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)
She made me feel small. Weak. Stupid.
She’d push her glasses up that stuck-up nose and say shite like That’s not how it’s done, in that clipped, condescending voice that made me want to throw a desk across the room.
I’m gonna tell on you.
She used to clutch her books like a goddamn shield. Always watching. Always judging. The thorn in my side.
I remember that day in the hallway—my friends holding the bathroom door shut while she screamed behind it. Pounding. Crying for someone to help her—the one day I felt a spark of sympathy.
When she finally got out, red-faced and shaking, she pointed right at me.
Blamed me.
And I let her.
Hell, part of me wished it had been me.
Because I hated her.
Hated the way she made me feel, like I could bust my bollocks all day, graft myself sick, ace every bleedin’ thing they threw at me, and it still wouldn’t count for shite. Not when she sat there smug as fuck, hands folded on a page full of perfect answers. Perfect grades. Perfect fucking everything, teacher’s little fuckin’ pet.
And now?
Now I get to marry her.
Imagine that. A lifetime of that voice correcting me at dinner. Telling me I’m not doing it “the right way.”
I don’t drink.
Of course she doesn’t. God forbid.
Saint bloody Erin. Miss Perfect lick-arse. Collectin’ gold stars like rosary beads.
Everyone loves a girl who plays by the rules, don’t they?
And does she?
I check my phone again, my jaw tightening.
Still nothing.
She’s my fiancée. My goddamn betrothed. She’s supposed to respond.
I drag the towel over my head, hair sticking up in all directions. I need out.
I need The Craic.
Not gonna fuck some nameless cunt in the back room tonight, but I will have a drink. I will see the boys. Let off some steam and remind myself who the fuck I am.
Because the nerve of her not replying?
The audacity of her parents marrying her off without even telling her? As if I’m some last-minute footnote in her story.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it.
Not her.
Of course it’s not her.
Shipment moved. No details. Just a location change. Belfast.
Fine.
I’ll go tomorrow.
Another thing for the list: check the shipment, confirm the transfer, prep the route. Once I marry her, I’ll gain access to all of it.
But my house has to be in order first.
The ride to The Craic takes fifteen minutes. I know every turn and light as I ruminate over Erin Kavanagh.
I hate that.
I hate that I can’t control it, control her.
She doesn’t want to marry me.
Good. The feeling’s mutual, princess.
And jerking off in the shower sure as hell didn’t help. Didn’t even make a dent in my frustration. Maybe it’s not even sexual.
I glance at my phone again.
Nothing.
Fuck.
I drive faster, cutting through the night like it owes me something.
Christ, but I missed this—driving. Speed. Autonomy. The wind blowing through the cracked window. The hum of the engine underneath me. In prison, I damn near forgot what it meant to be free.
My phone vibrates. A flicker of hope… gone in an instant.
Declan. Seamus.
I breathe in deep, then exhale through clenched teeth. No one keeps me waiting.
No one ignores me.
Christ.
I think about the tribute, counting the days until the next one’s due again. Another bloody reminder: The marriage isn’t the only thing slipping through my fingers. I don’t even know who the hell we’re paying.
I park the car, and the valet steps forward.
I hand over the keys and a thick roll of notes. I like them to remember who I am and show respect.
Even if she doesn’t.
I don’t walk into The Craic—I storm in because I own the fucking place. No mask. No hesitation. Just clean, brutal purpose and my standard uniform—black on black, tailored shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show I don’t give a shite. Sleeves rolled high, ink and scar tissue on display like a fucking roadmap of every bastard who thought they could take me.
And when I show? They part like the fucking Red Sea.
Heads turn, spines straighten, and eyes drop.
Respect, the only currency that matters in a place like this. You either command it or you get swallowed whole.
I’m raging inside, and every man in this room can fucking feel it. “Mr. McCarthy.”
The barman—a slight dip of the head. The shadow of Rafferty behind the bar. He poured pints for my father before he poured for me. His eyes flicker once and then move on.
There’s reverence in the air, or at the very least, begrudging respect.
Yeah. This is what I wanted tonight.
A place where I rule. A place where I can breathe without playing nice. Where control isn’t just a fantasy but law.
I smile and let it bleed out slow. Because I’m not here to play… I’m here to burn something down.
Declan’s already inside by the time I reach the front bar. The front’s just the mask—a pint of Guinness and polite lies if you’re on the outside. But if you’re in, if you know the word, the look, and your background checks out, you make your way to the back.