Page 97 of Stolen Rebel

“I think standing here imagining every possible way this could go wrong is not wise. It’s driving me to distraction. I need something to take my mind off what’s happening. Brian thinks I’m hiding waiting for him to come and rescue me like Rapunzel.” I flick my hair over my shoulders. “I’m his priority right now. Ironically, that also means he won’t be out on the street looking for me, not when he thinks he knows where I’ll be.”

Patrick studies me for a long moment.

“And he certainly won’t come looking for me in a spa.”

“A spa?”

“Sorcha brought it up once.” I roll my shoulders. I’m not lying about needing a treatment or three, the stress in my shoulders and lower back needs seeing to. “Think I can convince her to come with me?”

His lips barely twitch. He’s harder to get a smile out of than his brother. “Aye. I think you might be able to persuade my wife to go to the spa. If you twist her arm, I mean.”

Yup. This man is terrifying even when he’s being sarcastic.

“You’ll take security.”

Terrifying dialed up to eleven when he’s giving orders. “Fine.” It feels like a victory, like I got one over on the mafia boss, but from the way he’s staring at me, it’s almost as if he expected this discussion to go exactly the way it has. And I didn’t fight his terms, so maybe he’s the one who’s won. Dammit.

Patrick’s idea of security was a full team of four. We negotiated him down to two—and by we, I mean his formidable wife—a driver and a floater. One to stay outside the spa and keep an eye on the goings on near the car, and one to come in the spa and look grossly out of place with all his clothes on while the rest of us strip down for beauty services.

The Mahoney men don’t give a fuck about blending in or being subtle. It’s going to take some getting used to.

The spa is all muted lighting and soft music, eucalyptus and artificial calm. It’s quiet, which makes me wonder if that’s artificial too? Did Patrick buy this place out for a couple of hours?

Nah. He couldn’t have. There’s a group of three women in the waiting area; one’s wearing a white veil attached to a hairband and a sash that says bride. Relief unfurls in my stomach. I don’t want these overprotective men to steal my freedom again the way Brian did. I want to be able to do things like a normal person. I don’t want them closing out a business just for us to attend.

Sorcha squeezes my hand as we step inside. “This is good. You need this. Something to take your mind off what’s going on with Liam. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

I know this. I also agree that I need a different focus from what’s happening at the safe house but, weirdly, I feel guilty.

The security detail charged with coming into the spa with us positions himself near reception, pretending to scroll through his phone.

A woman in a crisp white uniform pressed into sharp edges and efficiency leads us to the changing rooms. She hands over plush robes and slippers, then leaves us, her soft-soled shoes silent on the tiled floor. We get changed and I put my phone in the left pocket of the robe. I want it close in case Liam calls. Sorcha insists on a selfie, her arm wrapped around my waist. I force myself to smile into the camera, repeating over and over that everything will work out. Liam will come back to me safe, and Brian will be neutralized.

We get manicures first. Sorcha chatters about something inconsequential, something she’s seen on TV, the weather—it’s Ireland, we always talk about the weather—everything that isn’t her brother-in-law out risking his life again because of me.

I try to join in the conversation, but my phone sits heavy in my robe pocket, distracting me.

No messages. No updates. No word. It’s driving me up the wall. Every second stretches until a minute feels like a day.

Halfway through having my nails filed, I need to pee. I excuse myself and go to the loos in the changing rooms.

When I come out of the stall, there’s a woman in her mid-fifties standing by the rows of sinks. She’s immaculately turned out in a tailored coat, string pearls hanging around her neck, and her hair looks like she just walked out of the blow dry bar. It screams “I’d like to talk to the manager.” There’s something vaguely familiar about her, but I can’t put my finger on it.

Her eyes land on mine, cold, assessing. “Rowan.”

The polite smile you give to strangers in the bathroom slides off my face. I jam my hand in the pocket of my robe, the phone providing comfort that I’m not alone. I neither confirm nor deny that I am, in fact, Rowan.

“I’m Brian’s mother.” Her gaze drags over me in the same way her son’s did from time to time. “My Brian was always too soft on you.”

The air leaves my lungs at a hundred kilometers an hour. “That’s not possible.”

“I’m afraid that it is.” She tilts her head. “I told him five years ago that stealing you was just the beginning, but the real fun comes when Liam Mahoney has nothing left to love. Brian thought keeping you in a gilded cage would be enough, but it seems I was right.” Her smile is sinister.

My pulse spikes. Ice floods my veins. I open my mouth to scream, to call out for the security guard I thought was a foolish addition to our trip, now wishing I’d agreed to Patrick’s full team after all.

She holds up her well-manicured hand. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Let’s just keep this civilized. Quiet, between us, okay? For your friend’s sake.” The threat is quiet, surgical, almost casual, like she didn’t just threaten Sorcha’s wellbeing.

My stomach twists. Going it alone for everyone’s safety really isn’t working out well for me, is it? “Wh-what do you want? And how did you find me?”