by Sam Crescent
Running was probably futile, but she had to try. She wasn’t ready to go home. She didn’t know if she’d ever be ready.
He knocked again as her feet hit the platform outside the window and then carried her down the metal steps. They creaked alarmingly, and rust flaked on the treads, but she persevered, one cautious step at a time, and rode the last few feet down on the squealing final rung.
Choosing to head up the alley, she strode rapidly toward the mouth of the narrow pathway. As she gained the street, her sense of freedom was instantly curtailed when Luke Donnelly stepped in her path.
“You’re determined, I’ll give you that.” His dark good looks set off mercurial blue eyes, now narrowed and intent on her.
Clutching her purse, she backed up. “Go away.”
“I can’t do that, Sorcha. I’m taking you home.”
“I am home. I live here for now.”
“Not arguing with you, sweetheart. My guys will pack up your place.”
Sweetheart? Her mind cast back to all those looks he’d given her of late, and she panicked.
“No.” She cast a look around and opened her mouth to scream when he grasped her forearm.
“Don’t. Some Good Samaritan will come to your rescue and regret it.”
Heart pounding, she swallowed against a dry throat and begged, “Please. I’m happy here. There’s nothing at home for me.”
A raft of emotions washed across his face, too quickly for her to interpret before his lips tightened. Even set in a thin line, it was a beautifully shaped mouth. “You’re going back.”
Desperate, she yanked her arm free and tried to run, only for him to grab her other arm and drag her body against his. Past her fear and anger, the heat of his muscled chest and the spicy scent of him assaulted her senses. “Let me go.”
Spinning her, he guided her along, using his superior height and strength to move them to a large vehicle double-parked in the street outside her apartment. He tugged the purse from her fingers and tossed it into the back.
“Put your seatbelt on, Sorcha, and if you try to get out of this car, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
A ghostly finger traced the length of her spine. She believed him, knowing what he was capable of, and fumbled for the clasp of the belt. Feeling weak and powerless, she fought tears and hated her lack of resourcefulness.
Her brief period of freedom withered and died, and she expelled a breath, her heart sinking to her shoes.
Luke slipped behind the wheel and cranked the engine over. She watched him through cracked lids, distantly noting his good-looking profile before she turned away. Her arms ached a little where he’d restrained her, and she knew she’d be black and blue. She bruised like a peach, compliments of her Irish heritage.
Maybe her dad was sick or something and hadn’t wanted to tell her. “Why?”
His big hands competently steered the SUV through traffic. “Your father will tell you what you need to know.”
His tone discouraged any further questions. Asshole.
The miles flowed by as they left the city and she made and discarded plan after plan, knowing she wouldn’t get ten feet before he’d be on her. Luke was known within the Family as the Hunter, and it was no misnomer. For some reason, he’d been sicced on her.
“My father didn’t stop me from leaving to move here.” Her dad hadn’t been pleased with her decision, but he’d acquiesced to her acceptance to Dartmouth paid for by her mother’s parents’ trust. “So, what changed?”
“He’ll tell you.”
Her belly rolled as she mulled over the possibilities.
The rest of the trip was completed in silence, with her viscerally aware of the man sharing the confines of the vehicle. He’d always been part of her life, if primarily on the periphery, and she could admit to entertaining some naughty thoughts about the Hunter as she got older.
There were other men closer to her age within the Family, but none held a candle to his broad, muscular frame that was deceptively graceful. And his face that belonged on a Roman coin. But Sorcha knew danger when she saw it, and with Donnelly, she’d be in over her head.
When they pulled up to her family home, she reached for her purse, searching for her phone. She hadn’t dared defy him by taking off her seat belt to locate it earlier. She checked for texts and smiled at a couple from Anya.
“Someone calling you?” There was a bite in Luke’s tone, and she looked up, wondering at it.
“A friend at school.”
His darkening eyes made her close the app and tuck the phone away. What was that about? He motioned her into the house after pulling open the door. Her father rushed to put his arms around her.
“I’m so glad you’re home.”
Hugging him back, she said, “Mr. Donnelly told his men to pack up my apartment. What’s going on?”
Her father wouldn’t meet her stare. Luke watched them both, an enigmatic look on his striking face. She wished she were as capable of masking her feelings.
“Dad?”
“You wouldn’t comply, Sorcha. I explained. But you were determined—”
“To go to college. You agreed. I’m taking classes! I have a place to live and a job! Dad, I’m settled in.” She hated her pleading tone in front of Luke.
He lifted a hand, strain showing on his features. “And now I find I can’t allow it. You’re part of this Family. You need to remain here. It’s not…” He swallowed and looked at Luke but didn’t expand.
She couldn’t control the faint shudder that overtook her at his words. She’d been born into this world because her mother loved her father beyond all else. Yet her mother had supported her in taking a different path, but it seemed the Family had a different plan for her.
It was a bitter pill to swallow, but she understood implacability when she faced it, especially given Luke’s presence. She hated her father at that moment. “Then I guess you’ve won.”
He met her gaze then, and she marked the relief—and the sorrow.
Her optimism abruptly resurfaced. If she went along, there might be another opportunity to leave… “So, what’s up?”
His gaze again drifted away, and the breath caught in her throat as she intuited the worst was to come.
“Luke has spoken for you as his bride.”
Her brain seized, and with it, her ability to speak. She felt Luke’s stare, the weight of it a tangible thing. She stared, trying to read him, and swallowed against the smoldering passion he wasn’t making any attempt to hide.
She sucked in oxygen and forced the words out. “You’re giving me to him?”
Her father flinched. “You need to be settled. Here. And safe.”
Safe? She focused on settled. Which, in the Family, meant compliant, then pregnant, keeping hearth and home. Her gorge rose. Donnelly, past her adolescent fantasies, was obviously an inflexible asshole, impervious to requests or negotiation. And full of lust. She wouldn’t have a hope of getting away, and she grew so lightheaded with a rush of emotion that Luke moved to take her arm.
His touch reminded her, and she pulled away. Reaching to tug at her shirt, intent on lashing her father’s conscience, she yanked it over her head. Standing in her jeans and a lacy pink bra, she glared at her father.
His eyes flared, and his face paled. “Sorcha!”
Backing away, she twisted her arms to better display the bruises. “That’s the kind of man you just gave your only child to.”
He whirled on Donnelly, who said, “I restrained her when she would have run down the street. Nothing more.”
She watched her father weigh the words, his stance relaxing. “I know you, Luke. But she’s precious to me.”
With a solemn nod, Donnelly held out his hand, and the man she would never again call father shook it. She’d been … bartered. On a freaking handshake!
“Put your shirt on, Sorcha. I have things to attend to,” Luke ordered.
Her silent refusal rang out, and her mother’s husband stooped to gather u
p the fabric and offer it to her.
“Whores require clothing now?” she asked.
As she anticipated, her husband-to-be was spurred into action. But if she’d hoped for a public example of his anger, some sort of punishment to make her father think again or at least feel guilty, she was disappointed. He took the shirt from her betrayer and efficiently dressed her as if he did such a thing every day. His touch was impersonal if the banked fury in his eyes was not, and she froze in place.
Her father stepped toward her. “How could you even begin to infer that? Our women have their place amongst us, Sorcha. An important one. You have only to think of your mother!”
Knowing they would be the last words she’d speak to him, she glared at the man who’d had her mother’s heart. “Don’t mention my mother in my presence. She wouldn’t forgive you either.”
She grabbed her purse as Luke bundled her from the room, but not before she saw her words hit home. Her father’s misery mirrored hers.
“He’s your only parent. Your only surviving family,” her future husband gritted. “You’re destroying your relationship.”
What was there to say? In truth, she’d been alone since her mom died—was murdered—and came to understand her worth as a female in this world.
With an exasperated huff, he pushed her back inside his vehicle, where she slumped in the leather seat.
Chapter Two
Luke gripped the wheel tightly, mentally reviewing that … scene. He’d struggled with a hard-on from hell, brought on by beautiful Sorcha Kenniston filling his vision with flawless, silky skin. Round, full breasts barely restrained by a scrap of lace were forever emblazoned on his brain.
Until he’d seen the reddened, blue-black marks on her arms. Bruises he’d put there. It wasn’t like the handprint on a woman’s fair, upturned ass administered in sex play, a mark that always turned him on. His erection had flagged instantly, and he’d been furious with himself, but he’d somehow managed to reassure old Niall.
Luke might be the Family’s Hunter, which meant doing some unsavory things, but he didn’t abuse women. Ever. And he’d wanted this particular woman for what seemed like forever.
“I’m sorry I hurt you. I forgot my strength. It won’t happen again.”
She stilled, her hands ceasing their tiny forays over her purse, but she stared out the side window, giving him her perfect profile. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I don’t hurt women.” A tiny shoulder lift said it all. Made him grit his teeth and change tactics. “I want the wedding within the month.”
“Seeing as I’m going to be living with you, why bother?”
“I want a wife, not a mistress. And we won’t live together before our vows. I’m taking you to my sister’s.”
He didn’t like the speculative look in her eyes when she swiveled her head and regarded him. “Your sister’s.”
“Morag. She’s expecting you. She’ll help you plan the wedding. And before you think you’ll find a way to—” He didn’t want to use the word escape because the idea of his future bride being his prisoner didn’t sit well. “I’ll have men on her house.”
Turning away, she said, “I’m not going to plan the wedding.”
“Sorcha, try to get your head around this.” He signaled and took the road to Morag’s country home. “It’s a done deal. You’re to be my wife. You’ll be safe.”
He shut his mouth. He’d already said enough on the matter. Niall had been granted some latitude in his decision to allow Sorcha to attend university, but that leeway had been swiftly reversed when certain information came to light. Not that Luke would worry her with that.
The head of the Family wasn’t mentioned. There was no need. Luke had been granted the right to claim Sorcha, and it wasn’t like she could appeal. Sean Flanagan had traditional, cemented views on gender roles, something that currently suited Luke, but he could appreciate the antiquation from Sorcha’s viewpoint. Except it was now in her best interest.
“I don’t even know you. And I don’t want to.” She was closing herself off, her body language saying it all.
“You know me. We all know one another within the Family. You’re simply upset.” Even as the words left his mouth, he wished he could recall them.
Her eyes held tiny shards of murder. “I don’t like what I know, then.”
He’d asked for that. He took another tack. “All women want a say in their wedding. The dress and other stuff.”
“Not this woman. I don’t want this marriage. I don’t want you, and I certainly don’t care about a dress and … stuff. Besides, you’re too old for me.”
Her jab didn’t penetrate because he doubted someone younger would be a match for her. And whenever he looked at her, the intervening years fell away. “You can talk to Morag.”
“Sure.”
Maybe his code could be altered to include marking this woman’s ass with a slightly heavier hand—and not in sex play but in discipline. He shelved that dark thought and got out to where Sorcha already stood, clearly eschewing any attention.
“From here on, you’ll wait for me to help you out of any vehicle.”
A brief staring contest ensued, a silent struggle he won, but only because she rolled her eyes. “Already it starts,” she muttered.
“I take care of what’s mine.”
Something flared in those emerald eyes, and he thought he saw her shiver. “Of course you do.”
He wanted to ask her to give it a try, to give him a try but recognized the futility. She wasn’t ready to be reasoned with, not after Niall had allowed her a taste of the outside world. He cursed under his breath. A woman with a degree was admirable—he wasn’t a dinosaur like Sean. But circumstances hadn’t allowed it.
She stalked to where his sister was waiting. Perhaps her enmity wouldn’t extend to Morag. His sister greeted Sorcha graciously, and his not-so-blushing fiancée was indeed civil.
Morag drew them both inside, smiling. “I’m happy to have the company, what with the boys away at school.”
He winced, and Sorcha stiffened. He wished she would consider the alternative as well. She knew the inner workings of the Family, understood what was expected in a way no outsider could, and no amount of education would change that. She could make the perfect mate.
“Thank you, Morag. As long as I’m not putting you out.”
“Not at all. I know your mother’s … gone, and I’m honored to help with my little brother’s wedding.”
Sorcha smiled, a faint upturn of her full mouth, no emotion lightening her green eyes. “I actually need to make some calls, if that’s okay.”
Morag looked between them. “Of course. I’ll show you to your room.”
Luke interjected, “I’ll show her, Morag.”
Gently grasping her elbow, he escorted his rigid fiancée to the room his sister had prepared. It was spacious and boasted lots of natural light, something he figured would be wasted on Sorcha, given her dark mood.
“Who are you calling?” he asked.
He watched her debate answering. “My job. I need to let them know to find someone else.”
“Are you owed money?” He would arrange to get what was due her.
“They’ll keep it without two weeks’ notice.”
Her dialogue was crisp and factual, but he again marked the tension in her body, the way she avoided looking directly at his face, and how she kept her distance. He wondered if, beneath her anger, she was aware of him as a man. His knowledge of women suggested she was, but her ire blurred his assessment.
He had waited for her to become the woman that she was now, three long years. He’d lived like a monk, unable to stir up desire for anyone but Sorcha, and now his dream was about to come true.
He listened as she talked to someone named Dirk, apologetic and appeasing, but not subservient. She explained it was a Family emergency. Was that how she truly viewed his suit? He grimaced. Luke Donnelly dealt with facts, not fantasy, and here he was deluding himself.<
br />
If only he’d spoken up earlier, he could have courted her, won her. But it was what it was, and he enjoyed a challenge.
Watching as she tapped her phone, he eased closer to see her pull up her email.
She tilted the device away. “Excuse me. I’m letting my student advisor know I require a leave.”
He set his hand over hers. Gently. Carefully. She finally looked him in the eye, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. Her eyes glowed greener with something he dared hope was awareness of him past her anger and disappointment. “What?”
“You won’t be returning, sweetheart.”
“You don’t know that.” But the resignation that dampened the glow told him her optimism was fading fast.
It nearly killed him to trample her hope, but he was of the school that it was better to be cruel to be kind. “I do.”
The flush drained from her face, and her throat worked against a swallow. “Right.”
“As my wife, you’ll be a princess in my home, loved and wanted and protected. Hopefully, we’ll be blessed with children. What you choose to make of it is your choice.” Sorcha would be pure, simply by dint of where she grew up and the school she attended. But it was the idea of her carrying his child that tightened his throat.
“There is no choice.” Every syllable was laced with venom and bitterness.
“You can choose to make it a happy life. Or not.”
“What? Happy wife, happy life, no?”
Managing not to flinch at the accuracy of her words, he inclined his head. “I’ve heard that said, but the opposite surely applies. You have one month.”
He walked away, knowing whatever he said would be twisted and used against him. He thought he should confiscate her phone and laptop but gave a mental shrug. If she schemed to leave, she wouldn’t get past the property line. And where would she go that he couldn’t find her? She had no real connections in the outside world, surely hadn’t had the time to forge them.
He’d waited a long time for her, and giving her up wasn’t an option.
