Page 49 of Stolen Rebel

“You just don’t appreciate my skills, Sorch.”

Patrick takes a step closer. “Sorcha.”

That one word is a warning. The kind he uses when he’s trying not to lose his temper in front of me, which is almost worse than when he actually does. He jerks his head at his brother. “We’ll talk later.”

Darragh meets my gaze and mouths a sympathetic “good luck” before tucking tail and leaving. Coward.

I sigh and push off the counter. “She’s terrified, Patrick.”

“So, Liam is right. She’s hiding something.”

We both sit at the table, with steaming mugs of tea cradled in our hands. I should maybe have sat beside him instead of across from him, because all I can do is bite my lip so as not to groan at those forearms taunting me. Not. The. Time. Sorcha.

He doesn’t miss when I press my thighs together, and to his credit, he doesn’t pull me over the table to do me right there.

“Yes. She’s hiding something.” I reach into my pocket and pull out the burner, setting it between us like it’s a grenade. “And this is part of it.”

Patrick doesn’t touch it. “She had that on her?”

“She did. And before you ask—no, I haven’t given it to Liam. Or told him, and I’d prefer if you didn’t either.”

Patrick keeps his gaze on the phone for a long moment, then he looks at me. “Why?”

“Because I like my brother-in-law alive.” I go with being blunt. Patrick isn’t a beat-about-the-bush kind of guy. “And because if Liam gets his hands on that, he’ll do what Liam always does when he’s hurt.”

Patrick’s cold stare is replaced by understanding. “He’ll go to war.”

“Exactly.”

He slides his glasses from his head down onto his nose, and it takes all my strength not to whimper. What is it about a strong, tattooed mafia boss with rolled up sleeves and reading glasses?

“Does it have numbers saved?”

“One, a girl’s name.” I flip it over. “It’s a cheap thing. No passcode either.”

Patrick picks it up and turns it in his hand, studying it like it might contain everything we need to know about Rowan. “Did she say who it’s for?”

“She didn’t.” I pause. “Not directly.”

Patrick’s eyes lift. “Sorcha.”

I blow out a breath. “She said if she doesn’t message this person tomorrow, people will die.” I hope to God I’m doing the right thing trusting my husband with this. I hold up a hand. “I won’t let you hurt her, Patrick. She’s a sweet woman, scared to death. Whatever she’s into is clearly scarier to her than you and your brothers. That says all it needs to.”

The air in the kitchen changes, like the temperature drops by five degrees. Patrick’s fingers tighten around the phone. His gaze flicks toward the hallway. “She told you that?”

“She didn’t want to,” I admit. “But she’s at breaking point. And whatever is happening… she thinks it’ll land on Liam. On all of you. She said something about him using his leverage. Small stuff but next time it’ll be bigger. And that he’s someone powerful who’s been building a case. That he’ll come with warrants and evidence.”

His expression shifts. A subtle, dangerous thing. The kind that makes me remember exactly who he is when he isn’t being my husband.

“And you believe her.” It’s not a question.

“I do.”

“Why?”

I hesitate, and for the first time tonight, I feel something like fear crawl up my spine—not because of Patrick, but because of what it means if I’m right.

“I know what a woman in love looks like, Patrick.” My cheeks heat.