Page 44 of Stolen Rebel

What. The actual. Fuck?

“Your mind is a scary fucking place.”

“Oh, come on. Like I said to you earlier, it’s so obvious you’re still carrying a blazing torch for this woman, but right now, your frustration and rage and hurt that she walked out on you is blinding you to your true feelings. Not to mention the possibility that she might be telling the truth.”

“You’re so full of shit. How does Patrick put up with you?”

She opens her mouth to answer.

I snap out a hand. “That was rhetorical.”

“Wow. Rhetorical. I’m surprised a caveman like you knows such big words.”

“Fuck off, Sorcha.”

“Gladly.” Winking, she sidles past me and skips down the hallway, humming some annoying pop shite.

Bloody woman.

I spend the rest of the day mulling over our conversation. Somehow, I have to find a way to tamp down my anger every time Rowan lies to me and instead try to see her through Sorcha’s eyes. If she’s scared of someone more than she’s scared of me, that says a fucking lot.

Unless she knows, deep down, I couldn’t hurt her and all my threats are bullshit and bluster and she’s using that against me.

God, this whole fucked up situation is giving me a migraine. I don’t know what or who to believe. I’ll give Sorcha’s plan a few days, but if Rowan hasn’t opened up to me by Friday, she will not like what happens next.

Dinner is a somber affair. Patrick sits at the head of the table stewing over something or other I’m not in the right mood to ask about. Sorcha keeps flicking her gaze from me to Rowan and back again as though she’s waiting for it all to kick off. Darragh, the most likely out of all of us to avoid situations he isn’t comfortable with, is scrolling on his phone.

And as for me? I’m sitting here like a teenager suffering through my first crush and trying to think of a single intelligent thing to say to make the woman playing with her food, rather than eating it, notice me.

When did this shit become so hard?

It’s Sorcha’s fault. She’s burrowed inside my head and is making me question everything when I’ve never had a problem making decisions.

Except, ever since Rowan came back into my life, I can’t seem to make one to save my fucking life.

I drop my fork with a clang and get to my feet. “Erin, would you like to go for a walk?”

The look Rowan gives me is half profound shock and half blatant suspicion. “A walk? But it’s dark. And cold.”

“We can wrap up warm. Go to the pub for a drink, if you like.”

The heat from Sorcha’s stare burns the side of my face. I flick my gaze at her, catching a brief nod of approval. Not that I care what she thinks. Because I don’t.

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to escape?”

“No. Like you said, it’s cold and dark, you have no money or means of communication with the outside world. Plus, I’m fast. You run, and I’ll easily catch you.”

Sorcha stifles a giggle. Patrick gives her a quizzical look. “Tell you later,” she says.

I glare at her. “Your wife is full of shite, Patrick.”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” my brother growls.

Sorcha squeezes his hand. “It’s okay. Liam’s having to come to terms with some things he isn’t happy about.” She fires another beaming grin my way.

I heave a sigh and turn back to Rowan. “Well?” Damn. That sounded too harsh, like the way I’d speak to one of my soldiers who was testing my limits. “They have a real fire. And the kitchen serves great apple pie.”

Rowan’s eyes narrow. She’s seventy-five percent suspicious now.