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)
“Aye. After I texted, I sent the lot of them to time-out in the shed.”
She smirks. “Did you, now? Or did you use their misbehavior to get my attention, Cavin?”
I shrug. “Might’ve done.”
Her gaze finally lands on me. “You wanted to talk.”
I push off the fence and gesture toward the barn. “Let's walk.”
She hesitates, then follows. Inside, the smell of hay and horse and leather fills the space. It's quiet here. Bronwyn’s a horse lover, and Da liked to put the barn on the property to good use.
“Horses,” she breathes out. “You have horses.”
“Aye. They’re Bronwyn’s.”
Here, it’s peaceful… almost. I lead her past the stalls—Midnight, Banshee, Finn—until we reach the tack room in the back.
I grab two stools, then set them facing each other. “Sit.” When she quirks a brow at me, I tack on a “Please.”
She does, perching on the edge like she might bolt. Her hands rest on her knees, fingers tapping. One, two, three, four. Over and over.
“You do that a lot,” I say, nodding at her hands.
She stills them immediately, clasping them together. “Do what?” Her pretty cheeks flush pink.
“The tapping. Counting.”
Her jaw tightens. “It helps me think.”
“Helps you think, or helps you cope?”
Her eyes narrow, but her voice drops. “What's the difference?”
“One's about problem-solving. The other's about surviving.” I lean back, arms crossed. “Which is it?”
She doesn't answer right away. Just stares at me, weighing whether I'm taking the piss or if I actually give a fuck.
“Both,” she says finally. “It's both.”
Fair enough.
“Look,” I say, “we're doing this thing. Getting married. And I know you didn't sign up for it willingly, but neither did I, so we're even there.”
“Even.” She repeats the word like she's testing it. “You think this is even.”
“No. But I think we're both stuck, and we can either make it hell or we can try not to kill each other. Your choice.”
She considers this, her head tilting slightly. “You're surprisingly pragmatic for someone who locked me in a bathroom.”
Jesus Christ. Straight for the throat.
Are her eyes dancin’ a bit?
“Erin, I didn't lock you in,” I say, keeping my voice level. “The lads did.”
She holds my gaze for a moment. “But you were there.”
“Aye.”
“And you didn't stop them.”
I shake my head. “I didn't.”
She nods once, like I've just confirmed something she already knew. “At least you're honest about it.”
“Would lyin’ make you feel better?”
“No.” Her fingers start tapping again. “But an apology might. It felt… good when you apologized at St. Albert’s.”
I exhale slowly, scrubbing a hand over my jaw. “I'm sorry. For that, and for every other shite thing I did to you back then. I’m sorry, Erin. You didn't deserve it.”
She blinks—once, twice—like she's processing.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay?”
“Yes. Okay. You apologized. And this time, I… I accept.” She shifts on the stool. “Can we move on now?”
Christ, she's a different sort.
“Right. Moving on.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Figured we needed some time, just the two of us, without crowds or family pressin’ in. And every time we’re together, we’ve got a damn audience, so…” I rub a hand across the back of my neck. “Now that the sprites and fae are momentarily quiet…”
Her lips twitch, and she nods. “You want to get to know each other a bit more? Cavin McCarthy, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think that was downright civilized.”
I snort. “Let’s not get carried away. I do have a reputation to keep.”
She smiles softly. “So I can ask questions?”
“Aye.”
“Are there… limits to the questions?” Her brow rises.
“You can ask anything you want. I’ll tell you as much as I’m able.”
Nodding, she leans back a bit. “That’s fair. Alright.” She studies me for a long moment. I could get lost in those earthy brown eyes and be happy for it. “Can you tell me more about why you were in prison?”
Of course that's her first question. Likely been holdin’ back.
“Assault. But it… wasn’t me. It was my da. But I took the hit. At the time, he was acting head.” I sigh. “And it would’ve killed Mam. He nearly killed a man.”
“Nearly.” Her tone is clinical, detached. “Not quite.”
“No. Not quite.”
She blinks. “Why?”
“Bloke hurt my sister, Bronwyn. Not the kidnapping—this was before that. He… touched her. At a party.”
Erin's expression doesn't change, but her fingers stop tapping. “And your da found out.”
“Aye. Beat him bloody. Broke his jaw, three ribs, and fractured his skull. Would've kept going if Seamus and I hadn’t intervened. When the police arrived, I was the one standing over him. And that was on purpose.”
She blinks. “How long were you in?”
“Six months. Got out early for good behavior.” I snort. “Barely.”
She nods, filing the information away like she's adding it to a spreadsheet in her mind. “Your brother Torin. He’s in prison too?”
“Aye. He’s got time to serve, still.”
“I'm sorry,” she says. And the thing is, she sounds like she means it. Not performative. Just… factual.