Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Her fingers trace lower, finding the puckered scar above my hip. “This one?”
“Knife fight. Twenty-two.”
“This?” She touches my knuckles, where the scars are thick and white.
“Too many fights to count. When I was a lad, in school, we were taught by a man named Malachy. He taught us how to fight. And we did, constantly. Trained us, disciplined us, he did.”
“Is that right?” she asks quietly. “You said Tiernan did too?”
“Aye, between Malachy and Tiernan, I was in the ring pretty much as soon as I was up on two and could walk.” I scrub a hand across my brow. “Getting older, though, aren’t I? Will be retiring from the ring eventually.”
“Up on two,” she says quietly, her fingers still moving over my skin, mapping every mark, every wound. “My god. Do they hurt?”
I shake my head.
“How’s Tiernan?”
“Recovering. The bastard’s too mean to stay down. Once a fighter, always a fighter.”
She pauses and bites her lip. “Did you ever think you wouldn't make it?”
“Aye, every time,” I say with a dark laugh. “Every fight, I thought it might be the last. That's what keeps you alive, love. The fear. The edge.”
“I don't want you to die, Ashland,” she whispers.
“Not planning on it.” I pull her closer, tucking her against my chest. “Not now that I've got something worth living for, eh?”
She swallows hard and tilts her head up. “Tell me about your family. Growing up here. You speak highly of your parents.”
I tense. I don't like to talk about my brother, about the gaping hole his death left in all of us. But she's looking at me with such trust and openness that the words start to come.
“Donovan was older than me by a few years. Brilliant, charismatic, everything a McCarthy heir should be.”
“Aye,” she whispers. “You grew up together, did you?”
“We did. He was the eldest, the one to lead us. When he died, it fell to me. Nearly broke my mother.”
“That's why you're so protective,” she says softly. “Why you hardly sleep.”
I look down at her. “I failed him, Bianca. I wasn't there when he needed me. If I could have steered him in the right direction—”
“It wasn't your fault, Ashland. You can't control everything. You can't save everyone.”
I run my fingers through her hair, pushing the dark strands away from her eyes, and hold her gaze with mine. “I can save you.”
The words hang between us, heavy with promise and threat.
She cups my face. “You already did,” she whispers. “Will you let me save you back?”
But before I can respond, she kisses me, soft and sweet and full of something that scares me more than any fight ever has.
Later that morning, in the kitchen, Aunt Caitlin has a roast going for dinner, and Bronwyn's making her soda bread. But somehow, Bianca got roped into helping with the vegetables.
“Not much of a cook,” she says, holding a knife awkwardly over a carrot. “But I do like to help.”
“Here.” I move behind her, my hands covering hers. “Like this. Let the knife do the work.”
She leans back against me, and I guide her hands, showing her the rhythm. The curve of her arse presses against me. I have to fight the urge to bend her over this fucking counter.
“Ashland,” Aunt Caitlin says warningly. I know she's clocked my expression.
“What? I'm behaving.”
Bianca laughs, and the sound is bright and free. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear it until now.
“He's just teaching me how to cook,” she says innocently.
“Is that what we're calling it now?” Bronwyn mutters, grinning.
I press a kiss against Bianca's neck, just because I can. Just because she's here, she's mine, and I'll never let her go.
“If I cut my finger, it's your fault,” she mutters.
I step back, letting her work, but give her one more parting kiss on the shoulder.
I watch as she laughs with Bronwyn, as Aunt Caitlin tells her stories about Seamus and me as boys, as Erin wanders in and starts debating the merits of different potato varieties with the kind of intensity most people reserve for much more serious decisions.
Zoya comes in with a baby on her hip, and two more of her and Seamus’s children sidle up to the table for sweets from Bianca.
This is something I never thought I'd have—a woman who fits into the family like she belongs here.
“She's good for you.” Seamus appears beside me, leaning at my elbow with a Guinness, and hands one to me. We clink them together.
“I never thought I'd see the day,” he says.
“I know,” I say quietly. “Remember when you asked me if I liked lads?”
He chuckles under his breath.
“I do.” He takes a long pull of his drink. “You better not break her heart. McCarthys are not in the business of breaking girls' hearts or breaking vows. You know that.”