Wicked Altar (The McCarthy Family Legacy #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Cavin

I stand with my hands folded in front of me, the bitter cold of a Ballyhock winter seeping through my wool coat as I stare down at what’s left of Malachy.

“No one can know about this, lad.” Malachy’s last words. The envelope in my pocket weighs more than the coffin we carried. After the prayers, I’ll deliver it. One last secret for a man buried in them.

In my peripheral vision, my brother Seamus, the eldest, stands beside our father and mother. Da looks distinguished and broken. Malachy was a second father to him.

Mam looks poised as always, her expression gentle despite the frown creasing her brow.

Her hands rest on Da's forearm, folded and still—but I know better.

She's always alert. My sisters stand on either side of her, dressed in formal charcoal gray—Kyla on guard and frowning, Bronwyn, the baby of the family, quietly sniffing and wiping at her eyes with a balled-up tissue.

My cousin Declan whispers something in Bronwyn's ear that makes her smile and elbow him. Garrett, a family friend, his trademark red hair stark against the cold blue sky, snorts. I shoot them all a sharp look—this isn't the fucking time—and they straighten up quick enough.

It’s a huge turnout. I swear half of Ballyhock’s come to pay their respects, which makes sense when I think about the man Malachy was, and the way our father always made sure the McCarthy men stayed within the good graces of the residents of Ballyhock.

Even the best of them will overlook our…

transgressions… when we toss half a million quid in the Holy Family coffers.

“Ashes to ashes,” Father Gregory says in a monotone, his hand steady as he makes the sign of the cross over the coffin. My mother makes the sign of the cross and whispers what must be a prayer under her breath.

I rub my hand across my eyes. Haven’t slept more than a few hours straight since prison, and it’s showing.

“Mad, isn’t it? Only death or marriage gets us all in the same place anymore,” my cousin Daire mutters to me. He’s not wrong.

I stare at the coffin. It was lighter to carry than I expected. Malachy lost weight at the end, before he lost his battle to illness and old age, and I guess the lads and I are stronger than we once were.

Movement catches my eye—someone shifting near the far edge of the graveyard, half hidden behind a weathered angel statue.

A woman—blonde hair whipping in the wind and black coat buttoned to her throat.

She’s not with the main gathering but is separate, alone, kneeling at a grave with white roses clutched in her gloved hands.

And she’s staring right at me.

My breath catches. Is that…? It can’t be.

Erin fucking Kavanagh. Perfect little Erin.

What the bloody hell is she doing here?

She’s fifty yards away, maybe more, but I’d recognize her anywhere. That sharp little face. Those eyes that always looked at me like I was something she’d scraped off her shoe. The way she holds herself—stiff, controlled, like she’s afraid she’ll fly apart if she loosens her grip.

Only she’s not the scrawny little bitch from St. Albert’s anymore. She’s filled out—tits, hips, the lot. Even in that shapeless coat, I can see the curve of her. My mouth goes dry. I want to look away, but I can’t.

Christ, I’m a bastard for noticing her arse at a funeral.

She ducks her head when she realizes I’ve clocked her. Pretends to fuss with the flowers, but her hands are shaking now.

Good.

The Kavanaghs sent flowers yesterday, including a card with her father’s signature, not hers. So why the fuck is Padraic Kavanagh’s daughter kneeling at a grave in McCarthy territory during our funeral?

My hand moves to my side, where my gun sits under my coat. Instinct. Even from this distance, I could drop her before she screams.

The thought shouldn’t make my cock twitch… but it does.

My eyes narrow. Is she spying for her da? Or did she just want to watch me squirm? That'd be just like her—Little Miss Perfect, always so fucking eager to see me brought low. Again.

I should look away. Focus on Malachy, on the prayers, on the envelope burning a hole in my pocket.

She looks up. Our eyes lock across fifty yards of dead ground.

Her lips part, just slightly, and I see her breath catch. See the exact moment recognition hits. See fear chase hatred across her face.

My pulse kicks up, and my hands curl into fists.

She doesn't look away fast enough. Her lips part, and her pupils dilate…

just for a second—a flash—before the fear slams back into place.

But I saw it. That flicker of want. I've spent ten years imagining what fear looks like on Erin Kavanagh's face.

I know every expression she's capable of. And that wasn't just fear.

I start walking toward her. She can answer my questions or run. I almost hope she runs. I hope she—

The explosion tears through the silence like a goddamn scream of a banshee. One second, we’re standing under the gray winter sky; the next, it’s fire, noise, and chaos.

A blast punches through my chest like an open palm. The light is blinding, first white, then orange, devouring all color from the world. The ground jumps beneath my feet. People scream.

I hit the dirt hard, knees scraping gravel, ears ringing like a struck bell. Copper taste floods my mouth—I bit my tongue. Smoke burns my throat.

Jesus, Mary, and holy fuckin’ Joseph, someone bombed the lot of us.

My first thought: my family. My second thought: Erin.

Fuck. Why her? Of all the people here, why is my brain looking for her? I don't even like the bitch.

I don’t have time to question it—my body's already moving, eyes cutting through smoke and chaos before my brain catches up. Looking for that black coat, that blonde hair I've wanted to yank since we were kids. She’s gone.

Fucking instinct. Fucking Malachy drilling protection into my skull since I could walk. Protect the family. Protect the weak. Even when the weak is a stuck-up bitch.

My hands ball into fists. My jaw locks so hard my teeth ache.

Shouts blur with sobs, and the sharp, metallic scent of blood fills the air as I lurch to my feet.

The gravel tears at my palms when I push myself up.

Smoke chokes the air, thick and acrid. Bodies everywhere—some moving, some not. Screams. Sirens in the distance.

I should leave her. Let her family find her. Let someone else play hero.

My feet are already moving.

Fucking hell.

I vault over a toppled headstone and sprint toward the angel statue where she was kneeling.

But she’s vanished. Did she have anything to do with this? Goddamn. If her father put her—

And then I see her—bent over on the ground, crumpled and unconscious, lying in the shadow of the angel statue. My rage dissipates.

“Erin.” I drop to my knees beside her, my hands hovering. I don’t know where to touch her. If she’s hurt. If she’s…

She moves. A small flinch, then her hand comes up to her head.

“Easy.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “Easy, lass. Don’t move yet.”

Her eyes flutter open. Unfocused. Dazed.

There’s blood trickling from her ear.

Fuck.

“Can you hear me?” I lean closer. “Erin. Can you hear me?”

Her lips move, but no sound comes out. Her pupils are blown wide. I can see myself reflected in them—blood on my face, dirt in my hair. I look like the monster she always thought I was.

Then recognition hits, and her eyes go wide. She tries to pull away.

“Don't.” I catch her shoulders, gripping hard enough to keep her still. “You might be hurt, and I don't fancy carrying your dead weight out of here.”

She’s shaking, her whole body trembling under my hands.

I don’t care. She’s fragile, and I don’t fucking care.

I scan her quickly. Blood from her ear, but nothing that'll kill her. No broken bones. Just shock, making her useless.

Typical.

“You need to get out of here,” I tell her. “Can you stand, or am I fucking dragging you?”

She stares at me, then blinks slowly, like she’s trying to process the words.

“Erin.” I give her shoulders a shake, not gentle. “Can. You. Fucking. Stand?”

She stares at me like I've spoken a foreign language. Fuck, she's useless in a crisis.

She nods. “I think.”

I slide one arm around her waist and haul her to her feet. She’s light—too light. Breakable.

“Christ.” I tighten my grip, pulling her against my side. “Hold on to me.”

I need to check on my family.

“I don’t—” Her voice cracks. “I don’t need—”

“Shut up and hold on.”

She does. Her fingers curl into my coat, gripping tight like I’m the only solid thing in the world.

And maybe I am. Right now, in this moment, with the graveyard on fire and people screaming and blood in the air—maybe I am.

I can feel every inch of her pressed against me.

The soft give of her tits against my ribs.

The tremble in her thighs. Her pulse hammering where my thumb digs into her side.

She smells like roses and smoke and fear.

My cock stirs. Sick bastard. There’s a bomb site twenty yards away, and I’m getting hard.

Good. I want to be this fucked up. I want to be the kind of man who gets hard carrying a half-dead woman away from a bombing. At least then I’ll know exactly what I am.

Damn this woman for distracting me.

I need to check on my family.

I half carry, half drag her away from the blast site, toward the low stone wall at the edge of the graveyard. Behind us, voices shout orders. Someone’s crying. Smoke billows black against the gray sky.

When we reach the wall, I set her down as gently as I can. She immediately curls into herself, arms wrapped around her middle, head down.

Counting. She’s counting under her breath. I can see her lips moving.

One, two, three, four. Over and over.

I remember that from school, the way she’d do it when she was overwhelmed. She’d tap her fingers, count things, anything to anchor herself.

Now I want to count with her or make her stop. Make her look at me instead.

“Stay here,” I tell her. “Don’t move. I’ll come back for you.”

Her head snaps up.

“Don’t leave me here.” There’s panic in her voice now, raw and real. “Please. Don’t—”

“I have to check on my family.” I crouch down so we’re eye level. “But I’ll come back. I swear it.”

She stares at me, those sharp eyes searching my face for a lie.

“Five minutes,” I promise. “Just give me five minutes.”

She doesn’t answer. Just goes back to counting, rocking slightly.

Fuck.

I straighten, then turn toward the chaos—

Seamus stands ten feet away, weapons drawn, scanning the area with lethal focus. His gaze lands on me, then drops to Erin. His expression doesn’t change, but I see the question in his eyes.

What the fuck?

“She was caught in the blast,” I say quickly. “Kavanagh’s daughter.”

“I know who she is.” Seamus’s voice is flat. Dangerous. “What’s she doing here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Convenient timing.”

“I know.” I scan the lot. “Where’s Bronwyn?” I ask, changing the subject.

Seamus’s face goes hard. “We don’t know.”

Ice floods my veins. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

“She’s gone, Cav. Mam’s hysterical. Kyla found her shoe, but—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “We’re searching now.”

My vision tunnels. Someone’s going to bleed for this. Someone’s going to fucking scream. This wasn’t meant to happen.

A flash of red hair catches my eye—Garrett, pushing through the smoke, his usually smirking face gone white with shock.

He's got blood on his shirt, but he's moving fine, helping Lorcan herd people away from the blast site.

“Garrett and Lorcan got the west side covered,” Seamus adds, following my gaze.

“He was near Bronwyn before it went off. Says he lost sight of her in the chaos.”

Christ, I thought I had time. I swore I’d keep her safe.

The envelope. The tribute. That’s what this is about.

“I’ll help search,” I start, but Seamus cuts me off.

“No. Get the Kavanagh girl somewhere safe and then come back. We don’t need civilians in the middle of this.”

He stalks away before I can argue. I turn back to Erin. She’s watching me now. Some of the daze has cleared from her eyes, replaced by something sharper, more aware. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then away, quickly, like she didn’t mean to look.

“Come on.” I offer my hand.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she says, Little Miss Perfect turning her nose up at me.

Why the fuck am I offering my hand? My mam raised me to be a gentleman, but she’s no friend of mine.

My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “Take it. You need to get the fuck out of here.”

She stares at my outstretched palm like it might burn her. Her throat works as she swallows. The space between us feels charged and wrong, like we’re both waiting for something to detonate again. Then, slowly, too slowly, she slides her hand into mine.

Christ.

Her palm is small and cold against mine. Delicate bones I could crush without trying. Soft skin I want to bruise. Her fingers curl around my hand, the grip tightening. She’s shaking. So am I.

Electricity shoots up my arm and settles low in my belly, hot and wrong.

I could pull her close, fist my hand in that blonde hair.

I feel it in my chest… in my fucking teeth.

The way her pulse jumps against my thumb where it rests on her wrist. This girl who hated me, who ratted me out at every turn.

Who looked at me like I was dirt. This girl whose hand fits in mine like it was made for it, but…

What kind of woman shows up at our funeral, then takes the hand of a man she hates? Unless she’s not afraid of me.

Unless… unless she knew this was coming. I pull her close—not gentle. Her eyes go wide.

“If you had anything to do with this,” I say, low enough that only she can hear, “I’ll know.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I huff out a growl, then I drag her toward the car, her hand locked in mine. Not because I want to touch her. I need her out of my hair and back where she belongs… as far away from me as she can get.