Page 45 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)
SORCHA
Last night, I pretended to be asleep when Patrick finally came to bed, and I didn’t curl into him like I usually do. I faked sleep again this morning when he got up to go on whatever trip I’m too uneducated to go on with him.
As soon as I heard the sound of the car kicking up the gravel announcing his departure, I’d reached for my phone and messaged Rosanna “turnip,” which means “load up, bitch, we’re going day drinking.”
Her reply was concise: “See you at Whiskey Business at twelve. First one there orders the drinks and the chicken wings. Make mine a double.”
Next, I messaged the staff group chat to give them a heads up that I’m going out to meet Rosanna.
I tell them the time, the intended location, and I even give the driver a heads-up that we’ll be taking the Saab.
Look at me being the dutiful little mafia wife, giving the security people all the information they’re going to need before they need it.
I grind my teeth, Patrick’s words from last night still echoing in my mind.
Sure, I’ve felt like a goldfish in a thunderstorm since he kidnapped me at gunpoint.
And I’ve had flashes of rage at Da for not having appropriately prepared me for the life I’m now expected to lead.
But I thought I was improving. I thought I was learning, adapting, and that my instincts weren’t actually bad to begin with.
Hauling myself out of bed, I shower, get dressed, and eat a massive fry Maeve insists on making me before I head out to go day drinking.
As I’m running my plate under the tap, Darragh appears. “Morning, Sorch.”
He’s the only one in the house who calls me that, and I’m not mad about it.
At least I wasn’t. Until last night, I was warming to the idea of becoming more familiar with these men.
They’ll never replace my family, but hating them with every fiber of my being had long ago worn me down.
Yet after hearing what Patrick said on the phone, it’s flared anew. I’m just so tired of it.
Hate is exhausting and caustic. The way it chips away at your insides, consuming like a cancer.
That’s not something I wanted to hold onto for any real length of time.
But now I know that piece of shit husband of mine was paying me lip service to get me into bed and he actually believes I’m a useless eejit, he deserves it if I go back to hating him with my whole chest.
“Morning, Darragh. Tea?” I wiggle my empty mug at him. I don’t really have time for another cup, but Rosanna will understand if I’m a few minutes late. More chicken wings for her if she gets to order them.
“Thanks, but I’m on my way down to the gym.” He’s glum, probably sulking that he’s not away with his brothers, but he offers me a smile, nonetheless. “Maybe after?”
“I’m heading to meet Rosanna at Whiskey Business for lunch.”
He gives me a sly wink. “Aye, a liquid lunch.”
“May as well.”
He heads down to the gym and I rinse out my mug. Maeve has taken to scolding me for cleaning up after myself, but I refuse to turn into a slob like the men she picks up after.
At the back door, I pull on my shoes, grab the bank cards that Patrick has left for me, and make my way out into the garage, shivering at the drop in temperature.
There’s no sign of my driver, or either of my bodyguards, but the door to the garage is open.
Maybe they’re out in the garden having a smoke.
“Dan?”
Patrick created a group chat for us to engage with the drivers and security team.
It’s only been a few days, but it helps me know who’s being assigned to me, and in some way makes me feel less of a prisoner, more of a participant.
In the chat last night, Dan had said he was going to be driving me and Jeff is supposed to be my minder.
“Jeff?” Another shiver rolls through me as I pick up the keys from a shelf next to the car and press the fob. The doors click open. My hand is on the door handle when a thought occurs to me. Why were the keys on that shelf? Dan would have them with him.
Titan’s barking picks up inside the house, and the fact I can’t see another human being is enough to trigger my spidey sense. Something is wrong.
Unease grates against my skin as I reach into my crossbody bag to grab my phone. Before I do, there’s a sharp prick against my neck. By the time I get my hand up to swat away whatever insect has stung me, my legs are already crumpling underneath me. Sound warps, light fractures—then nothing.