The thought of her standing in this room one day, teasing me the way Layla teased Roman, laughing in the firelight with my brothers, it was almost too much to imagine. Almost too dangerous to hope for. But it settled in my chest anyway, heavy and unmovable.
The laughter started to fade, Roman’s attention shifting back to me. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing in that way that stripped a man bare. “She was one of the women?”
The question cut through the air like a blade, snapping the mood from playful to razor sharp in a breath.
“Yes. She was caged, scarred. But she’s not broken.” My voice dropped, steel in every syllable. “I’ll destroy this city before I let anyone touch her again.”
Draugr’s eyes flickered, a faint nod. He understood.
Roman studied me, then exhaled, his hand clapping once against my shoulder. “Good. Protect her. You know what she means now. But the Irish aren’t finished, and neither are the demons. Which means you can’t take your guard down for even a second.”
“We’ll hunt them all down,” Draugr said, quiet but final.
“And when we do,” Viking added with a sharp smile, “we make it slow.”
The conversation turned to logistics about what I’d uncovered, the remains of the Irish network, the movements of demons in the docks. Every piece was another part of the war. But beneath it, an unspoken truth threaded through the room, that mates changed everything. Roman had his. Now I had mine. It meant blood would be spilled until our worlds were secured.
When the meeting wound down, I left them. I wasn’t interested in lingering. My mind was already back at the mansion, back with Sorcha.
She was in the main hall when I returned, the late glow of the chandeliers catching in her hair. Soft cashmere clung to her shoulders, the pale fabric making her skin look like porcelain, the fitted jeans hugging curves I hadn’t stopped thinking about since the first moment I touched her. Her hair spilled loosearound her shoulders, untamed waves that looked like they’d been made to tangle around my fingers.
She looked more like herself already, at least, the version of herself that hadn’t been caged and chained. But the shadows were still there, faint hollows behind her eyes, the kind you only got when the world had tried to break you more than once. It made something in me twist, a black, vicious knot of rage that burned just under my ribs.
And yet, she stood there, her chin tilted with quiet defiance, as though daring the room to forget that she was more than bruises and scars. My Sorcha. Even in cashmere and denim, she radiated fire, and I knew every man in this house would feel it too.
I let my gaze rake over her, slow and deliberate, so she wouldn’t mistake my silence for disinterest. She was watching me, wary, as though unsure if I’d approve or command her to change. Instead, I closed the distance between us, one hand brushing against her hip as I leaned down just enough to murmur, “Better. But you’re still too pale. I want you to eat before we leave.”
Her breath caught, her spine stiffening as though my words were a chain she wanted to shake off. The flicker in her eyes told me she wanted to argue, to tell me she wasn’t weak, that she didn’t need me to dictate when or how she ate. But the shadows lingering there, the quiet ache in her body, the bruises still visible beneath the neckline of that cashmere told me the fight wasn’t in her best interest, not yet.
I let her silence hang for a heartbeat before straightening, my gaze never leaving hers. She didn’t know it, but every second I allowed her to push back against me was a test of how strongshe was, and how much I needed to protect her until she remembered it herself.
“Troy. Jericho. Ivan.” My voice carried across the marble expanse of the hall, sharp enough to snap the air taut.
They stepped forward immediately. My men never hesitated.
Troy, tall and lean, with a scar that cut down his jawline like a marker of every fight he’d survived, stood with his hands clasped behind his back, sharp-eyed, efficient, always calculating. Broad-shouldered, his sandy hair cropped close, pale blue eyes as cold and sharp as the steel strapped at his side. He inclined his head but didn’t smile. He never smiled.
Jericho was the opposite, he was broad, his tanned skin stretched over heavy muscle, his sheer presence screaming brute force, but anyone mistaking him for simple muscle would end up dead. Beneath the surface, his mind was as sharp as any blade, his instincts lethal. Darker, meaner, with scars webbing across his jaw and throat like a map of battles past. He was silent, but his eyes were sharp gold, like a predator’s, they now flicked over Sorcha and then back to me. A vow in that look… no one touches her.
And then Ivan stepped into view, his pale eyes giving away what he was before Sorcha could even ask. His posture was loose, deceptively casual, but the air around him carried that faint ripple of something not entirely human. Changeling. Unlike the others, he would walk her through the daylight hours when I couldn’t. He was taller than both, his build leaner, faster. His dark hair fell into his eyes, his smirk half-charm, half-warning. Unlike the others, Ivan bowed slightly, a show of respect to her.
“This is your guard,” I told her, my tone final, absolute. “When I am not with you, they are. If they give you an order, you listen. If they tell you to move, you move. Do you understand?”
Her lips parted, that spark of defiance still glowing, but her eyes darted over each of them, cataloguing their size, their scars, the quiet promise of violence in their stillness.
The flicker in her eyes told me she wanted to argue. The shadows told me she needed to.
“They’ll guard you,” I told Sorcha. “Day and night. Troy and Jericho at night when I’m not with you. Ivan during the day. He’s not a Vampire, but he’s faster than most and lethal enough to keep you alive. You will listen to them.”
Her gaze darted between them, confusion, suspicion, but also relief flickering faint in her eyes.
I stepped closer, my hand brushing her lower back. “And tonight,” I said, my voice lowering, “I’ll show you the other women. So, you’ll know I don’t lie.”
Her lips parted, her breath caught, but she nodded, and, in that moment, I knew I’d give her everything, except the choice of leaving me. I felt the tension in her spine, the uncertainty. So, I stepped closer, brushing my hand down her arm until I caught her fingers, grounding her.
“You’ll never be alone again,” I told her quietly. “Not while you’re mine.”
The drive to the safehouse was silent, but my senses were on fire the entire time. She sat beside me, her gaze locked on the dark city rolling past the tinted windows, her pulse a soft, steady drumbeat I couldn’t ignore.
