Page 34 of Stolen Rebel

I fight the wince at the way he echoes Brian’s words.

Two captors, two cages.

And when he turns and leaves me to shut the door by myself, the realization hits that Liam doesn’t need to threaten me tonight. He already has.

Chapter 18

LIAM

The letter Rowan shoved against my chest burns a hole in my pocket. I didn’t write this, Liam.

She was so vehement, truth swimming in her eyes. I know this woman, intimately, despite the gaping five-year hole between us. She hasn’t changed that much. No more than five years changes anyone.

Which begs the question: if she didn’t write it, who did? And the phone call, too. It was her. It sounded exactly like her. Yet it’s another thing she denied. If someone set out to make me think Rowan betrayed me, what was their motivation? To kill me? They almost succeeded, but if that’s the case, why didn’t they follow up when I survived?

None of this makes any sense.

Even if Rowan is telling the truth about the letter and the phone call, she still disappeared without a trace.

Why? And how?

My senses prickle, instinct firing like bullets from an automatic weapon, rapid and endless. Five years of believing something is a lot to unpick, and I’m not a hundred percent convinced of her innocence yet.

Should’ve set this in motion immediately, but my head’s been all over the place ever since I stole her from that pub. I’ve been off my game, but the calculating, dogged me is making a comeback.

I grab my phone and pull up my contacts, putting in a call to Kai.

“Hey, Mad Dog. How’s the captive?”

“A splinter in my fucking arse.”

He guffaws. “Shoulda known the coy, frightened act was bollocks.”

“Oh, she’s still playing that card like it’s the last one in the deck, but I’m wearing her down.”

“With what? A belt sander?” He laughs again.

“It’s in the toolbox, if she doesn’t give up this Erin shite soon.”

“Gotta hand it to the girl. She’s got balls.”

Yeah. That’s the problem. She always did. It was one of the things that first attracted me to her. She wasn’t afraid of me. Unlike every woman I’d dated to that point, Rowan stood up to me, put me in my place. Fuck, it made me hard. It makes me hard now, just thinking about it. Being a Mahoney, our reputation precedes us, and most people cower in our presence.

Rowan didn’t cower. She stood tall, challenged me, and I fell desperately in love. When she did me dirty, I buried all those feelings, told myself women were for fucking and cooking and nothing more. A lie I made up to cope with the fact my heart was a worthless lump of muscle in my chest, murdered by betrayal.

A violent tremor rips through me. If she’s telling the truth, then every hateful thought I’ve had for the last five years could be a lie.

Either she left and never looked back for reasons known only to her, or she was in some kind of trouble and chose to run instead of coming to me for help.

Rationalizing what she did and how I’m entitled to my feelings should make me feel better. It doesn’t.

“I need you to take on a project. Urgent. Everything else gets put on the back burner.”

“Shoot, boss.”

“Go back to the pub. Talk to the owner or manager or whoever is in charge. Find out everything they know about Erin Walsh: when she started work there, who her friends are, where she lives. If they don’t know, then find someone who does. Use whatever resources and tactics you need to get the answers.”

“Leave it with me.”