’s a popular job.

” I wink at him. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t mind it either. ”

“I’d better watch my back then… before you stick Mairead’s steak knife in it. Although you probably left it in New York. I have plenty of steak knives, though, so I should still exercise caution.”

My jaw drops, mouth gaping open. How did he…?

He taps his nose, but that smirk widens. “I know everything, remember.”

I wince. “Are you mad?”

“That you planned to stab me in my sleep? No. I’d have been disappointed if you hadn’t tried to fight for your freedom. But I hope that you’re more accepting of your fate now.”

Am I? It’s exhausting fighting all the time, I know that. And things are far easier now than they were in the beginning.

“Getting there.”

He checks the water level in the kettle, then flicks it on. “I’m glad to hear that, Sorcha.”

I pull out a chair, sit at the kitchen table, and Titan curls up at my feet once more. She seems to like me more than her owner. In this house, I’ll take whatever wins I can get.

Patrick silently pads about the kitchen, and I track his movements. Am I ogling the toned muscles of his back and arms flexing under all that ink while he reaches for the mugs in the cupboard above the kettle?

Maybe.

Does his arse fill out those gray tracksuit bottoms nicely?

Also, maybe.

“Are you hungry?” He doesn’t turn to me when he asks, crossing the kitchen to the fridge.

“Are you going to cook for me?”

He chuckles. “That’s one thing you don’t want me to do for you. Much to my mother’s disappointment, I never could master how to cook. I can make a fry, barely, although not without setting off the smoke alarm. Maeve generally leaves a plate of cold meats and cheese in the fridge. ”

“Because there’s rarely a night that goes by where one of you isn’t awake past bedtime.”

Nodding as he removes the cling film from the plate, he puts it in front of me then grabs a box of crackers from a cupboard next to the fridge. After making two mugs of tea, he sits on the chair perpendicular to mine.

Curious. Before tonight, Patrick would have taken the seat directly across from me, without fail. Now he’s sitting much closer, so much so that our knees brush against each other as he gets settled.

He’s clearly tired, his eyes underlined by dark rings, his face pale, and his shoulders tense. Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Sitting here is the man behind the mafia, not the machine I see every day.

We sit in awkward silence for a few minutes. It’s as though neither of us know how to talk to the other when we’re not threatening to hurt each other, or verbally sparring, or when we don’t have the buffer of outsiders to help us, like we did earlier at dinner.

“You want to talk about it?” I draw my finger over the handle of my mug.

He tips his head in question.

“Whatever has you awake after one in the morning? I know you can’t tell me mafia secrets or anything, but I’m a good listener.”

“I’m fine.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t tell you my mafia secrets earlier, but you still heard them.”

“If you don’t want me to listen to your work talk, don’t talk about work right next to my ears.” I shrug. “We can employ a no-business-discussions rule at the table if you’ d like?”

He shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary.” After a beat he speaks again, “I really am fine.”

At the high arch of my brow, he heaves out a sigh. “I am. I knew absorbing Dylan’s business into mine would be an adjustment, and that’s exactly what it is, an adjustment. It’s just on top of everything else that it’s a little… tricky. I’ll figure it out, though. I always have.”

Over the years, I saw Da like this exactly two times. I don’t know what drove him to reach the point of looking so worn out and beat down, but I recognize the signs of a man who’s treading water.

“It’ll take time.” I cup my mug in my hands and take a long slow drink of tea while Patrick loads up some crackers with corned beef and cheddar cheese.

“I don’t really have time.” It’s almost a whisper, like he didn’t mean to say it out loud, like he’s afraid if he speaks it aloud, that may make it true.

Silence settles between us again, and on his next sigh, he meets me with a serious stare. “When I was seventeen, I almost ran from this life. Had a bag packed. Bus ticket bought. Thought I’d run away to the States, find a job and disappear. Never made it to the station.”

His admission hangs heavy in the air.

“Your da caught you?”

A headshake.

“One of his people?”

“Worse. One of my father’s enemies.”

My gut sinks. Being taken by the enemy is one of the things we’re warned about as kids. Stay close to the family. Don’t talk to strangers. Never leave where you’re supposed to be unless you have someone with you .

“My father eventually got me back, but it was a harsh lesson learned well.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because, it’s important. I hope we’ve reached a truce and that you’ve accepted your place in this family and in my life, but I need you to truly understand the importance of staying inside the lines. People will take any opportunity to get to me—including using you.”

“Careful now, Patrick. You almost sound like you care.”

His eyes darken. “I do care.”

“Aye, because if I go, so too does your fortune and infamy.”

He gives a half shake like that’s not the reason, but he doesn’t say anything else. He takes another drink of his tea, his eyes swirling with a myriad of emotions like he’s tangled in a web of his own thoughts.

“I’ll do anything to protect what’s mine, whether that’s possessions, or people.”

“At what cost, though?” The urge to cover his hand sitting next to his mug with mine makes my fingers twitch.

“Is there a cost too high to keep those you love safe?”

It’s my turn to sigh. “But what’s life without a little fun , Patrick? It’s no life at all.”

A lazy grin spreads across his face. “You sound like our Darragh. The curse of the youngest child, never giving a shite about anything other than having a good time.”

“I’m not the youngest though, Cathal is.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot. You act like the youngest so it’s easy to assume.” He eats another cracker. “Did you ever take dance lessons?”

It’s a strange question. I’m not sure where it came from or where he’s going with it. “No, but I think my brothers did. ”

Patrick nods. “Makes sense. The ones in line to inherit the kingdom are educated in things that may help them in their future role.”

His explanation sounds quite ridiculous. “And you learned to dance because mafia bosses need to be able to bust a move?”

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, and I soak up the sound. I like it. Maybe a little too much.

“The dance floor is a great place to have conversations you don’t want people to hear.

Loud music, lots of bodies in motion. If someone stops to listen to what you’re saying, it’s easy to spot.

Wives and girlfriends pass along messages.

” He’s making sense, but I still can’t imagine him on a dance floor moving to the music.

I cross my arms. “Prove it.”

That lazy grin widens. “Because you can’t imagine a man with all this ink being proficient in ballroom dancing?”

“No, Patrick, because I can’t imagine a grumpy shite like you being graceful on the dance floor.”

He stands up, a glint in his eye. Retrieving his mobile from his pocket, he presses the screen a few times. Music fills the room as he extends his hand. My skepticism must be written all over my face.

“What’s the worst that could happen, mo mhuirnín ?”

I purse my lips. “Oh, I don’t know. A couple of broken toes? Or poor Titan gets her tail stood on?”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” He takes my hand and leads me onto the tiled kitchen floor. He tries to move, but my body resists. “Just lean into it and let me lead.”

A laugh bursts from me. “?‘Let me lead,’ he says. You have met me, right?” I try to follow his footsteps but instead of being graceful and light footed, it’s me who steps on his toes .

When his face crumples, I wince. “I told you I didn’t get lessons.”

“And now we know at least one of us wasn’t lying.”

“Oi!” I squeeze his hand with as much strength as I can. He doesn’t even flinch. “If you weren’t so shite at leading, I’m sure I’d pick it up a bit faster.”

He picks me up and plants me on his feet like Da used to do when I was little.

“How about you try letting me lead for a minute?”

His rebuttal is instantaneous. “No.”

“Oh, that’s right. Your need for control. Tell me, where did that come from?”

His face twists, and for a second, I get a glimpse of vulnerability. Then his mask sweeps into place. “Comes with the job.”

He’s lying, but he won’t tell me the real reason. Not today, maybe not ever.

He pulls me against his chest, one hand slides onto the small of my back, and the other holds my hand next to our bodies.

His touch doesn’t feel foreign to me anymore.

It doesn’t feel like I’m in the hands of a monster the way it used to a short while ago.

And I’m not certain how I’m supposed to feel about that.

Everything is so fucked up, so confusing.

For a few moments, he guides me around the space, long, slow, and yes, actually graceful movements around the kitchen like he’s in a ballroom. Every time he breathes in, his chest brushes against mine, making my nipples pucker through the thin fabric of my nightgown.

I let my head fall onto his shoulder as he dances me around the room. The sound of his heartbeat is soothing, the touch of his bare skin sears mine, and the longer we dance, the more my resolve to keep my pussy closed for Mahoney business wavers.

Fuck.

I’m absolutely going to sleep with this man tonight. But he’s got to promise not to be a dick about it first.