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)
The Craic’s been ours for decades. My mother protested, thinks it’s beneath us, that we shouldn’t tie our names to a place where rules are broken and vices are celebrated. She’s not wrong.
But we fucking love it. It’s sacred to us, a monument of vice in Ballyhock. You don’t get in unless you’re a McCarthy or close enough to bleed like one.
The elevator hums as it drops us to hell. And on the other side, freedom.
My cousin Declan’s there, drink in hand and leaning back like he owns the place. Lorcan is beside him, built like a goddamn weapon, his eyes brutal and assessing.
Declan looks up when I enter and smirks.
“You look terrible, mate. When’s the last time you slept proper?”
Too long.
I shrug and don’t bother answering, just order a Jameson neat.
My eyes scan the room. Cages, silk ropes, flesh in motion. Worship and violence so tangled they’re one and the same. Moans like prayers, and whimpers like confessions.
This place doesn’t just offer release. It demands truth—ugly, raw, and beautiful.
And I love it here.
The Craic may be elite, underground, and feral, where secrets are bought and dominance can be had for a price. Masks come off here. But what I love is not just that I’m welcome here, but that every part of me, even the ruthless, savage, scarred parts, is welcome too. Fuck, worshipped.
Everyone knows the heirs of the McCarthy name rule this place and that this is our playground.
I’m engaged to be married, though, goddamn it.
My phone buzzes. I check it. Still nothing from Erin.
“Why are you so pissed?” Lorcan’s curious.
I lean forward and scowl. “I’m not,” I growl, pissed that he’s calling it out.
“Oh, come off it,” he pushes. “What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
Declan and Lorcan exchange a look.
“What?” I snap.
“He’s pissed about the engagement,” Declan says, too casual.
My jaw tightens. I hate the way they talk as if I’m not right here. As if I didn’t just walk into the fucking room.
“Excuse me?” I say, loud enough. “Hello? I’m sitting right fucking here.”
Lorcan shrugs. He’s a big bastard, with arms like tree trunks and sandy-brown hair like his dad. His storm-gray eyes are always scanning. He’s a strategist, quieter than I am.
His brother Donovan’s next to him, dangerous and powerful… older. When Donovan speaks, people listen.
He’s a tactician, the cleaner. The guy we call when the job’s bloody and someone needs to make it disappear.
Give Donovan a command, and if he respects you, he doesn’t hesitate. Just gets the job done. No flinching. No noise. Unlike his brother Ashland, he’s charming, and uses it to his advantage.
His fingers tap the table, restless.
“You don’t like that you’re engaged?” Donovan asks, his pale blue eyes dancing before he smirks at his phone and shoots a text.
“Would be nice if I knew her,” I mutter.
“Would be nice if you let yourself know her,” Donovan corrects with his signature smile that’s meant to disarm. Doesn’t work on me.
“That’s the fucking problem,” Lorcan says. “He does know her, doesn’t he?”
“Would you stop it,” I snap. I down my drink and slam the glass on the bar. “Stop talking about me like I’m not right here.”
“We know you’re here,” Declan says, grinning.
My cousin Declan’s controlled chaos—adored for the way he masks violence with charm.
Declan was once the golden boy of the McCarthys. Gilded. Untouchable. But that shine dulled fast, fucked off somewhere between the pills and the power. Addiction made him chaos. Before he fell apart, everyone was drawn to him—half terrified, half mesmerized.
Where my eldest brother Seamus clings to rules like gospel, I deal in loyalty, quiet and unflinching.
Declan? He doesn’t bother with either. He slides under rules, ducks around them, and fucks them sideways if he feels like it.
He’s done unforgivable things, real twisted shit. He’s the headline in every scandal and the center of every storm. But somehow, he always chooses whether to follow or break rank. No one decides for him.
“Tell us the truth then,” Declan says, sipping his Jameson like it’s holy water.
A leggy blonde drapes herself around his shoulders. She’s in a silky purple number that barely clings to her tits and shows off the undercurve of her ass like a goddamn invitation.
She moans when he exhales.
“That feel good?” he murmurs, sounding almost bored.
“Would you like me to get my friend again tonight, sir?” she purrs in his ear, her eyes done up like a cat—headband, whiskers, the whole damn thing.
He nods. “Aye. Go get her.”
When she turns, he gives her a parting slap to the arse like she’s his favorite toy.
Declan likes his women in numbers, the McCarthy family fuck boy.
“She still holding a grudge?” Declan asks, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.
He had a different friend group back then, didn’t know how deep it went or how sharp it cut. I doubt even Seamus knows.