Page 13 of Stolen Rebel

He has intentionally stripped me of my dignity, seized every morsel of control that he could, knowing exactly what losses would hurt a prisoner the most. A flutter of anger threatens to set me off, but somehow, I tamp it down.

“You poor thing.” Sorcha takes a step toward me, but I startle and jump back, catching the backs of my thighs on the bed and plopping onto my arse.

She holds her palms up to me and creates more space between us. After a nibble on her lip and another glance around the room, she nods. “Okay.”

I’m not sure what’s okay, but nothing about this situation feels in any way okay.

“I’ll go grab you a bite to eat and some toiletries.”

I don’t answer, and she lingers for a beat before heaving out a sigh and leaving me alone with my thoughts for the first time in a few hours. I twist my hands in my lap, wet my lips, and resume my mental documentation of the room the way Brian taught me when he first brought me into the witness protection program.

I cross to the window and press my fingers lightly against the bars. There’s no give in them, not even a fraction. They’re fixed deep into the frame. A structural addition.

I step it out—bed to door, door to window, bed to bathroom. I count the paces, cataloging it all.

Erin panics. Rowan plans. But every time I stammer for Liam’s benefit, or inject softness into my voice and body for his family, the lie feels like a weight on my lungs, a performance that leaves my chest tight and my muscles twitching for the release of a scream.

If someone ever comes for you, the most important thing is to remain calm.

I almost snort out a laugh, but I’m afraid the walls have ears. The thought makes me check. I don’t see any cameras mounted on the walls, and there are no flashing lights in the smoke alarm or the built-in wardrobes.

I think of Brian’s voice, cold and clinical, warning me that the Mahoneys are like “rabid dogs.” They don’t care about collateral damage, Erin. I glance over my shoulder. Thankfully, I’m still alone. My heart skips a beat or two. I need to use this time to my advantage.

The drawers are all empty. There are no notebooks, no crossword puzzles, nothing. Fuck. Even the most budget hotels come with a Bible. But here? Everything is securely bolted down. There’s nothing loose, nothing breakable, nothing I can turn into a weapon, or use as leverage.

If it wasn’t for the imminent threat to my wellbeing, my life has the potential to get overwhelmingly boring. My lips curve into a smirk. One thing I’ve learned about living in England is they don’t have the same sense of dark humor us Irish have. More than once, I’ve said something and been met with blank stares or shocked faces.

If things were different, it’d feel good to be back on Irish soil for the first time in half a decade, but anxiety has my body in a chokehold.

While Sorcha was here, I wanted her to go, but now it’s just me, waiting, I want her back. My breathing quickens. Twisting my hands in my lap has made them achy and sweaty, and nervous energy races through my veins.

When she returns, she finds me pacing the length of the bed because it’s all I can fucking do. I should probably be scheming, trying to find a way out, but all I can hear is the thundering of my heart and the eerie silence engulfing this place.

It’s getting dark outside, but I can see enough to know the grounds span for miles.

No one will hear me scream.

A shudder bolts down my spine making my breath catch as Sorcha approaches with a tray of food she places on the bedside table and a bag slung around her wrist that she empties onto the bed with a few toiletries and a nightgown in it. She gives me a sympathetic smile, but her eyes tell everything. I’m stuck here. She’s not going to help me. “The first few days are the worst.”

I don’t fight my snort this time.

“I’ve been in your position.” She swallows like she’s buying time or trying to figure out what to share with me and what to hold back. “It’s because of me that window’s no longer made of glass.” She gives me a twisted smile as I stare at her in silent question.

“Tried to slice Liam’s throat open with a shard of broken glass.”

“You could have tried harder.” My voice comes out harsher than I meant it to. And a part of my heart can’t believe that I said the words out loud. As much as I despise him for how he’s treating me, I loved him once. Maybe I still do. And I can’t really blame him for being angry that I walked away without a word, especially when I can’t afford to tell him the truth.

I wonder what changed Sorcha’s mind to make her go from attacker to ally?

My stomach sinks as the realization dawns that it could be time. They kept her here long enough that she lost all her fight. She’s suffering from Stockholm syndrome, and she doesn’t even realize it.

My bitter statement about her failing to kill the middle Mahoney brother makes her laugh. “I think we’re going to get on just fine, Erin.”

She doesn’t say my name like she thinks I’m lying. That’s something, right? If I can convince those around him, maybe they’ll make him let me go.

“Look on the bright side. At least you have a bathroom. When Patrick locked me in here, if I wanted to pee, I had to hold it.” She grins like she’s recalling a fun time rather than having her liberty taken away. “We remodeled the house after we brought my brother to live with us, and I took the opportunity to add a few extra comforts.” She rolls her eyes. “Men are such Neanderthals.”

“Your brother is here?” Jesus. They’re acting like a real family instead of a bunch of thugs.