Page 66 of Stolen Rebel

I’m admitting nothing. “Fuck you. You’re no different. You forced Sorcha to marry you without telling her why. That’s far worse than what I’ve done to Rowan.”

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s not a competition.”

It sort of is, though. Always has been. This is how the Mahoneys roll.

“Besides, you don’t need Darragh to dig for shit.”

“Why?”

“Because I already did.” He reaches into his desk drawer. “And before you start throwing shapes, I haven’t been keeping this from you for funsies. I wanted to do a little more digging before sharing, but now that Rowan’s given you something.”

He tosses a blue folder across the desk. A pulse of electricity shoots through my chest. I stab it with a finger and draw it toward me.

Inside is a single sheet of paper and a picture of a nondescript brown-haired guy with eyes that are too close together and a nose the Romans would’ve been proud of. I scan the paper. On it is everything I planned to have Darragh pull. Full name, address, place of work, date of birth, inside fucking leg measurement plus several other pieces of information that may or may not be useful.

“How did you know?” There’s a bite to my voice, and beneath my skin, my blood’s simmering. Rowan’s my girl. It’s my fucking responsibility to find out what’s going on. Yet here’s my elder brother, always in fucking control—God, I hate how he keeps a cool head even in the middle of chaos—sitting there chill as you fucking like, presenting me with the intel I need to find out what really happened to my girl.

“Sorcha.”

It’s not an explanation, but it’s enough. I grind my teeth. “Your wife is getting above her fucking station. If she found out something about Rowan then she should’ve told me, not you.”

Patrick slowly rises to his feet, walks around the desk. Grabs me by the throat and lifts me right out of the chair. “Watch your fucking mouth.”

My blood, on a simmer until now, explodes in a fiery burst of rage and frustration and fucking injustice of it all. I throw an uppercut. He ducks out of my way, and I jerk myself free. “She the boss around here now?” I sneer, fully aware I’m taunting the monster. Know what? I don’t fucking care. A fight is what I need to take the edge off. “You been demoted?”

Patrick launches. Slams into me. I hit the wall. Winded, I land a weak punch. He lands a much harder one. My lip splits, blood flooding onto my tongue. I throw another uppercut. His head snaps back with a crack.

“Christ.” Darragh bursts into the room and leaps in between us, a hand on each chest, holding us apart. “Ladies, please, what the actual fuck?”

“Move, Darragh,” I growl.

“Yeah, move.” Patrick huffs. “’Bout time he got put on his hole.”

I lock eyes with my eldest brother, a sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. Until I catch the gleam in his eye.

He laughs. I laugh. Darragh rolls his eyes. “It’s like living with toddlers.”

“Always been the same between me and him.” Patrick returns to his seat on the other side of his desk, rubbing the back of his neck. “Almost took my fucking head off.”

“Next time.” I smirk, reaching for the folder and whacking Darragh in the face with it.

“What was that for?”

“For cutting me out.”

His eyes shift to Patrick who’s opened his laptop and begun work as though the entire argument was a figment of my imagination. “You told him, then?”

Patrick doesn’t even look up from the computer. “He basically got there on his own save a few minor details.”

I snort to hide the sting that he went behind my back. In his position, I’d probably have done the same. Still fucking smarts though. “No thanks to either of you.”

This time he does look up, gaze sharper than my knives. “What’s your move?”

“Oh, I’m allowed out of the fucking playpen.”

He rolls his eyes. “Jesus Christ Almighty.”

Something he said earlier clicks into place. “Wait. Hang on. You said Sorcha told you about Brian. How did she know?”