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Page 50 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

“We need to get him to the hospital.” Adrenaline pumps through my veins, making me want to sprint into the field or vomit. Maybe both.

“No hospitals.” Liam’s voice is clipped but edged with fear.

“It’s twenty minutes away, Liam. We need to go.”

He looks up at me from where he’s crouched beside Patrick.

“We can’t take the head of the Irish mafia to the local hospital, Sorcha.

Not unless it’s a real emergency. Do you know the number of people waiting in the wings to either finish him off, or take advantage of him being injured?

” He pulls off his belt, using it as a tourniquet around Patrick’s thigh.

I hold out my hand. “Give me your phone.” If we can’t go to a hospital, then there’s only one other option.

There’s no way Liam doesn’t have Patrick’s best friend’s number in his phone.

These men always need a doctor on speed dial.

Da had at least three, and two vets, in case of the most severe emergencies.

We aren’t all that different from animals, he’d tell my brothers.

If we can’t get hold of Cillian, I’ll have them take him to the local vet’s house.

Liam doesn’t react to my barked order other than to hand me his mobile. The team moves in to help Liam lift my motionless husband. I find Cillian’s number, pray he’s not working a double shift at the hospital, and hit the green button.

“Hello? Liam?” Cillian’s voice is a sleepy mumble when he picks up the phone. I jump into the back seat of a Land Rover, and Liam and a couple of the team lift Patrick inside and rest his legs over my knees. Liam passes me a shirt to press against Patrick’s shoulder wound.

“Push harder than you think you should,” Liam instructs, then slams the rear door.

I guess the team knew I’d burn the fucking car before I’d let them separate me from Patrick. Liam hops in the front seat, the driver starts the car, and before anyone knows where we’re going, we lurch into motion down windy country roads.

“C-Cillian, it’s Sorcha. Sorcha Mahoney.”

“Sorcha?” His tone shifts, like my voice poured ice water on him, and he’s now wide awake. “What’s wrong?”

Liam throws me a nod of approval over his shoulder, leans toward the driver and murmurs what I assume is an order to go to Cillian’s place.

I have no idea where we are, but if we weren’t close enough to make it, Liam would have told me or snatched the phone from me.

I take it as my sign to keep going. Unless someone comes up with a better idea, this is the plan.

“P-Patrick’s been…” I swallow, but the lump swelling in my throat won’t budge.

Tears well in my eyes, and fear spears into my chest. I shake my head, dislodging heavy droplets from my eyes.

I don’t have time for fear. I don’t have time to cry or analyze what it means that I care this much about Patrick being th is hurt.

I swallow again. “Cillian, Patrick’s been shot. We’re on our way.”

“Sorcha, you can’t come here. I’m not equipped to handle trauma. You need to have the driver take him to a?—”

“Cillian.” I cut him off, my voice so sharp Liam’s head snaps back, concern spreading across his face.

I steel my spine and inject as much confidence as I can into my voice before I let myself speak again.

“Patrick was shot twice. You know why we can’t take him to the hospital.

We’re coming to you. Figure it out.” I press the fabric down hard onto Patrick’s shoulder, and he moans. Relief floods my veins. Thank God.

He’s still alive.

At least for now.

“Okay, I’ll do what I can.”

A fresh wave of tears spills down my cheek and my chin trembles. This emotion has to be the drugs, right? It’s a side effect of what Andrew gave me. I can’t have feelings this deep for the man who so recently killed my family… right?

“Sorcha?”

“I-I’m here. Y-yes, thank you, Cillian. We’re already on our way.”

“I’m going to stay on the phone with you until you get here, okay?

” His voice softens, like he’s talking to a child, and I nod even though he can’t see me anymore than the two men in the front of this car can see me.

It’s the dead of night, we’re traveling at speeds I didn’t think cars could actually go, and my husband’s blood is staining my hands.

The realization that, if Patrick dies, Liam and Darragh might want me gone sends another flare of fear into my bloodstream.

They won’t let me go back to my friends, my life, and they won’t have any use for me around the Mahoney place either .

What the fuck happens if Patrick dies?

Yes. That’s what this is. It’s not that I’m developing four-letter-feelings for Patrick. I’m not starting to forgive him for everything he’s done to me, to my family. I’m not falling for him while still being angry, right? I can’t. Because that would suggest I’m excusing what he did.

My brain throbs from all the thinking. I can’t love this man. He’s… Patrick. It’s simply survival instinct kicking in. Without him, there’s no reason to keep me around. I’m a loose end.

“Sorcha?” Cillian’s voice and the heavy sound of Liam’s breathing fill the small space.

“I’m here. I just…” I sniff, unable to wipe my tears or nose because I’m pressing this fucking shirt into a hole in my husband’s body. “There’s so much blood, Cillian. It’s warm and sticky, and there’s just so much of it.”

“Just keep doing what you’re doing, okay? You’ve got this. Tell me exactly what his injuries are so I know what I’m up against.”

I tell him about the two wounds, the fact Liam put a tourniquet around his thigh, and as we pull into his driveway, Cillian appears in the front door, phone held at his ear.

The doors all open at once. Patrick’s team moves him from the back seat, and someone takes over pressing the wound while I climb out of the car. My legs threaten to go out from under me. Liam catches me by the elbow, helping me regain my balance.

I hold up a hand. “I’m s-s-sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

He turns me to face him, and I expect him to read me the riot act for being so stupid and letting Andrew take me, but instead, he pulls me into a tight hug while Patrick is rushed into the house. It’s quick and somehow oddly healing, and when he steps back from me, his worried eyes meet mine.

“I need you to know that whatever happens to Patrick inside this house tonight, you and Cathal will both be safe.” His tone is low, his words are even, and his eyes genuine. He’s not going to kill us if Patrick dies.

A sob slips out from between my lips before my hand can reach to cover my mouth.

“Patrick has made sure that you’ll be provided for. It’s all in his will.”

So many questions run through my mind, but before I can ask a single one, Cillian hollers from inside the house. “I need help in here.”

I take off, sprinting into the house.

“Sorcha, I need you to come over here and keep him calm until I can get him drugged.” Cillian touches his busted lip. “He woke up and lost his shit.”

Of course he did. I race to my husband’s side. He’s lying flat on Cillian’s dining table. There are a few machines and a table with supplies waiting to be used, but Patrick’s eyes are wild and unfocused, and he’s moving way too much for Cillian to safely get a needle in him, let alone operate.

“Stay still, you mad bastard,” Cillian scolds.

“Hey.” I cup his face with both hands and turn his head to me. “It’s me, Patrick. Your wife. Look at me, mo chroí . Focus on me.”

He shakes his head. “You can’t be my wife. She’d never call me her heart.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “She’d sooner stab me in mine.”

A laugh verging on hysteria bursts from me. “We don’t have time for this. Cillian needs to give you a sedative so he can save your life, okay? ”

His eyes flutter like he’s about to lose consciousness again. His skin is deathly white, and there are droplets of sweat beading across his forehead. I nod to Cillian who springs into action. He places a cannula, which is connected to a banana bag of fluids that he hands to Liam.

I kiss Patrick’s forehead. “It’s okay, just go to sleep. When you wake up, you’ll feel better.”

He’s mumbling but not making any sense, and after a few seconds, he’s out.

Cillian’s already cutting off his clothes and assessing the wounds.

“The shoulder is little more than a flesh wound. Bullet missed major nerves, and luckily, went straight through. Bullet to the thigh nicked an artery, and it’s still in there.

I need to stop the hemorrhaging, remove the bullet, and repair the artery, or, even if he survives, he could lose the limb. ”

I hug myself, but no warmth spreads into my bones.

I’ve seen every episode of ER and Grey’s Anatomy , and with every passing second, the blood turns to ice in my veins.

It’s hard enough to do what Cillian is planning in a fully functional, sterile operating room.

But on a dining table, and without access to a stocked operating room and expert staff to assist?

Fuck.

Voices swirl around me, barked orders and angry outbursts. The more they talk, the more I realize there was no other out for me. Destiny would have come calling at my door, maybe not the night Patrick shoved a gun in my face, but if it wasn’t the Mahoneys, it would have been someone else.

Another enemy, another time. Da had plans to wipe out the O’Sullivans, probably the Mahoneys too. He knew the stakes and went after them with his whole chest on their fucking wedding day. No matter how many people die, in our life there’s always another bad guy waiting to strike.

The thought sends a shudder through my body. Our life is a revolving door of war and death and strategy, like a master chess game played between men with guns and a desperation to keep them and theirs alive.

Does anyone ever win? Or do more pawns take their place?

Patrick wasn’t acting out of cruelty the night he offed my family; he was acting out of necessity, survival.

If he didn’t strike back, Da would have eliminated every one of them.

It’s the nature of the beast. Truce isn’t something that works when everyone involved is fighting for the same thing: power.

And defending that power comes at a price as Patrick’s blood on my hands and clothes remind me.

It’s not as black and white as I first thought. This life… their business, it’s all shades of gray covered in splatters of blood and silently cried tears.

I don’t have to like it, but I can’t deny I understand it. Tonight proves that even those who are supposed to be friends can turn out to be foes. Then again, Andrew always was a foe, wasn’t he? He might have been a friend to Dylan, but he has never been a friend to Patrick or to me.

My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. How can these men ever trust anyone?

This is my life now. One day, I will bring children into the world to take their father’s place when the time comes. Would I hurt anyone who threatened them?

Damn fucking right I would. I’d murder them with my bare hands, and right now they’re just imaginary, future children. I once thought I couldn’t kill another human being, but if they threatened Cathal, or any kids I’m blessed with, I’d do it without a second thought.

I can’t forgive Patrick for what he did, but I can forgive him for who he was.

He made a shit choice in a shit world, the only choice for him left to make.

Since the night he took me, he’s shown me that he might not like change, but he’s capable of it.

In small, tiny doses. Like letting me speak at the table in front of his top-level mafia brothers and not shutting me down.

It’s time to face facts. I can’t hold onto the hate any longer, to let myself be torn apart by the constant battle in my chest between my old family and my new one.

I can miss them, but I can’t avenge them.

Seeing the fury, the hatred in Andrew’s eyes, knowing he felt it all the way to his core, what it did to him… I don’t want to turn into that.

Can I really love the man who murdered my family?

My heart squeezes at the sight of the pale man lying in front of me. I’m not sure it’s love yet. But it’s nowhere near hate anymore, and it’s growing by the day. Have I realized this too late, though? Am I going to lose him as well?

I lean over Patrick, run my hand through his damp hair, and kiss his clammy forehead again. “I forbid you from dying on me, Patrick Mahoney. You don’t get to be the fucking martyr here.”

Cillian snorts behind the surgical mask covering his mouth and nose. “Not likely.”

Shit. We should have masks too, right? Or like, not be in here?

“Should we leave?”

Cillian shakes his head. “I’m not an anesthetist, and despite my best friend’s job description, I don’t keep a large amount of medication and medical supplies on hand.”

He meets my eyes as he looks up from what he’s doing. “A policy I will revisit in the morning. But if he wakes up, you’re the only person here who will keep him calm long enough for me to dose him with something. He’s not all-the-way under, so what I’m about to do is going to hurt like fuck.”

The squawks of a newborn upstairs remind me where we are, and Molly soon appears bleary-eyed, yawning, and with a well-wrapped bundle on her shoulder. Her eyes widen. “Do you need help? You should have woken me!”

It doesn’t escape me that Cillian let his wife sleep until the baby woke her, or Patrick’s wailing and the commotion we brought into their house woke both of them.

It’s such a small gesture, but I hold onto that kindness with both hands.

The man who’s fixing my husband is a good one, and would a good one really be best friends with a bad one?

Doesn’t Cillian’s friendship signal more about the real Patrick Mahoney rather than the public mafia boss he’s forced to show the world?

“I’m coping.” There’s a smile in his voice like he’s trying to reassure her, or maybe me.

Before she can answer, a machine starts beeping. I turn to find the source of the obnoxious warning that’s piercing the night air. It’s the machine attached to the little cuff covering Patrick’s index finger.

“His pulse is dropping.” Molly practically throws the baby at Liam, who looks like he’s about to protest, but considering his brother’s life is on the line, he scowls and awkwardly clutches the baby to his chest instead.

“Shit.” Cillian and Molly swear at the same time. My gut clenches. I’m scared. Terrified. I can’t lose him.

Breathe. I squeeze my eyes closed, keeping my still-shaking fingers caressing Patrick’s face, more in an attempt to soothe myself than to bring the unconscious man any kind of peace.

The machine’s beeping gets louder, or maybe it just feels that way, like it’s punching out the final moments of Patrick’s life.

“We’re losing him.”

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