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)
I hate that it does.
He walks faster, like he needs to outpace the conversation. Doesn’t even look back to see if I’ll follow.
Maybe he’s just as unsettled as I am, but if he is… he hides it well.
How do people do that?
That stoic expression. That blank, untouchable calm. It feels like a goddamn superpower, like flying or walking through fire without flinching. And I wish I had it.
The corridor stretches long and endless.
My eyes drop lower, taking in the way his trousers fit. The shift of muscle in his thighs as he walks.
Christ, I need to stop, but I can’t.
I watch the way his shoulders move. The way his hands flex at his sides like he wants to reach for something.
Or someone.
Stop it, Erin. Stop.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I count the beats.
One, two, three, four… just to keep my hands from shaking.
“These portraits go back a few hundred years,” Cavin mutters. His voice is flat, like he’s reading rehearsed lines.
“I bet you’ve run out of wall space.”
“Not yet.”
A pause, heavy with silence.
He straightens his back every few paces, like he’s under inspection. But he’s not watching me; he’s watching the space between us. And when he does glance over, I don’t meet his eyes.
I stare at the floorboards.
Anything but his eyes.
Anything but those broad shoulders that dwarf my entire frame.
Anything but the way ink trails across his neck, or the way his hands look dangerous, masculine, and capable of both violence and tenderness.
“This way,” Cavin says, dropping down a narrow staircase that opens to a side door. “Let’s go outside before they ring the bell for dinner, yeah?”
I nod. Can’t trust my voice. Yes, please, I want out.
I feel like a fish on tile, gasping, thrashing, humiliated.
But when he opens the door and steps aside, gentlemanlike, letting me through first, it feels good. I take a deep breath.
I tell myself it’s just how he was raised, that it has nothing to do with me.
McCarthy boys—men—have always known manners, even when they’re cruel.
I mutter under my breath.
Whatever. You’re not a child anymore, Erin. You’re an adult. You’re not here to make friends.
I know the rules.
Be cordial. Be polite. Don’t fidget or ask too many questions. Better yet, try not to ask anything.
Do it for Bridget.
Outside, the light softens. The sun is setting behind the cliffs, casting gold over the edge of the water.
The wind carries the scent of salt and lilac. It’s—god, it’s beautiful. We walk a paved path lined with flowers.
“My god,” I whisper. “Is this where you let the fairies out?” I want the words back the second they escape. My cheeks flush, but he gives me a half smile.
“The fairies and sprites, my grandmother used to say. She said they lived here in the garden.”
He talks about his grandmother like she’s holy. Maeve McCarthy—known in our circles. Revered.
“What would they do out here?” I ask, then almost slap my own mouth shut.
Why would I say that out loud?
“I suppose… dance down to the graves of my ancestors,” he says with a dry smirk. “Because mischief gets you in trouble. Aren’t sprites trouble?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. But it does feel like a place built for fairies and sprites, as if the edge of a rainbow will touch down and turn the very ground beneath our feet enchanted.
He’s looking at me differently now.
Not like the girl he tormented… but like something else. Something I don’t have a name for.
His eyes drop to my mouth and stay there. My breath stutters.
“You always were… different, Erin Kavanagh,” he says quietly. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
He turns and we keep walking, his hands deep in his pockets, his too-big jacket sliding off my shoulders but still warm.
We reach a greenhouse, and the air shifts—humid, lush, alive with breath and green. Plants crawl up trellises. Flowers bloom like secrets.
“So you don’t live on your own now. This where they send you when you get out of prison?” I ask.
Why did I say that?
His jaw clenches. “Better than where they send the ones who don’t come out.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” He steps closer. “You want to know if I’m the same bastard who made your life hell? If prison changed me?”
My heart hammers. “Did it?”
“No.” Another step. He’s close enough now that I can feel his breath. “I’m worse.”
I should back away.
I don’t.
“Good,” I hear myself say. “At least you’re honest.”
His eyes darken. “Honesty’s all I’ve got left, lass.”
He laughs but barely. Just a breath. A crack in the armor. Music drifts from somewhere inside the house—soft and classical.
It hits me with the brutality of a backhand: music class.
Fucking music class. They put the upperclassmen in with the younger ones, and I hated it so damn much.
I mutter something under my breath. He catches it and gives me a sharp look.