by Sam Crescent
“They could do far worse.”
“I don’t want to argue, Morag. I apologize. You’re stuck in the middle, as I said. I’ll keep my opinions to myself and let you get on with what’s necessary.”
“I promised Luke I’d help.”
Was that an apology? Maybe Morag was rethinking the situation? It didn’t matter. The older woman was as powerless as she was, and she was beginning to feel more and more constricted. “I keep my promises too. Good night.”
Chapter Four
As tired as he was, it had taken Luke a long time to fall asleep. He’d resorted to getting up and taking a shower, the better to cool down. It helped that he’d rubbed one out beneath the spray as well. A month seemed like an eternity until he could have Sorcha under his roof and in his bed, and all his talk of strategy to Morag was sliding by the wayside.
Sorcha’s chair—apparently the only piece of furniture she owned—sat in his great room beside his enormous leather couch. A little, flowered thing, without arms, it looked out of place, but he’d moved an end table, pleased to accommodate it. Over half his closet was empty to receive her clothes, as well as three drawers in his big dresser.
As he made coffee, he called Morag. “How’s my future bride?”
“Hold on.” He heard her moving, and then a door shut quietly. “She’s not sharing.”
“Huh. Well, I thought I’d come by later. Maybe for dinner. I understand Sorcha doesn’t have a lot of big stuff, so I’ll take her other things home in the SUV.”
“There isn’t anything to take.”
“No kidding. She needs everything there?”
“She sent the rest to Goodwill.”
There was a clear message there, one he didn’t require an interpreter for. “She’s pushing me.”
“No. She felt she had nothing that would fit in your world.”
His hand tightened on the phone. “You don’t think she’s being a brat.”
“On the contrary. She’d so adult that it’s frightening.”
“I’ll be there for lunch.” Fuck dinner. Seemed he’d underestimated the influence his girl wielded. Morag was already leaning toward the dark side.
He showered again and gave himself a close shave. There were a few business matters to deal with, but the head of the Family had granted him leave to build a relationship with Sorcha, so there was nothing he couldn’t solve via email and a quick call.
Detouring to his dresser, he opened the top drawer and pulled out the small blue box he’d placed there an eternity ago. An emerald, cushion cut, and set in platinum, winked up at him when he cracked open the lid. The stone was the same color as Sorcha’s eyes, and he’d gazed at it many times over the years, thinking fond thoughts. And a few salacious ones.
Tucking it in his pocket, he next secured his house before he headed out to his car. His anticipation grew with every mile he drove.
He let himself into his sister’s house and followed the sound of feminine voices to the kitchen. Morag was whisking something on the stove while Sorcha pulled plates from the cupboard. He soaked in the ambiance before either noticed him.
His sister gave him a smile, but his fiancée offered him a bare nod. He went to her and threw an arm around her shoulders, drawing her slender form against him. She turned her head, and the kiss he’d intended for her mouth grazed her cheek while she stood, tense and rigid in his embrace. “Hello, sweetheart.”
“Hello.” She leaned away, and he let her go, feeling Morag’s stare.
“It smells good in here,” he said, making sure his voice was level, tamping down the urge to drag her someplace private.
“Chicken pot pie. Sorcha made the pastry.”
He saw Sorcha’s lip curl, a faint sneer, and couldn’t contain his ill-considered response. “A commendable attribute in a wife.”
She continued to find place settings and didn’t respond to the jibe, and he knew Morag was mocking his strategy. He was the Family’s badass when it came down to it, and despite the rules being skewed in his favor, he wasn’t winning this game.
“I’d like a word, Sorcha.”
She looked at him then, but her face was blank. She didn’t say a word, only waited on him, and the need to stir a response, even like the desperate one of yesterday when he cut off her escape, rose in his chest. “In the other room.”
When she didn’t immediately move, he gestured for her to precede him, and she walked quickly toward the living area. There was none of her usual lithe grace in her movements that he’d studied covertly each and every time he had maneuvered into her space. Funerals, weddings, parties—they’d meant so much more if Sorcha had been in attendance.
Her current posture didn’t detract from her shapely ass or the long length of her legs, and with each stride, that Titian mass of hair bounced on her shoulders and shimmered down her back.
Stopping behind the couch, she set her hands on the top, and he nearly smiled at the obstacle she put between them. “Take a seat, sweetheart.”
Her mouth pressed into a tight line, but she rounded the big piece of furniture and settled into a chair. He chose to stand, fully aware of his need to establish dominance with this young woman. If he didn’t need her so badly, he might have allowed more appreciation for her situation to soften his approach.
“I expect civility, Sorcha.”
“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm was barely detectable. Nothing he could react to.
“Ignoring me and making faces aren’t something either of us can afford. You know how the other members of the Family will perceive it.”
Something flashed in her eyes before she nodded. “I apologize. I’ll guard against publicly sharing my opinion of you in the future.”
Anger blossomed, despite his attempt to extinguish it. “I’m fast losing patience with you.”
“Then, perhaps I’m the wrong choice.”
“I first really noticed you when you were sixteen, at your mother’s funeral. Oh, I knew the Accountant’s daughter long before, but you weren’t yet formed. You hadn’t grown into your intellect, although your vivacious personality was apparent.” He noted the pain reflected in her eyes and the way the skin tightened over her cheekbones. “I expect losing your mother made you grow up quicker than intended, but I took notice.”
“I would have thought tainting the memory of my mother was beneath even someone like you.”
His breath whistled through his nostrils as he reined in his reaction. “Don’t twist everything I say. I’m trying to explain myself. You’re spectacular, Sorcha. And I don’t mean just your looks. Are you not aware of the unmarried men who’ve taken the same interest?” And some of the married men as well, though it would take an incredibly stupid one to make a move on someone like Sorcha, considering her connections.
“And I suppose choosing the daughter of the Accountant isn’t a hindrance for you.”
“I didn’t think about that at the time.” It was the highest compliment he could give her.
Her raised brow suggested she didn’t believe him, and she said, “I don’t know what your idea of marriage is, but it can’t be what I picture.”
He knew better than to share his vision—yet. Better he help her unveil it. Luke wanted what his grandparents had, a relationship he considered domestic bliss. They’d raised him, following the deaths of his parents in a car accident, and no finer people lived, in his opinion.
He couldn’t wait to introduce Sorcha to them, formally, as his fiancée. He was certain they would approve. There were other women likely more suitable, more compliant, that he could … train to fulfill that role, but his gut had overruled his head.
At first, he thought it was incipient lust, a desire so strong he became singularly focused on the lovely young woman presently sitting straight and tense before him. But there was something else, something deeper he couldn’t label, that simmered and grew.
She was watching him, maybe trying to read his mind, so he was as honest as he could be, considering her
obvious antipathy. “I know exactly the kind of marriage I want. I hope you want it as well.”
An eye roll was the exact opposite of his former decree, and he nearly smiled when she caught herself and blanked her features. “You have no idea what I want.”
“I think I do, perhaps more than you know, yourself. In any event, I will. We have lots of time to sort it out.”
She folded her arms over her belly and hunched over them.
He moved closer. “What’s wrong?”
“Now I know how people feel when they’re sentenced to life in prison.”
Controlling his reaction, not daring to catalog the myriad of emotions her contention evoked, he replied, “Life in prison without parole, but with a loving warden and far kinder amenities.”
“You’re making a mistake.” It was both a challenge and a warning.
“I’m not.” He reached into his pocket and withdrew the box, popping it open. Sorcha glanced at it and away.
“I chose this some time ago.” He reached for her left hand. Her fingers were cold and inflexible, but he slid the symbol of their engagement onto the appropriate one and closed her fingers into her palm. “I expect you to wear this all the time.”
He leaned in for a proper kiss, working his fingers through her wealth of hair to hold her steady for a taste. Her lips gave before the press of his own and parted on a surprised gasp. He lanced his tongue inside to explore the recesses of her mouth, taking control.
Pouring everything he had into that possession, he lost himself in her flavor as she softened and responded. He fanned the spark of chemistry, ecstatic that she was indeed aware of him, willing it to burst into flame and burn away her resistance.
His hands slipped over her shoulders and to her waist, pulling her to him, letting her feel the hard need of his body. Her soft curves fit him perfectly, and he had to exercise his control not to take things further.
When he ended the kiss, Sorcha fell back into the depths of the chair, her hand rising to her mouth. His ring glittered on her finger, precisely matching the shade of her wide eyes.
His breathing under control, he reached for her arm. “We should eat.”
Chapter Five
Speechless, Sorcha allowed Luke to draw her from her seat and escort her to the kitchen.
Without a glance in their direction, Morag said, “There’s water unless you’d like something else.”
“I’ll take a beer, Morag, thanks. Sorcha?”
“Water’s fine,” she muttered and sank into the chair he pulled out for her. What in the hell had just happened? That kind of thing took place only in romance novels. So, she’d fantasized a little—now she knew the real thing.
The massive emerald glinted on her finger, and the weight served to underscore his claim. It would remind her every day, every minute, of who owned her. Did that have any appeal? Incredibly, it seemed it did. She squeezed her thighs together and fought against it.
As they neared the end of the meal, their plates nearly clean—except for hers—Luke said, “Your father called me today. He hopes to speak with you.”
She manufactured a smile and shoved a piece of lettuce in her mouth. To her relief, Donnelly didn’t pursue it.
“Thanks for lunch. I’ll be back to take you out for dinner. Seven o’clock.” He stood and sauntered around the table to kiss her cheek and then the corner of her mouth. The same, spicy scent tickled her nose, and she held her breath. “Wear something nice.”
Deciding his order didn’t warrant an answer, she stabbed the leftover pie crust with her fork, watching the pastry flake and crumble before the assault. His footsteps faded, and she heard the door open, then close.
Looking up, she met Morag’s stare. The other woman said, “Are you okay?”
She was … disconcerted. And that made her furious.
Those weeks away at college had opened up something inside and allowed her, cautiously—at least at first—to explore a less responsible part of her. Different from the proscribed life within the family. Oh, she had responsibilities, like school and her job, paying her bills, but she’d had fun. Fun had been something vastly underrated in her life, and it occurred for the first time, her relationship with her mom hadn’t been typical. Maybe not even healthy. Maybe her maturity was … superficial. She dismissed the disloyal thought.
“I’m fine, thanks,” she said automatically as she rose to help Morag.
The cleanup routine was familiar. If this was to be her life for the next month, making and taking meals, doing laundry and cleaning, hiding out in her room, she forecast her utter boredom. A dress rehearsal for married life. Don’t forget the sex. Her eyes flew wide as the thought intruded.
“Do you have anything appropriate to wear out to dinner?”
She probably didn’t, but she’d wear what she had. It wasn’t her job to please her future husband. Her hands stilled on the container she was closing. It was her job. Her role. Despair made her tremble.
“What’s wrong?” Morag moved close.
Lifting her head, she focused on the other woman’s worried face. “Nothing.”
“It’ll be fine,” Morag whispered. “You’ll see. I know Luke, and he’ll be good to you.”
That kiss suggested a physical connection, but she wanted … more. Something undefinable, but now she didn’t have the chance to find it.
“I think I’ll go read.” Before she ran screaming.
Lying curled on the bed, she called Anya, who picked up instantly.
“What’s up?”
“Just wanted to talk with a friend.”
“Would you like company? I can come right away.”
For them only just meeting, Anya was the best friend she’d ever had. “That’s not possible. At least not right now, but…”
“Maybe I can pick you up. We can go someplace and make some girl talk.”
Sighing, she turned over and stared grimly at the closed door. “I wish.”
“You just say the word. Seriously.”
“I will.” And then she peppered her friend with questions about what was happening with her, desperate to escape her tumultuous feelings.
****
Morag woke her with a light hand on her arm. It was probably coming up to seven, and she wasn’t ready for that dinner date. Her future husband would be pissed.
“Luke was called away on unexpected business.” She handed Sorcha the phone, and she knew it was relief that made her fingers tremble.
“Hello?”
“I don’t have your cell phone number, sweetheart. What is it?”
She rattled it off.
“Got it. Did Morag tell you I’ve been sent on business?”
Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry to miss dinner.” The crackle in the background told her he was on the road.
“It’s fine.”
“I’ll be back soon. I won’t miss our wedding.”
She longed to put her face in the pillow and shriek. “Right.”
“Sorcha?” The way he said her name chased away the last tendrils of sleep.
“Yes?”
“Be a good girl, sweetheart. Cooperate with Morag. I miss you already.”
“Sure.” She tapped the button to terminate the call and handed the phone back to the hovering Morag.
Sinking back, she closed her eyes tightly and felt the moment the other woman left the room. He’d miss her? She wasn’t going there. He’d miss … mauling her. Like I didn’t like being mauled. Her honest, unwelcome thought freaked her out.
****
She made the call from the deepest recess of her closet, feeling ridiculous, and was astonished when an option was presented. She packed the basics and a few toiletries, nothing more than she could fit in the backpack and comfortably carry.
Tucking her small stash of money in the pocket of her hoodie, she could then throw her purse on the bed, the emerald ring placed inside. Her last act was to memorize Anya’s number before s
he tossed her phone down. Her friend had entered into the spirit of things, not questioning when Sorcha had asked her not to, instead gleefully plotting.
She left via the sliding doors to the dining room, heart in her mouth, and she could hardly hear past the blood beating in her temples, but her exit was successful. There was no sound a human might make, no outcry.
Moving as quietly as possible, using the illumination from the moon to navigate, she skirted the house and found a small path that ran parallel to the road. She gradually made her way in the direction of the sounds of sparse traffic, feeling carefully with her feet.
This was Family territory, and anyone who spotted her would immediately recognize her and make a report. Her upcoming nuptials would be common knowledge by now. In fact, it was puzzling she hadn’t been inundated with calls from the women in the community, but then she’d been away, broken with tradition, and her friends and acquaintances would be cautious.
She gained the main road after what felt like forever, without a challenge, and moved along, prepared to duck into the bush that lined the pavement.
When she finally came to the place where the houses became more plentiful, leaving suburbia behind, it was necessary to up her vigilance. She planned to continue to the next bus stop, but her physical—and emotional—exhaustion defeated her. Pulling out some money, she waited in the shelter, hoping her chosen transportation would soon appear before full daylight broke.
Seeing the bulk of a vehicle with wide-set headlights approaching, she drew up her hood. The driver gave her a cursory glance, and she handed over the required bills. She took a seat near the back door and willed her body to relax.
She really needed her phone, but she knew Luke would use it to track her. Without it, he would have no clear direction as to where she’d gone.
Chapter Six
“She’s gone.”