Page 6 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

PATRICK

Right here is why I don’t ever allow myself to lose control, to make hasty decisions. Because when I do, shit happens. And the pile of shit I’ve stumbled into this time comes in the form of a disobedient, wild redhead with a solid reason to kill me the second I turn my back.

I should have chained her to the fucking radiator like a dog.

Liam’s expression is filled with questions I don’t have answers for.

When I got back here with Little Miss Firecracker, both Liam and Darragh were out, and I figured I’d have a couple of hours to come up with why she’s not lying in an unmarked grave with a bullet between her eyes.

Just my luck.

Why didn’t I shoot her?

I had the barrel of the gun pressed between her eyes. One squeeze of the trigger, and it would’ve been lights out for the last remaining McCarthy scum. Instead, I hauled her back here, and when questioned, doubled down on the whole fiancée gig.

Shards of glass litter the thick carpet, and a brisk wind chills the room. I’ve half a mind to leave her here to freeze, but I wouldn’t put it past the desperate bitch to jump out of the window.

From this height, she’d seriously injure herself, and while I shouldn’t give a flying fuck if she shatters every bone in her body, if there’s any breakages happening, they’ll happen at my hand.

“Call Aran and have that window fixed,” I bark at Liam, gripping Sorcha by her upper arm. “And as for you.” I let go of her and shove her toward the hallway. “Just fucking test me and see what happens.”

Manhandling her like she’s little more than a rag doll, I steer her down the corridor to another room and force her inside. She stumbles, cries out, and presses a hand to her side. There’s a growing red stain on her top.

“Jesus Christ.” I grip her biceps again and sit her on the bed. She feebly flails her arms, her fighting spirit waning. I reach for the hem of her shirt.

“No.” She tries to push me off, but given the color of her, I’d wager she’s about ten seconds from passing out. Make my life fucking easier if she did.

“You’re bleeding. Stop being a brat and fucking fighting, and let me take a look, or I’ll bind your hands and feet and do what I want anyway.”

She freezes, but while the fire in her body is out, the venom in her eyes burns as fresh as ever.

I’ll have fun breaking this one. I don’t mind submission, but surrender is boring as fuck.

As much as I’d accepted my marriage to Niamh, she’d never have challenged me like this McCarthy woman will with every breath she takes.

There isn’t a single defeatist bone in her body.

When I lift her shirt, the reason for the bleeding is clear. She’s popped three of her stitches, and the bullet wound is oozing blood. I heave a sigh.

“Wait here.” I take down a heavy antique mirror and head for the door. In her state, I doubt she’d have the strength to lift it, but underestimating this firecracker again is a mistake I don’t intend to make. She’ll stab me in the back as quick as look at me.

I prop the mirror against the wall outside her room, lock the door, and jog downstairs.

As I enter the kitchen, both Liam and Darragh give me their well-practiced “What the fuck?” expressions.

Ignoring them, I open the kitchen cupboard where we keep a comprehensive first aid kit.

In our line of work, it gets heavy use. I grab two bottles of water, too.

“You can run but you can’t hide,” Liam calls after me as I take off up the stairs.

Sorcha is lying down on the bed when I enter. She doesn’t open her eyes, nor acknowledge me at all, as I kneel on the floor and open the first aid kit.

“This’ll sting a bit.” I open the top of the alcohol rub and pour a glug onto a wad of gauze. As I press it to the wound, she hisses and her entire body tenses, but she still doesn’t say a word or open her eyes. But when I thread a needle and pinch her skin together, I get her full attention.

“I need anesthetic, you dick.” She makes another attempt to fend me off, wasting valuable energy with a pointless activity. “What are you? An animal?”

“Yes.” I twist my lips. “Anesthetic is for real injuries. This is barely a scratch.” I stick her with the needle, and she screams as though I’ve knifed her between the ribs.

“Ow, ow, ow!”

“Shut up and stop wriggling. It’ll be over faster.”

“It hurts,” she wails .

“It’ll hurt far more if I punch you in the face. Now stop fucking moving, or I will make sure that you do.”

That threat does the trick. She’s not to know I’d never follow through, not on a woman. She clenches her teeth and flinches her way through the ninety seconds it takes to seal her wound and bandage her back up. I pack up the first aid kit and hand her one of the bottles of water.

“Drink. You need to replace the fluids.”

“What’s the point? I’d rather dehydrate to death than marry you.”

“Fine.” I snatch the bottle out of her hand. “Go thirsty. Doesn’t matter to me.” I unscrew the plastic cap and tip it over her head.

She squeals, scuttling across the mattress. “You arsehole.”

“Let that be a lesson to you. Don’t fucking push me. You won’t win. All you’ll do is make your life a lot harder than it needs to be.”

I’m at the door when she gives in. “Wait. You can leave the water.”

It’s cute that she says it as though she’s got the upper hand, and she’s the one doing me a favor. I toss an unopened bottle of water onto the foot of the bed and open the door. Turning back, I say, “Oh, and Sorcha? Break another window, and I will make sure you regret it.”

I lock the door and return downstairs, bracing for the third-degree interrogation that’s coming my way. There’s silence as I put away the first aid kit and pour myself a cup of coffee. But as I lean against the counter and take a sip, the first barrage of questions hits me.

“What the fuck, Patrick?”

“I thought you were going to kill her.”

“What happened? You got one look at those plump tits and changed your mind?”

“She’s a wild one. Sure you can handle that?”

“Fiancée? You must’ve lost your fucking mind.”

I’m inclined to agree with the last point, although I keep my mouth shut. After two minutes of rapid-fire questions, my brothers shut the fuck up.

“Finished?” I arch a brow.

“Only just started, brother.” Liam grins. “Sorcha’s a scorcher. Maybe we can all take a ride of her sweet cunt.”

I move fast, gripping him by the scruff of the neck and hauling him to his feet. “No one fucking touches her. You got that?”

His hands shoot into the air. “Easy. Jesus. I was joking.”

“Not fucking funny.” I let him go, shoving him back into his seat.

“Truth is, I don’t know why I didn’t kill her.

I had the gun pointed right at her, and for reasons I haven’t figured out yet, I chose not to pull the trigger.

” Maybe it’s because she seemed clueless as to what had gone down at my wedding.

Either that or she’s a fucking good actress.

Whatever the reason, I’ll get to the truth, and then I’ll decide her fate.

“So, you’re marrying her because you can’t marry Niamh?” Darragh asks.

I shove a hand through my hair. “I don’t fucking know, all right? Just give me some space to think shit through.”

Storming out of the house, I draw in a lungful of cool air and wait for my racing heart to slow.

If I’m to assume control of the U.S. East Coast operations from my terminally ill cousin, Dylan, then I need a wife.

His fucking rules, not mine. Apparently, being a family man is the number one requirement for a boss.

I’ve always thought the number one requirement was the ability to inject a healthy dose of fear into those I wish to subjugate. Still, I’m at his mercy. And I hate it.

He insisted on a wife. I found a wife who’d give me an easy time.

The family of the ballsy spitfire plotting my death upstairs murdered her, and now I’m running out of time.

The cancer eating Dylan from the inside could take him at any time, and if I don’t meet his decree, he’ll hand over a multimillion-dollar business to his underboss, a man who’s been Dylan’s right hand for two decades—and who I don’t trust as far as I could throw him.

But marrying Sorcha McCarthy will test every last nerve, and she won’t come quietly or obediently, which won’t do at all.

Luckily for me, I have leverage that will bring her to heel like a well-trained dog. When the time is right, I’ll share what I know and watch her crumble before my eyes.