Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120241 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Two men, strong, inked, and intimidating, are waiting for me at the top when the doors open.
“You must be Cavin,” one says in an American accent.
“Aye. And you are?”
“Brogan McCarthy.” He extends his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
I shake his hand, firm and quick. “And you?”
“Tannen McCarthy,” the other says.
They look like brothers. Dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of build that says they know their way around a fight.
“You’re cousins from America?” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. Something about this doesn’t sit right. “Strange place to meet family.”
“We were told we’d get the proper welcome here,” Tannen says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Right.” I study them both carefully.
But it doesn’t make sense. The stance is wrong. The energy is off. They’re here for something else entirely.
I turn to call for security and verify with Seamus, when Tannen moves—trying to take a swing at me. Brogan lunges for something at my side, maybe my phone, maybe a weapon.
Instinct takes over.
I duck under Tannen’s fist and drive my elbow into his gut. He doubles over with a grunt, and I bring my knee up into his face. Blood spurts from his nose. Brogan grabs at my jacket, and I spin, slamming him against the wall. His head cracks against the brick, and I follow with a brutal punch to his ribs.
“Who the fuck sent you?” I snarl.
Tannen comes at me again, but he’s sloppy. I catch his arm and twist it behind his back until I hear something pop. He screams. Brogan tries to get up, and I kick him square in the chest, sending him sprawling.
“You think you can come into my pub?” I grab Tannen by the collar, my fist cocked back. “You think you can—”
“She’s a whore.” Brogan spits blood at my feet. “Your precious little bride. Everyone knows it. She’s been spreading her legs for half of—”
I don’t let him finish.
My fist connects with his jaw so hard I feel the bone crack. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood sprays across the floorboards.
This, I know. The sharp sting across my knuckles, the way bone gives under my fist, the hot spray of blood. It’s cleaner than words, more honest than any deal made over whiskey. When I’m throwing punches, there’s no politics, no schemes, no questions I can’t answer. Just flesh and bone and the clear, simple truth of who’s stronger.
My breathing evens out. My mind clears.
Tannen tries to crawl away, and I drag him back by his ankle, calm now. Focused.
I may be pissed at Malachy for what he did, but goddamn if I’m not thankful he taught every one of us how to fight bare-knuckled. Said a man who relies on weapons is a man who doesn’t trust himself. This feeling—fists connecting, blood flowing, the world narrowing down to just me and the bastard in front of me—it’s the only time I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.
“Say it again,” I growl, hitting him across the face. “Say one more feckin’ word about her.”
The guards finally appear, weapons drawn.
“Get these gobshites out of here,” I order, my knuckles raw and bleeding. “If they try coming back, break their kneecaps and call me. And find out who the fuck sent them.”
I don’t love the lass. Hell, I don’t even know if I like her most days. But she’s mine. And nobody—nobody—talks shite about what’s mine.
Chapter Eleven
Erin
“You want to go… shopping?” My mother's teacup pauses halfway to her lips. Her smile freezes in place, and I can read her thoughts as clearly as if she'd spoken them aloud.
First: You hate shopping.
Second: What if someone sees Bridget?
We don’t get breaks like this anymore, rare moments when Bridget rallies and gets her strength back. So I plaster on my own fake smile and tilt my head. “Yes. Since I have all these”—I throw my hands up in the air—“events to go to, I need to be prepared.”
“Oh, I’ve already prepared—”
“No, thank you,” I say to her. “It’s my turn. I’m going to take Bridget shopping because Bridget wants to go shopping, Mam.”
“Alright then,” my mother says, brushing her hands on her skirt. “I have an appointment at one, but I suppose I can—”
“No,” I tell her forcefully when Bridget’s eyes grow fearful. She doesn’t want to go shopping with my mother. Who would, with the constant criticism and barbed compliments? “Just the two of us this time. It’s just a brief sister outing. You go to your event and, you know, we’ll catch up with you later.”
My mother’s eyes are comically wide, and her mouth forms a perfect O.
“You have to let me go eventually, Mam,” I tell her. “After all, in a couple of months’ time, I’m going to be a McCarthy, aren’t I?”
I don’t like how it feels satisfactory to see her face pale as she lets go of control. She’s got a clawlike grip on my life and my sister’s, but after the way she’s treated me, especially in recent weeks, I have zero interest in placating her.