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)
We sit in silence for a moment, the only sound the soft snorting of horses in their stalls.
“Your cousins,” she says eventually. “And your uncles. Tell me about them.”
I settle back, glad for the change in subject.
“Ashland's older than me. Uncle Nolan’s son. He's…” I search for the words. “Dangerous. Quiet about it though. You'd never know unless you saw him work. He's Seamus's enforcer. When someone needs to disappear, Ashland handles it.”
“Disappear as in leave town, or disappear as in die?”
“Both, depending.”
She nods like I've just told her he's an accountant.
“And Lorcan?”
“Uncle Nolan's boy, Ashland and Donovan’s brother. He was at the dinner? Built like a tank. Does security, mostly. Studied engineering at Trinity before he dropped out to work for the family.”
“Why did he drop out?”
“His da got shot. Nearly died. Lorcan came home to help run things with Donovan while Nolan recovered.”
“That's loyal.”
“That's family.”
She absorbs this, filing it away. “And your uncles? Cormac and Nolan?”
“Aye. Da's younger brothers. Once ran the clan, but they’re older now, with families of their own, so they don’t hold the weight in the clan they once did, and now their sons are of age. Still, they’re well respected and hold heavy clout in Ballyhock. You don't fuck with the McCarthys because of them.”
“And your father?”
“Head of the family. Was, anyway, until he handed it to Seamus. He retired after the… incident.” The one that sent me and Torin to prison. “But he's still the most dangerous man in Ireland when he wants to be.”
Erin's quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “Your family operates in a clear hierarchical structure. Patriarchal, militaristic. Roles are defined by skill set and reinforced through loyalty and violence.” She gives me a curious glance. “And your family’s… prolific, one could say.”
I smile. The lass is bloody brilliant, if a bit quirky.
“You writin’ an essay, lass? That's one way to put it.”
“It's the most accurate way.” She tilts her head. “My family is different.”
“How so?”
“We're more… distributed. Less hierarchical. My father's the head, technically, but my mother controls the money, the alliances, the social networks. My father handles the violent side—the enforcement, the intimidation. But he doesn't make decisions without her.”
“A partnership, then.”
“No. A codependency.” Her voice is flat, clinical. “He needs her intelligence. She needs his brutality. Together, they're formidable. Apart, they'd crumble.”
“And where do you fit?”
“I don't.” She says it simply, without self-pity. “I'm useful, but not valued. I manage the books because I'm good at it and because no one else wants to. But I'm not part of the inner circle. I never have been.”
“And your sister? Bridget?”
Her expression shifts—just barely, but I catch it. Pain, there and gone.
“Mam doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s useless hiding it. Bridget’s sick right now.”
She twists her hair as if she’s uncomfortable. It takes me by surprise. Sometimes, she seems so poised and detached. Then others…
“I’m sorry.”
“It isn’t your fault.”
I smile. “I know.”
I study her for a long moment. The way she holds herself—rigid, controlled. The way her mind works—data and patterns and brutal honesty. She's not like anyone I've ever met.
“You really don't care what people think of you, do you?” I ask.
She shifts and sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair out of her face, back into the plait that’s come loose. “I care. I just can't change how my brain works, so I stopped trying.” She shrugs. “People think I'm rude, or cold, or strange. Maybe I am. But I'm also right most of the time, and I'd rather be right than be liked.”
God, I fuckin’ love that. She tilts her head to the side.
“You're not what I expected,” she says suddenly.
“Aye? How so?”
“You're not…” She pauses, searching. “You're not performing. Most people perform. They say what they think you want to hear, or what makes them look good. You don't do that.”
“Neither do you.”
“No. I don't.” She almost smiles. Almost. “Sort of a pair, then? Maybe that's why this… might work.”
“This being…?”
“The marriage. The arrangement. Whatever this is.” She stands, brushing hay off her leggings. “I should go. I have work.”
“Erin.”
She stops, then turns back.
“For what it's worth,” I say, “I'll try not to make this hell for you.”
She considers this, her head tilting again. “That's surprisingly kind.”
I smirk. “Don't get used to it.”
“I won't.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “Cavin?”
“Aye?”
“Thank you. I’m putting this behind us. I’m… not the girl I was in school anymore, and… you’re not who you were either.”
I reach for her. I don’t want her to go.
“Stay.” The word comes out rougher than I meant. Her eyes flick to where my fingers wrap around her wrist, then back to my face.
“Why?”
“Because I'm not done with you yet.”
Her breath catches… just barely, but I hear it.
“Cavin—”
I pull her closer, slow enough she could pull away if she wanted. She doesn't. “Your plait’s loose. Let me… fix it.”