Page 51 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

“We’re losing him.” Molly doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular when she repeats herself, but my heart starts to shred at the edges.

Eyes still scrunched closed, I turn so I can’t see what they’re doing and focus on my husband instead.

“You can’t die, Patrick.” My whisper is the quietest part of the cacophony of chaos erupting behind me.

“Too much blood loss.”

“Can’t find the bleed.”

“More gauze.”

“Fuck, Patrick, don’t you die on my dining room table.” Cillian’s voice is laced with pain. It’s odd to hear him say Patrick’s full name instead of Ricky-boy which is what he called him at the rugby game. It’s like he only uses his forename when Patrick’s in big trouble. “Don’t do this to me.”

“Do you have a defibrillator?” Liam asks over my shoulder. No answer comes, but from the way Liam’s shoulders sag, the answer is no. If Patrick’s heart stops beating, there’s no way for them to restart it here.

With every sentence the doctors behind me say, my strength ebbs. I pick up Patrick’s hand, then press my forehead to his. The pang in my chest is grief. It’s been my constant companion for weeks now, but this time, it’s not because of Patrick’s actions; it’s in case he dies, too.

My breath comes out in short gasps as I clutch Patrick’s hand, my head firm against his. “Fight, goddammit. Be the stubborn bastard you always are and fight .” I give a watery smile. “Then we can fight when you wake up.”

Someone’s hand brushes up and down on my upper arm. Liam’s given the baby to someone else, and he’s providing me with comfort, or perhaps he’s taking it, I’m not sure.

“Call an ambulance,” Liam barks at one of the bodyguards standing somberly in the doorway to the dining room.

“But—”

Liam puts his hand up. “We’ll deal with consequences when they happen. We’ll pay off the staff, or better yet, phone ahead and get some of our people on the ground before we get there. I don’t care how you make it work, just figure it out.”

Cillian’s voice pierces the panic, and my stomach dips, making my knees flex.

Did he just say no? Is Patrick not going to make it? Is he already…?

After what feels like the world’s longest pause, I risk looking over my shoulder at Cillian. His hands are soaked in blood, the visible part of his face is flushed and speckled with sweat and red dots.

“I’ve got it. Liam, get over here. I need to transfuse him.”

“I’ll do it.” I surge forward, but Cillian holds up a hand.

“What blood type are you?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Then we can’t risk it. Liam is O positive, same as Patrick.” He beckons impatiently. “Liam. Now. ”

Less than thirty seconds later, a blood-red tube snakes from Liam’s arm to Patrick’s. I dare to voice the question racing through my mind.

“Is he…? Is he…?” I can’t get the words out.

“He’s going to be okay.” Cillian answers my half-finished question.

A cry bursts from my chest. Liam squeezes my upper arm. And the baby starts screaming.

“Everyone out.” Liam’s voice is gravelly, rough with emotion. I’m sure they almost lose each other all the time. It’s the nature of what they do, part of their lifestyle, but there was no masking Liam’s panic and fear, nor the relief threaded through his voice.

“Liam, sit down,” Molly says. “We’re going to have to take a couple of pints, and you’ll feel weak. I don’t want another patient on my hands. One Mahoney is enough to contend with. We might not survive two.”

Liam drags over a chair and sits, holding his arm down at his side, the vein bulging slightly under the tourniquet. No flinching. No twitching. Just steady, silent bloodletting—because his brother needs it.

Mahoneys bleed for each other without question or hesitation.

A shiver slithers up my spine. I’m glad Andrew is dead because if he wasn’t, and Patrick doesn’t make it, Liam and Darragh would scorch the fucking earth.

It’s another twenty minutes before both doctors are done, cleaned up, and Molly has taken the baby back upstairs.

I’ll need to send her a gift. Cillian, too.

Something huge, like a weekend away at a five-star spa hotel to say thank you for what they did tonight.

They must both be sleep deprived with the new baby, yet still they kicked arse in their dining room when I showed up with a man with holes in his body.

Cillian pulls me into a hug, pressing a quick kiss on my cheek. “It’s fine, Sorcha. He’s good. It’ll take him a while to recover, but he’ll be back to his bad-tempered, grouchy self soon enough.”

I nod, not sure whether he’s telling me that so I keep my shit together or if Patrick really will be okay. Liam’s blood is still trickling into Patrick’s veins, and his color is coming back.

“He’ll need monitoring, and he’ll have a couple more gnarly scars to add to his collection, plus he’ll need some antibiotics because my dining room is far from a sterile space.” He squeezes me again. “But he’ll live.” He pauses. “Tea?”

I can’t help laughing. It’s one of the stereotypes about the Irish that is actually factual. In all situations, emergency or celebration, the kettle goes on for a cup of tea.

“I could murder a cuppa.” Patrick’s groggy voice is music to my ears, making another wave of tears rush to my eyes.

“I could murder you, Patrick Mahoney.” I force the words out around the ball still lodged in my throat.

“That’s more like my wife.” He tries to lift his arm, but fails, then slow blinks like he’s about to fall asleep. After a couple of seconds, he glances at Cillian. “How am I doing, Doc?”

Cillian pats Patrick’s shoulder. “You’ll live. Got a bit messy there for a sec, but I should’ve known you’re too stubborn to fucking die.”

Patrick grins. “You should see the other guy.”

It takes a full three hours for the fluids, pain relief, antibiotics, and extra blood products to drip into Patrick’s bloodstream, but as the sun rises, Cillian disconnects the tubes.

I don’t know if Liam asks Cillian to leave, or they both decide to give me space, but after a moment, it’s just me and the spaced-out man who almost gave me a heart attack.

“Are you okay?” His bleary eyes blink quickly, as though he’s trying to get his vision to focus.

I run my fingers through his hair. “Me? You’re worried about me?”

He nods. “Did he hurt you?” He reaches for my cheek, exploring my still-swollen face.

“The ketamine trip wasn’t fun.” I wet my lips, my tongue getting momentarily stuck on the split. “Nor was his backhand. But I came out of it all in better shape than you did.”

“I wish I could kill him all over again.”

I squeeze his hand. “You did good, Patrick. You saved me.”

He shakes his head. “You saved me , mo mhuirnín. ”

A bubble of laughter pops out of me. “You have holes in you. You’re hardly saved.”

His palm cups my face. “You saved me from myself.”

“That’s the drugs talking. The Mighty Mahoney is medicated and talking shite.”

He shakes his head again, slower this time. “We’re going to make a great team, mo mhuirnín . You and me. Mark my words.”

Something about how he says those words burrows its way into my chest. Before I can reply, he falls back to sleep.