Page 7 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

Everyone’s gone to bed.

At least, I think they have. Those brutish fuckers aren’t quiet when they’re conscious.

They clomp about the house like a herd of wild animals, and I swear, even their breathing is loud as hell.

It’s been silent for a while. I even assigned some “buffer time” in case someone wasn’t all-the-way asleep just yet.

A shiver dances down my spine, not sure if it’s the chill in the room or the excitement stirring in my body.

When he left me earlier, I had a cry, and frustration turned into hopelessness.

But the more I sat on the bed sniffling over what I’ve lost, what that piece of shit has taken from me, the more I thought about Cathal.

And Eabha, too. If she was here, she’d have already found a way out. There’s no situation she can’t talk herself out of (or in to), which we found out one too many times when we tried to get into our local pub as teenagers, and her cousin was the bouncer.

If she were here, she’d come up with fifty different ideas for us to break out of this place, each one more dangerous and extreme than the last. But she’s not here, and there’s no way of me contacting her, no way of letting her know I’m alive, not since that fucker took my phone.

He’s probably trashed it by now. Can’t have the prisoner calling for help now, can we? Bastard.

One way or another, I’m getting out of here. I have to. If Cathal’s still alive, he needs me, and I won’t let him down. I’m the only family he has left. That thought brings an already familiar barb of grief into my chest that sucks the wind right out of my body.

Fuck. I need to get to him.

The dumb Mahoney fucks moved me to a different room, but they didn’t think about the space they put me in. The room has one of those old-fashioned doors: huge, heavy, and ill-fitting. There’s a large, clunky lock and a gap beneath the door where it doesn’t meet the dark, wooden floor.

All I needed was a pushing implement, which the gods sent to me in the form of a paperclip stuck in a crease in the bedside drawer. “Take your luck where you find it,” I heard Eabha in my head as I dug it free.

I’ve got my clip for pushing the key out in one hand, and a wad of toilet paper that I’ll slide under the gap in the door to catch the key in the other.

It’s too easy.

I flatten out the tissue and scooch it under the door, beads of sweat prickling across my forehead. My stomach’s twisting, hope and nerves a tangled mess making me queasy.

When I think I’ve got the toilet paper shuffled far enough out to catch the key, I set to work on pushing that sucker loose.

It’s not as easy as it looks in the movies, and paperclips aren’t as sturdy as bobby pins, so I’m already at a disadvantage to all those women held captive on the big screen.

Fuck this shit.

I brush hair out of my face with the back of my arm, sweeping away the sweat and wince when I knock the staples in my forehead.

My limbs are already growing heavy, but I can’t give up.

Every cell in my body knows Patrick was telling the truth when he’d told me he’d destroyed my extended family, but I still need to escape to make sure.

Hopefully he missed the littlest, the sweetest, the best of us.

My chances of survival out in the world by myself are slim—at best—one of Da’s enemies will get wind of my survival and come after me eventually.

I’m not connected or capable enough to figure out how to start a new and anonymous life by myself, but I’ll still take my chances out there, rather than in here, with these three.

Fuck. Patrick is going to make whatever meager existence he lets me have, utterly miserable. My breath quickens as panic races through my veins making me work faster, but in my haste, the paperclip slides from between my fingers and hits the carpet.

I’m not turning the light back on, so I grope around in the dark until the smooth, cool metal meets my fingers. Then I try again.

Feels like it takes an age, but eventually the heavy key drops to the floor with such a thud my heart stops beating.

Didn’t occur to me that the damn thing would make a noise when it fell.

After a long, tense moment where I don’t even move to wipe the droplet of sweat from the tip of my nose, I ease out a long breath.

I can’t afford mistakes like that if I’m going to get out of here in one piece and back onto friendly turf. I mean, I don’t know where the fuck is considered friendly right now, but “anywhere but here” feels like a great starting point.

I inch the toilet roll toward me, painfully slowly. I don’t want to go too fast in case someone spies movement on the landing, or it makes more noise, or—I dunno, something to foil my escape plan.

Tears of relief spill down my cheeks as I pick up the key and clutch it to my chest when it finally makes it through the gap under the door. Just a little further, and the sweet taste of freedom will be mine.

Fuck these arseholes.

Scrambling to my feet, I center myself with a few slow and calming breaths. Last thing I need is to break out of this room and mess it up by breathing too loudly or tripping over my own feet or thin air because I’m in a blind panic.

I try the lock, again, holding my breath until the handle turns, and the heavy door swings open. I’d fist pump, but I might pull another stitch, so I just give myself a mental head pat and tiptoe onto the landing.

Still can’t hear a sound, just how I like it, so I pick a direction and hope that both the staircases at either end of the hall lead to the same place: the exit.

With each step closer to the front door, my stomach falls.

There are hushed voices in the kitchen, but I’m not turning back.

It’s likely I won’t get a second chance at this.

If they catch me, they’ll throw my arse in shackles in a cold, stone basement.

I bet they have a torture chamber custom built right under the kitchen.

It’s now or never.

As much as the curiosity burning through my body makes me want to eavesdrop, I can’t take the chance I won’t sneeze, or cough, or bump into something, so I continue my endeavor toward freedom.

No coat, no shoes, and nothing but a pajama shirt and pants on my body, I twist the front door handle expecting to find resistance.

When it opens with ease, relief floods my veins. They really did make it too easy, didn’t they?

I allow myself a beat to bask in the smugness of outwitting the last remaining mafia in all of Ireland, when a low growl from the bushes to my left makes me jump.

My eyes adjust to the soft glow of the porch light. A snarling German shepherd appears, teeth bared and ears pulled back.

My stomach sinks.

Fuck.

I stumble back, right into a wall. Except it’s not a wall, because fingers curl around my waist, bracing me against a warm chest.

“Ah. I see you’ve met Titan.”

I can tell without looking back that Patrick the Prick is grinning. He moves his mouth closer to my ear. “Be a good girl and sit.”

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or the vicious guard dog, but my legs are shaking too hard for me to even think about moving. The dog, however, sits and cocks her head to one side.

His hot breath tickles the skin of my neck as he stays closer to me than I’d like, his fingers digging into my waist. “She can k-i-l-l on command, too.”

A wave of goosebumps breaks out across my skin.

“Lucky for you, she can’t spell.” He pauses, his lips so close to my ear I can almost feel them on my skin. “Yet.”

I can’t bring myself to turn to look at him, even if I wanted to, he’s got me in a vise grip, there’s nowhere for me to go. “H-h-how d-d-did you know?”

He reaches around my body, places a knuckle under my chin, and lifts my head, then points at a small black box with a red flashing light mounted on the side of the house. “Cameras, motion detectors, and man’s best friend.”

My body rises and falls with heavy breaths, brushing against his chest. My hands are slick with sweat, and my wound throbs to the rhythm of my racing pulse.

What’s he going to do to me now?

My mouth is dry, and I can’t swallow the lump clogging my throat. Fear snakes its way up my spine, curling ice-cold wisps around my ribcage as Patrick stands silently behind me.

All I can do is wait for him to sentence me, to tell me what my punishment is for trying to escape.

Again.

Instead of words, his warm, wet tongue meets my cheek, and he drags it up the side of my face. “Try to run as much as you want, mo mhuirnín . You’re mine now. There is no escape.”