Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
“Right,” I say, smiling sheepishly. “I do know how to turn a dollar.”
“Yeah, absolutely you do. You’ve got the Midas touch.”
That makes me giggle. “You can fight, but only under one condition.”
“I didn’t ask you for permission,” he says with an almost petulant look like a little toddler.
“I’m your wife. It only makes sense that you get permission to fight.”
He gives me a lazy grin and tugs a lock of hair. “Alright, fine then. What’s the condition?”
“The condition is that I am allowed to go. I don’t want to be separated from you. I don’t like it. But after the fight, maybe… you can take me to The Craic again.”
“Alright,” he says. “Deal.”
We have six more days—the clock ticking like a time bomb, and death knocking at our door.
Six more days before my sister sees Dr. Rosenberg.
Before the tribute’s due again.
Six more days… that we hope and pray Bridget can hold out.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cavin
Erin likes to keep herself busy. She's sat in the corner of my study, needles clicking away, while I pretend to focus on ledgers for hours. The truth is, I've been watching her more than the numbers.
The way the firelight catches on her soft golden hair. The little furrow between her brows when she counts stitches. Domestic, that's what this is.
And I'm fucking terrified of how much I love it.
I didn't know how much I needed it, wanted it, or how it grounds me. I grew up in a stable family, for all our flaws. And my time in prison showed me there's nothing I wouldn't trade for more of this domestic peace and comfort.
“What're you makin’, then?” I ask her.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she says with a little wink. “This yarn’s gorgeous, Cavin.”
“Bridget might’ve texted me some tips.”
“Oh, really? You and my sister are besties, now, is it?”
I chuckle. “Someone needs to tell me your secrets. You sure bloody won’t.” Truth is, I text her because I like to keep tabs on Erin’s mam, and I like to know if there’s anything Bridget needs. She’s my sister now too. “Now are you going to tell me what you’re makin’?”
“It’s a surprise,” she says, her lips tipping up at the edges.
Erin smiles a lot more lately, especially now that we know we have a chance with her sister. My pen stalls over the ledgers.
“Is it for me?”
“Don't be getting the big head about it,” she says with a wink. But she's grinning like she just won something, and god, I'd give her the world to keep that smile on her face.
“Cavin, I’ve been getting these… apologies? People from St. Albert’s.”
“Aye,” I say, not meeting her eyes.
“Cavin… what’d you do?”
“We’re still trying to locate who’s running the damn account, but I paid a few people a visit, didn’t I? I didn’t rough them up, not these nasty bitches in the comments. But I made it damn clear you’re mine, and I won’t tolerate another second of their bullshit.”
Her eyes shine at me. “Thank you.”
I wink at her. “You can thank me later.”
Smiling at me, she ties off the last stitch and holds up a knit cap. I can't believe I didn't know this is what she was knitting right there in front of me. But now that she places her hands underneath it and stretches it around them, I can see it's simple but well-made. The kind that'll actually keep the cold out, not the shite fashion ones. The kind that people pay big money for.
“Come here,” she says, crooking a finger at me.
I love when she looks at me like she wants me to fucking devour her. Or she wants to fucking devour me.
I cross to her, and she stands on her toes to reach the top of my head, adjusting it with careful fingers. Then she steps back, and her eyes go wide. Her lips part.
“Jaysus, Cavin,” she whispers.
“What?” I touch the cap, wondering if I look like an eejit.
“I need you to chop wood. In that hat and no shirt. Like right now. Immediately.”
Heat floods straight to my cock. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” she says, fanning herself. “It's a medical emergency. I'll perish if you don't.”
“Can't have that.” I span her waist with my hands, lifting her like she weighs nothing. “What kind of husband would I be, letting my wife perish?”
I carry her to the desk and sweep the papers away with one arm. Files scatter across the floor. Projections, accounts, things that seemed vital five seconds ago now mean fuck all.
“Keep the hat on,” she manages, right before I take her mouth.
I kiss her like I'm starving for it, like she's air and I've been drowning. Her lips part against mine, and I take full advantage, sliding my tongue against hers, swallowing the little moan that she makes.
Erin and I fit together like two pieces of a puzzle, and I crave the connection.