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)
Tonight's purse is heavy with bets placed. I should look away. I should go upstairs like a good girl and pretend I don't care, but I can't stop watching him.
The way his muscles coil with each punch, the ink on his ribs shifting with every breath. Blood on his knuckles—not his. Never his. The cold focus in his eyes, like he's somewhere else entirely—somewhere dark and distant.
This is who Cavin McCarthy is, and I know it better than anyone else in this fucking ring. Stripped of the suits and smooth words and the gentle way he touches me when we're alone. Just raw, dangerous man. Mine.
The navy cap I knitted him is pulled tight on his head. He’s fighting bare-chested, bare-knuckled, wearin’ the fuckin’ hat.
Something in my chest clenches at the sight of it. I wish we hadn't argued before the fight.
I wish—
Then something in the crowd shifts. I feel it before I see it, and I wonder if it's my connection to Cavin. There's a wrongness in the energy, like the air pressure drop before a storm. Bodies move with purpose instead of excitement, and the roar changes pitch, goes from bloodlust to something sharper.
Ciarán feels it too. I watch his eyes flicker to mine, and then his hand goes to his weapon, his body tense.
“What the fuck—” I start, but then I see him.
A big bastard in a bandana pushes through the crowd on the far side of the ring. Not a fighter. Something worse. His eyes are cold and focused, and he moves too deliberately.
I grab at Ciarán. “Stop him—Ciarán, fucking stop him! What's he—” The man climbs into the ring behind Cavin.
“No. No. Cavin!” I scream. “Cavin!”
My voice hurts from the effort of screaming and pushing through the crowd. Ciarán grabs me and hauls me back, but I shove at him, batting his hands away..
“Cavin, behind you!”
But my voice is lost in the sudden surge of noise. This isn't right. This isn't how it works. There are rules, even here in this world of blood and broken bones—there are fucking rules.
The big man crashes into Cavin from behind. Mackey just stands there, stunned and useless. Cavin staggers forward, caught completely off guard, and the young, stupid Cork kid, out of desperation, sees his chance and lunges.
“Cavin!” I scream. “No!”
The word rips out of me, but it's drowned in the sudden roar of the crowd—half of them screaming in outrage, the other half howling in savage glee.
He spins and gets an elbow into the man’s face. Blood sprays across the canvas, and I can see Cavin knows something's wrong. For a second, I think he's survived things that would kill normal men… but he's not a bloody immortal.
The big man's boot catches him in the kidney.
Cavin's face goes white, and his body seizes. And then he's falling, crumpling to his knees.
And my whole world collapses.
“Cavin!”
I'm screaming his name now, proper screaming, and I don't care who hears. Don't care that I'm supposed to be calm and collected.
“Ciarán! Do something!”
He's moving, trying to shove through the crowd, but it's too thick. I reach for my phone, my hands trembling, and text every bloody one of his cousins and brother:
Get to the ring NOW! It's an ambush.
They're pushing in from all sides now—some trying to get away, others pushing closer to see. We're stuck in a crush of flesh and sweat and rage.
I grab Ciarán's arm. “Move! We have to—”
The big man pulls something from his jacket, and time slows. I see the pipe before it's fully out. It’s metal and heavy, the kind that could cave in a skull, that could kill a man with one good hit. My knees buckle.
Cavin's on his knees, shaking his head like he's trying to clear it. The Cork kid stares and finally forgets his fight.
“McCarthy!” he yells. “Watch out!”
“No! No! Cavin!” I'm screaming. It's a prayer. A plea. It's useless.
Because the pipe is rising. Because Cavin's not getting up fast enough. Because I'm too far away and there are too many bodies between us.
The pipe comes down… and hits him.
The sound is wet and hollow and terrible, a sound I'll hear in my nightmares for the rest of my fucking life.
And Cavin goes limp. Just stops. Collapses boneless onto the canvas. Blood starts immediately, dark and wet, pooling beneath his head.
Everything in me stops. The crowd is screaming, wild.
My heart. My breath. My world.
The man moves, raising the pipe again.
I'm not thinking. I have to do something.
My hand closes around the grip of Ciarán's gun. He's still focused on the ring, trying to shove through, and his holster isn't secured properly. Thank fucking god.
The weight of the gun surprises me. It's heavier than it looks. For a split second, I think I can't.
I fucking have to.
My hands shake so badly. Is there a safety? I don't fucking know.