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)
Reschedule the doctor. Another day won't kill her.
But it might. It might kill her. Because if Dr. Rosenberg can’t see her… and if that tribute doesn’t get paid…
But I can't say that. I can't tell them anything. Cavin made me promise.
“You don't understand,” I say desperately. “This is important—”
“What I understand,” Declan cuts me off, “is that my cousin got his skull cracked open, and you're awful eager to get him out of this house.”
“That's not—I'm trying to help.”
“Help?” He laughs, but there's no humor in it. “You want to help? Then tell me who the fuck deleted that file. Tell me who you've been talking to.”
“I haven't been talking to anyone!”
“Then how the hell do you explain it?”
I can't. I don't have an answer.
Behind Declan, I see Seamus appear in the hallway, his massive frame blocking the way to the stairs. Lorcan's there too, his arms crossed, watching me like I'm a threat. And Christ, they're not going to let me get to Cavin.
But I know… it's one of their men. One of the McCarthys deleted that file.
And tonight, if that tribute doesn't get paid, what's going to happen?
“Declan,” I say, my voice steady even though my hands are shaking, “I didn't betray Cavin. I would never betray him. My father—whatever he did—it had nothing to do with me.”
“Of course that's what you'd say,” he says coldly.
“Someone is setting us up,” I say. “Someone wanted him dead in that ring. And someone doesn't want us to figure out who.”
“Us?” Declan's eyes narrow.
I catch myself. “We need to find out before they try again.”
Declan stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him trying to read me. Trying to figure out if I'm lying.
“There is no we, Erin,” he says coldly. “Not until you prove you're not the one behind this.”
And just like that, it's over.
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway, with Seamus and the rest of the family blocking my path.
Upstairs, Cavin's alone, barely conscious, with only a vague idea that tonight's the deadline.
I have to get to him. I have to get him out of here. I have to help him pay that tribute.
But how the hell am I going to do it when his own family won't let me near him? When his family thinks I'm the one who betrayed them?
I have to do this myself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cavin
I wake to the smell of antiseptic and the feeling that someone's taken a sledgehammer to my fucking skull. The room tilts and rights itself, then tilts again. I sit up too quickly, and the blood rushes to my head in a sickening wave.
Jesus fucking Christ, am I in a hospital bed? My hand moves before my brain catches up, ripping at the IV in my arm, tearing the heart monitor clip from my finger. Alarms start screaming.
Good, let them fucking scream.
Wait.
This is no hospital. I'm home. I'm in my own home. It's just set up like a hospital room, with nurses on call and machines beeping, the works.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and the floor rushes up to meet me. Or maybe I'm falling into it—hard to tell when the whole damn room's doing somersaults.
Doesn't fucking matter. I know what I need to do. I may be fucked up in the head, but I know I need to pay the bastards. Before—
Erin. Jesus Christ, Erin.
The thought slams into me harder than whatever the fuck put me in here in the first place. Where is she?
“Erin!” I call as the sound of feet rushing toward me meets my ears. My brain's scrambled, confusing sounds with sights, but I use the bed rail to haul myself upright.
The room does a sickening barrel roll, and I taste bile. “Erin,” I say again. My voice comes out wrecked and rough, like I've been gargling gravel. My head feels twice its normal size, and what the hell happened to my shoulder?
The door bursts open, and two nurses rush in.
“Mr. McCarthy, you need to lie back down.”
“Mr. McCarthy—” Someone else is speaking into her phone. “He's out of bed. He's going to hurt himself.”
“Where's my wife?” I'm already moving toward them, one hand still braced on the bed because my legs feel as if they're made of jelly.
“Sir, you have a severe concussion,” one nurse says, stepping closer with her hands up like I'm a spooked horse.
“Where is she?” I bellow.
They exchange a look. That's all I need to see. She's not here, and she isn't their concern.
The first nurse reaches for my arm. I don't think… I just move, sidestepping her. I don't want to hurt a woman, but I will if I have to. The second one—a man, thank fuck—grabs me, and I move on instinct. Elbow back, sharp and fast. The crack of cartilage.