Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
“Aye. I choose you. I choose this. I choose us.”
A shudder runs through him. His eyes close briefly, and when they open again, they're wet.
“You're my monster, Ashland McCarthy. The only man who's ever truly seen me. And I'm yours. I've been yours since the night you saved me. I just needed to grow up a bit, didn't I?” It comes out as a half sob, half laugh.
Then he's kissing me—right here, in front of everyone—with Crowning's dead body still warm in the ring behind us. His lips are split and taste like copper, but I don't care. I kiss him back just as desperately, just as fiercely.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead is pressed against mine, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged.
“Mine,” he whispers against my lips, then kisses me again—soft and reverent this time.
“Yours,” I whisper back.
I cling to him, and he holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
“Let me clean you up,” I say softly.
He nods, but his grip on me tightens. “I need to get you out of here. Let Seamus clean up this mess. Really.”
I nod, catching movement in the corner. Tiernan stands where he was coaching during the fight. There's something like approval in his gaze. He nods at me, and I nod back.
The crowd parts for us. No one dares get too close. Ashland keeps one arm wrapped around me, like he's afraid I'll disappear.
“How'd you get here?” he asks as we push through to the exit.
“Kyla.”
“Christ,” he growls, then bends to kiss my temple. “I love you, and I'm still gonna whip your pretty arse for coming here.”
But there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion and overwhelming love.
I actually laugh, then reach up to wipe some of the blood from his face. “I know. And you're gonna let me tend to those wounds when we get home,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “And you're never doing anything this fucking reckless again.”
“I can't promise that,” I say honestly.
“My god, you're gonna kill me, woman.”
“No,” I whisper against his chest as we step into the cool night air. “I'm going to be your life. Your reason.”
“Right…” His voice breaks. “You already are, love. Always have been.”
We stand in the darkness, holding each other. Two broken people who somehow became whole together.
He's a monster. He's a murderer.
But he's mine.
And I will never let him go.
Chapter Thirty
Bianca
Caitlin meets us at the door. “We'll go to the guest room on the first floor for now,” she says, glancing at Ashland's leg. “So you don't have to deal with stairs. My god, he took a proper beating, didn't he?”
“Gave worse than he took,” I tell her honestly.
“Aye, he did,” Tiernan agrees, helping guide Ashland to the bathroom while I hover, my hands shaking.
“Sit,” I order, pointing at the closed toilet seat.
Ashland obeys without argument, which tells me exactly how much pain he's in. He doesn't argue or joke, just sits down heavily and closes his eyes. Tiernan taps pain relievers into Ashland’s palm, and he swallows them dry.
Tiernan claps him on the shoulder. “You did well, lad,” he says, then leaves us alone.
I turn on the water in the sink, letting it run warm while I gather supplies. Someone has left clean towels and a first aid kit on the counter. My hands are trembling as I wet a washcloth.
“Bianca,” he says softly, “I can do this. I'm fine. The doctor’s coming.”
“You're not fine,” I say, kneeling in front of him. “You're covered in blood and bruises, and god knows what else. Just shut up and let me help you.”
His lips twitch, almost forming a smile, and he winks at me.
I start with his face, gently wiping away the dried, crusted blood. The gash above his eyebrow is deep—it might scar, and it probably needs stitches. His lip is split, his jaw already turning purple, and there's a cut on his cheekbone that’s still seeping. He doesn't flinch, doesn't make a sound, just watches me with those storm-gray eyes.
Blood wells onto the washcloth as I work.
“Sorry,” he whispers.
I pause, the washcloth hovering near his temple. “For what?”
“For making you see that. For—”
“Don't.” I press my finger gently against his mouth, careful of his split lip. “Do not apologize for protecting me. I went there of my own accord.”
“I know,” he says darkly. “I noticed. And you are damn lucky I'm injured right now.”
I swallow hard. “I know that too.”
He sits quietly, and the corner of his lips turns up slightly.
“Listen,” I tell him. “Don’t apologize for being what you are. I chose this. I chose you.”
He catches my wrist and presses a kiss to my palm, his eyes never leaving mine. “You're too good for me, lass.”
“Maybe,” I agree.
He chuckles, then winces, grabbing at his ribs, likely broken. I go back to cleaning his face.