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)
But I don't like lying to her. My mind is racing. If the West Coast connection falls through, if Padraic’s played us… fuck. I can't lose her. I won't lose her. Not over this. Not over anything.
“Cavin,” she says, “you're scaring me. What's going on?”
“Nothing, love.” I force myself to meet her eyes. “I just—I'm sorry for dismissing you like that. You're right to be careful.”
She studies my face. The woman's too smart for her own damn good. “You're lying to me.”
“I'm not.”
“You are.” Her voice softens. “But I'm guessing it's something you can't tell me yet.”
I know then she’s come to trust me. I sigh. “Don't mention… what you said to me to anyone else. Not until we're sure.”
“Right,” she says, “because if there is someone, obviously we don't want to tip them off.”
“Exactly.”
She nods and crosses to me, letting the blanket drop. She's bare in the firelight, and I love her so.
“We're in this together, yeah?” she says. “Whatever it is you're not telling me, whatever it is—”
“Aye.” The lie sits bitter on my tongue, but I kiss her instead of speaking. “Together,” I whisper.
She smiles at me, adjusting the hat on my head. “You really do look obscenely good in this.”
“Keep talking like that and I'll miss the fight tonight,” I murmur against her ear, my eyes closing as I smell her, hold her, feel her, ground myself in the woman I love… my wife.
“The fight.” Her eyes widen. “Shite. What time is it?”
I glance at my watch. “I've got an hour.”
“Then you'd better get moving,” she says, kissing me again, this time quick and sweet. “Go. Win me some money so I can buy some yarn.”
“Five days till the fucking tribute's due,” I say, shaking my head. “This purse will help.”
“Or maybe we won't pay it this time.”
She pulls her clothes on, efficient, unselfconscious. “Remember, you said I could come with you this time?”
“Aye. But I don’t know about that.”
“Cavin,” she says, warningly. “Someone needs to tend to your inevitable bruises.”
“Inevitable?”
“You're fighting Mackey. Rumor has it he’s a dirty bastard.”
“Aye, but I'm dirtier.”
She crosses to me, standing on her toes to kiss me properly. “I love you, you know that.”
The words still feel foreign on my tongue, but they're so fucking true it terrifies me. “I do know it. And you know I love you too.”
“Now go.”
Another message from Declan.
Declan
We need to talk about Padraic. Now.
I delete it. I'll deal with it after the fight, after things settle.
After I've figured out how to keep her.
Because losing Erin is not a fucking option.
I look back at her one more time. She's curled up on the sofa again, her knitting needles clicking away. Home—that's what she's made this place.
“Cavin,” she says without looking up, “you're staring.”
“Just appreciating the view.”
“You're a sap.” But she's smiling.
I force myself to get ready, the weight of Declan's messages heavy in my pocket.
Five days until the tribute's due.
Five days to find a way to keep everything from falling apart.
I'm still wearing the hat she made. Won't fucking take it off, even though we just had a what bordered on another row.
Five days to fix this with Erin before she realizes just how bolloxed we really are.
Another buzz. I check it at the door.
Declan
Don't ignore me, Cavin. We sort this tonight or I'm going to Seamus.
I delete it and pocket the phone. I head out into the night, my knuckles already itching for the fight. Maybe Mackey will give me an excuse to go truly brutal tonight.
Maybe I need to bleed a little before I can face her again.
The hat stays on.
Chapter Thirty
Erin
I check in with Bridget before the fight, but she's not answering. Neither’s Mam. The mobile reception can be shite at the hospital. I know Cavin got a text that rattled him before he stepped in the ring. He doesn't want to admit it, but I can see it in him.
I probably shouldn't have brought it up, but I'm not very good at timing and knowing social cues or anything like that, so fuck it. I shouldn't have brought it up before he fought though.
I know he needs to focus, but sometimes rage fuels his energy unlike anything else. I probably shouldn't be here. But I made Cavin promise I could.
That's what Ciarán keeps telling me with his eyes every time I glance at my assigned bodyguard. He's positioned himself between me and the ring like his body can shield me from what's happening in there, but I can see through the gaps in the crowd. I can see Cavin.
He moves like violence personified—controlled, precise, and brutal. I can still feel him inside me.
I hope he can still feel me too. I hope his back stings where I scratched him and wrecked him. He likes that; I know he does.
He's fighting some young lad from Cork tonight, scrappy little Mackey with more heart than brains. Mackey's outmatched, and everyone knows it. You can see it in the way the crowd leans forward, hungry for blood, certain of the outcome.