Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Erin
I cannot get Cavin out of my mind. But it probably has something to do with the fact that the bastard texts like a thousand times a day.
Cavin
Is your location on?
Cavin
My mother would like to talk to you about favors for the party.
Cavin
My sisters want to know what color dress you’re wearing.
And on and on the list goes.
Cavin
What are your plans today?
Cavin
Where are you going?
Questions that would actually be quite welcome and even make a lot of sense if we had any type of relationship or ounce of care between us. If we were actually two people in love, planning a wedding.
I’m not someone to fall for fairy-tale stories, so I never even dreamed of marrying my Prince Charming. I always assumed that I would somehow get away with being single for the rest of my life, even being born into the Irish mob.
Now? Definitely not interested in marriage.
The day of shopping and going to the club was borrowed time. The next day, Bridget paid for it. She fell ill with a fever, and she’s been in the hospital ever since.
So while a part of me is kicking and screaming and resisting the idea of going all the way to the McCarthy house and becoming one of them, my conviction that this is the right thing to do is stronger than ever.
I guess most women who are engaged look forward to the engagement party. But me? It’s a looming date on my calendar, just like any formal event has always been and probably always will be.
I’m wearing “ruby red” because supposedly, that’s on my “color chart”
Cavin
What the fuck is a color chart?
Like something that’s supposed to guide me to the right colors?
Cavin
Ah. Rules and regulations and the like. That’s very you
For some reason, that makes me smile. It is very me—overthinking to the point of paralysis, while the world moves on without asking my permission.
The bell rings, and my mother calls for me. “Erin? Someone’s here to see you.”
No one ever comes here to see me. My heart beats faster.
It can’t be… I pad downstairs in my yoga pants and oversized jumper, hair still damp from the shower.
I’m not expecting anyone. The last forty-eight hours have been a blur of restless sleep and replaying that night at the club over and over.
The way Cavin’s hand felt on my throat. The way his eyes looked when he—
I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
Why am I disappointed it isn’t… him?
Am I falling for him?
Bronwyn McCarthy stands in our foyer like a beam of light in a dark room. She’s wearing a soft-pink coat and cream-colored trousers, her light brown hair perfectly styled in loose waves. She looks like she stepped out of a magazine, effortlessly elegant in that way I’ve never managed.
“Hiya,” she says softly, offering a gentle smile.
“Hiya,” I echo, suddenly aware of how disheveled I must look.
My mother hovers nearby, clearly uncomfortable. The McCarthys don’t just drop by. This isn’t how our families operate.
“I’ll leave you girls to it,” my mother says, though her tone suggests she’d rather stay and spy. She disappears into the kitchen, but I know she’s listening.
“Would you like to come up to my room?” I ask quietly. Is that what people do?
Bronwyn nods, relief flashing across her face.
I lead her upstairs and close the door behind us. My room is exactly as I left it this morning—books stacked on every surface, my laptop open on the bed, a half-drunk cup of tea gone cold on the nightstand.
“Sorry about the mess,” I mutter, shoving a pile of clothes off the chair so she can sit.
“Don’t apologize. This is lovely.” She settles into the chair with the kind of grace that seems innate to her. “Your room suits you.”
I perch on the edge of my bed, tucking my feet under me. “Not like yours, I imagine.”
“Mine’s all white and gold. Looks like a hotel room.” She wrinkles her nose slightly. “This actually feels lived in. I like it.”
She sighs and smiles, then asks the last thing I expect her to.
“How are you? After… everything?”
My cheeks flush. Does she know I went to The Craic? Does the whole family know?
“I’m fine,” I say automatically.
“Erin.” Her voice is kind but firm. “You don’t have to pretend with me.” She smiles in a way that makes me feel weirdly emotional. “We’re going to be sisters.”
Why haven’t I thought of that before now? She’s right, of course. I’m not just marrying Cavin. I’m marrying into the whole family. I’ll have sisters and, for the first time in my life… brothers.
Oh god.
“I don’t know if I’m fine,” I admit quietly. “I don’t know what I am. It’s just a bit much.”
She nods slowly. “That’s fair. This is… a lot. All of it.”
“Did Cavin send you?” The question comes out sharper than I intended.
“No.” She reaches into her handbag and pulls out an envelope—a thick manila envelope that looks stuffed full. “Well, yes and no. He asked me to bring you this.”
She hands me the envelope.
It’s heavy. Substantial.
“What is it?” I ask, though something in my gut already knows.
“Open it.”
My fingers fumble with the clasp. I pull out the contents, and my breath catches.
Money. Stacks of it. Euros, neatly bundled in groups of five hundred.
“What—” I can’t finish the sentence.
“It’s eighteen thousand euros,” Bronwyn says quietly. “He wanted you to have it.”
I stare at the money in my lap like it might bite me. “Why?”
“He said to tell you it’s wedding money. For shopping, or whatever you need. But Erin…” She leans forward, her blue eyes intense. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
“It’s his fight purse. From the other night.”
The room tilts slightly. “His what?”
“He went to the ring… after whatever happened at the club. He fought Tommy O’Sullivan and won. This is what he earned.”
My mind races. I saw him. I saw him in that ring, bare-chested and bloody, fighting like something feral and beautiful and terrifying. I left quickly because I couldn’t process what I was feeling.
But I could’ve watched Cavin fight forever.
“He gave me his fight money?” My voice sounds small.
“All of it. Every cent.” Bronwyn’s expression is soft. “He made me promise to tell you it was from me. That it was family money or wedding money or whatever would make you take it.”
“But you’re telling me the truth.”
“Because you deserve the truth.” She reaches out and touches my hand.
“Erin, my brother is… complicated. He’s rough and violent, and he’s done things that would horrify you.
But he’s also…” She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
“He’s trying. In his own broken way, he’s trying.
And soon, you’ll be his. His to protect.
I think this is one way of him doing that.
He probably knows that even though your family has money, it isn’t necessarily yours. But this is.”
She rises. “Have some fun with it, Erin. Do some shopping.”
“Buy some of the fancy yarn and the nice puzzles, hmm?” I say, then quickly wish I could take the words back. Was that too awkward? But she only laughs, kisses my cheeks, and heads to the door.
“I’m sorry, I need to go. Just wanted to give this to you in person.”
I stare at the money. I know exactly what I’m going to do with it. And I smile to myself.
I may have a little hobby I’ve kept all to myself.
Later that night, he texts.
Cavin
I want to take you to dinner
I freak out and quickly text him back.
No. I’m busy.
It’s a lie though.
He tries again the next day, and I feel guilty as fuck. Maybe it is a good idea. Maybe we can at least find a way to pretend that we like each other for something like this.
Cavin
I’m not asking, Erin
I can still see him standing in the ring, sweaty and scarred—the first time I’ve seen my future husband bare-chested after a fight. I knew when he was in school, he fought, but I never witnessed it. I didn’t like violence.
But now—now, it affects me in a way I never anticipated.
He was magnificent. Terrifying. Beautiful in the most dangerous way possible.
The scars mapped across his torso told stories I’d never heard—white lines across his ribs, a puckered mark near his collarbone that looked like a stab wound, the evidence of broken bones healed wrong.
His body was a history of violence, and under the lights, slick with sweat and spattered with blood, he looked like some ancient warrior marked with tribal ink.
But it wasn’t just his appearance. It was the way he… moved.
I’ve never seen anything like it. Every punch was calculated, precise. He read his opponent three moves ahead, slipping strikes that should have connected, countering with devastating accuracy. There was an intelligence to his violence, a genius to the brutality that made it almost an art form.
He didn’t just overpower his opponent. He dismantled him. Systematically. Beautifully. Ruthlessly.
And I couldn’t look away.
My heart pounded in my chest, my breath coming short. When his fist connected, that sickening thud of knuckles on flesh should have made me flinch. Should have made me turn away.
Instead, I leaned forward.
Heat flooded through me, pooling low in my belly.
My breasts felt heavier, my pulse racing.
My skin felt too tight. Every brutal hit, every display of raw power, sent electricity skittering down my spine.
I was afraid of him in that moment—truly afraid of what he was capable of—and somehow, that fear tangled with desire until I couldn’t separate them.
This was who Cavin really was beneath the expensive suits and measured words. This violence, this power, this absolute dominance wasn’t a side of him. It was his foundation.
And god help me, I wanted it. I wanted him. But here’s what truly undid me: I realized, watching him in that ring, that when he’s with me, he cages all of that.
Every touch has been controlled. Every kiss measured. Even when he’s angry with me, even when I went into the club and he was furious, he held himself back. That massive, devastating force that could break a man in half, and nearly did, treats me… differently.