Page 8 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

SORCHA

Patrick clasps my wrist, his fingers firm and unrelenting, and tows me back in the direction of my prison. I yank my arm up, but it’s no use. There’s no shaking him off.

My mind races. If I can’t get through to this man’s non-existent heart, perhaps I can reach someone else in the house. A brother, a member of staff, someone who has empathy and emotions. Someone who could help me escape.

“H-heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp! Someone help me!”

The bastard chuckles. It’s not a fun, light-hearted laugh. It’s a menacing rumble, designed to elicit fear.

My throat burns from my cries for assistance, and tears stream down my face, but still he continues his relentless march.

He tosses me onto the bed like a discarded stuffed toy: light, meaningless, disposable. Another reminder of my fragility crashing into me as my aching body crumples onto the unmade bed. I scramble to stand but my limbs are weak, so I end up on my knees on the floor, tangled in a sheet.

There’s no slamming of my bedroom door, which means he’s standing there watching me struggle.

How embarrassing. Except, when I look up, hair stuck to my tear-streaked face, it’s even worse than being watched.

He’s gone, leaving the door open because he’s so confident, so cocky, he knows there’s no way out of here for me.

It’s as though I’m so inconsequential that I’m not even worth his time. Frail, inadequate, useless. Some things never change no matter your surroundings.

My stomach sinks as realization dawns.

This is it.

There’s no great escape from this place, or these people. There’s no compassion inside these walls. My captor is a heartless, sociopathic bastard. King of his domain.

I take the only glimmer of solace left, my privacy. I crawl to the still-open door, swinging it closed with a dull thud. Pressing my back against it, I hug my knees to my chest, ignoring the tugging wound on my torso.

My options are to survive here under Patrick’s rule, or… what?

My throat dries up. Agony blooms in every space in my body, making it hard to breathe. I’ve never been a depressed person, I’ve never wanted to die, but sitting in the darkness of this fortress, it’s a thought that crosses my mind.

Shame spreads across my skin like a flesh-eating bacterium. Da always used to go on and on about how precious life is and how it shouldn’t be wasted. That I should live mine to the fullest because Mammy wasn’t here to live hers.

But how? How am I supposed to survive this without my family to help me? They might have been misogynistic arseholes with antiquated views on a woman’s place in the organization, but they were my flesh and blood. And now they’re gone.

I can’t do this without them.

I could break another window and throw myself to my death, but that sounds like a horrible way to go. And what if I don’t die? What if I end up paralyzed? I’d rather overdose, but it’s not like there’s a convenient stack of meds at my disposal.

For a moment I stare at the bedsheets. I could make them into a noose, but what would I tie them to? The light fixture?

Worth a shot.

Humiliation envelops my body as I work. Born and raised Catholic, even though I’m non-practicing anymore, I know this shouldn’t be my thought process.

And yet, the lure of not being here at his mercy outweighs the fear of being at God’s mercy.

Surely God will understand, right? He knows what a raging prick Patrick Mahoney is.

He’s far more likely to offer me forgiveness than the arsehole downstairs.

But what happens to Cathal? If he’s even still alive out there. The care facility would look after him, right? He’d become a ward of the state; the government will pay for his treatment and care. If he made it through the Mahoney murder spree, someone would watch over him. They’d have to.

But what if they don’t?

Panic seizes me, and my body thrashes in sharp, jerky movements. A couple of seconds later, the light fixture gives way under my body weight. We both tumble to the ground in a muffled crash thanks to the bedsheet twisted around my body.

I can’t even kill myself right. I am utterly useless. My last ember of hope snuffs out. He really does control everything, even whether I live or die.

My chest is so tight the only reason I know I’m still breathing is because I’m aware of the bone-deep despair consuming my body. Wave after wave of body-shaking tears fall from my eyes as I hug my knees .

Being the only daughter of the head of a sexist mafia family was brutal.

So many rules, so many secrets, so much death.

But this… this is far worse. Being here, trapped without any allies, without a single living blood relative that I know of…

being completely alone and not knowing how to fight, it’s a crushing pressure that makes my ribs hurt.

I’m not as cunning as Tiernan, or as strong as Ronan. I don’t have street smarts like Eabha or Eamonn’s power of persuasion. And I certainly don’t command the respect my father did from his soldiers.

I cry until my eyes sting, and my throat and chest burn. Emotional catharsis, letting the events, the grief of the past few days wash over me. When I’m all cried out and my body is heavy, I crawl back to the bed and settle under the covers, hugging one of the pillows.

I can’t escape, I can’t die, the only thing left for me to do… is survive. I just need to figure out how.