Chapter 19 #2
But then something shifts in his expression.
His eyes scan the crowd behind me, sharp and assessing, and his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
It’s subtle—most people probably wouldn’t notice—but I do.
There’s a hardness there, a wariness that doesn’t match the easy conversation we were just having.
“What is it?” I ask.
His gaze snaps back to me, and he forces a smile. “Nothing. Just keeping an eye out.”
“For what?”
“Everyone,” he says simply, but the way he says it makes my skin prickle. “Everything.” Like he’s expecting something, and he doesn’t trust anyone here.
Before I can ask more, a crowd of younger girls eyes him with nothing short of adoration. I remember how, back in St. Albert’s, the girls there would have worshipped him like he was some kind of hero.
“Put that away,” one of them hisses quietly, looking nervously over her shoulder at Cavin. “He’s right there.”
I give him a curious look. “Are they hiding something from you? They’re shite at doing it if they are.”
“I don’t know,” he says, and there’s that edge again in his voice. He stalks over, hands in his pockets. “What are we looking at over here?”
Their eyes go wide, and they step back.
“Nothing,” one says.
“Hand it over.” His voice brooks no argument.
Someone hands him the phone, and he scans it, his eyes quickly going dark, actually dark—like something twisted and violent just woke up inside him.
“Who the fuck posted that?” he growls.
Oh no. Not another one.
“Don’t know. Whoever manages the St. Albert’s account—”
“What is it?” I ask him. “Another stupid post? Not worth getting upset about, Cavin.”
Now at the doorway, his cousin Declan walks over. “Right. Find out who the fuck is running the St. Albert’s account. We need to have a word with them,” Cavin growls.
“Come here, Erin.”
He gestures to the girl with the phone. “Take this picture.”
He puts his mouth to my ear, and it feels intimate and warm despite the tension radiating off him. I feel a flush creep over my cheeks.
“Smile for me, yeah?” he murmurs. “Let’s show them all you’re not bothered.”
I do. I smile. And he turns and kisses me like I'm the only person in his world as she takes a picture of us together.
“There,” he says. The girl shows us the picture. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
It is. It’s actually beautiful. Moving, even. We look… we look like we’re in love.
“Post that,” he tells Declan. “Make sure everyone sees it, and tell them Erin Kavanagh is mine.”
“Aye.”
“Well done, McCarthy.” My cousin Shane approaches and shakes Cavin’s hand with a hard slap to the back that seems customary for men, but makes me flinch. He smiles at me and gives me a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “Congrats, Erin.”
“Y’alright?” Cavin asks in my ear.
“Aye,” I whisper, but my throat feels tight, my breathing ragged. “There are just so many people. Why are there so many people?”
“Aye,” he says with a sigh. “McCarthys plus Kavanaghs could field a right good football team, if we were of a mind.”
That makes me smile. “We could, but the ref would have his cards out before kickoff, knowing this lot.”
When we’re alone again, or as alone as we can be in a crowd like this, I study him.
Really look at him. The way his eyes never stop moving.
The way he positions himself so that his back is never to the room.
The way his hand rests on the small of my back, but his body is coiled tight, ready to move.
“You’re always watching, aren’t you?” I say softly.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see something raw there. Something that looks almost like fear, though I’m not sure Cavin McCarthy is capable of that emotion.
“Have to,” he says simply. “It’s how you stay alive.”
The words send a chill through me because he’s not being dramatic. He means it. He’s lived in a world where one moment of inattention could mean death. Maybe he still does.
“Is that what it was like?” I ask carefully. “In prison?”
His jaw tightens, and for a second, I think he won’t answer. But then he nods, just once. “Every fucking day, Erin. Every day you wake up, wondering if it’s the day someone decides you’re more useful dead than alive. And you learn quick that the only person you can trust is yourself.”
“That sounds… lonely.”
“It was.” His eyes soften slightly. “But maybe it doesn’t have to be anymore.”
I know. I understand.
I’m lonely, too.
Before I can respond, a voice calls out. “Cavin! There you are.”
We both turn to see an older man approaching, maybe in his early fifties, with graying hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
He’s wearing an expensive suit, but there’s something about the way he carries himself that seems less predatory than most of the people here. More… genuine, somehow.
“Dr. Rosenberg,” Cavin says, and I hear genuine warmth in his voice. “Good to see you, mate.”
My heart stops.
Dr. Rosenberg.
Oh my god. That’s him. That’s the doctor who could save Bridget.
And he’s here. Right here.
Mam was right.
“And this must be your fiancée,” Dr. Rosenberg says, extending his hand to me with a smile. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you, Miss Kavanagh.”
I take his hand, trying not to let my shock show. “It’s lovely to meet you, Dr. Rosenberg,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. “Cavin’s told me about you as well.”
I’m stretching the truth, but I know who this man is. I know what he could mean for Bridget.
“Liam’s one of the best doctors in the UK,” Cavin says, his hand warm on my lower back. “Saved my uncle’s life a few years back when no one else could figure out what was wrong with him.”
“Oh, I just did my job,” Dr. Rosenberg says modestly, but there’s pride in his eyes. “Though I must say, it was a challenging case. Took nearly six months to get the diagnosis right.”
Six months. The thought hits me like a punch to the gut, but I force myself to smile.
“Your work must be fascinating,” I say, and I hear the slight tremor in my voice. “I’ve read about some of your research. The work you’re doing with patients who have complex hematological conditions—it’s really remarkable. Groundbreaking, even.”
Dr. Rosenberg’s eyebrows rise, and I see genuine surprise—and interest—flash across his face. I’m guessing most people don’t know the details about the work he does. “You’ve done your homework. Most people’s eyes glaze over when I start talking about blood disorders.”
“I know someone,” I start, then stop myself. Not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people.
But Dr. Rosenberg is watching me with those kind, intelligent eyes.
“Well,” he says carefully, “if you ever want to discuss my work further, Miss Kavanagh, I’d be happy to. Cavin has my number.” He glances at Cavin. “You’ll pass it along?”
“Of course,” Cavin says, but there’s a question in his eyes when he looks at me. Have I said too much?
“Thank you,” I tell Dr. Rosenberg, and I mean it more than he could possibly know. “That would be wonderful.”
He gives me a warm smile, shakes Cavin’s hand again, and melts back into the crowd.
The moment he’s gone, Cavin turns to me. “Alright. What was that about?”
“What do you mean?”
“Erin.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost when I introduced him. And that bit about reading his research? You weren’t just being polite.”
I swallow hard, debating how much to tell him. But he’s going to be my husband. And if there’s anyone who might actually be able to help me get Bridget in to see Dr. Rosenberg…
The bruising and bleeding aren’t getting any better. My sister’s running out of time.
We’re interrupted by someone calling Cavin’s name—some business associate wanting to talk about investments or politics or whatever it is these people discuss when they’re not busy destroying lives.
“Mr. McCarthy!” The man is tall and barrel-chested, with a red face that suggests too much whiskey and too many rich meals. “Been wanting to catch you. Need to discuss the developments in—”
“Not now, Finnegan,” Cavin says smoothly, but there’s steel underneath the politeness.
“But it’s important—”
“I said not now.” Cavin’s voice drops lower, more dangerous. “I’m with my fiancée. Whatever you need can wait until Monday.”
Finnegan’s face gets redder, but he backs off with a mumbled apology.
“Christ,” Cavin mutters once he’s gone. “This is exactly why I fucking hate these things.”
“Because people want to talk business?”
“Because everyone wants something from you, and they don’t care if you’re in the middle of a conversation or eating dinner or taking a piss. They just want, want, want.” He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the carefully styled look. “It’s exhausting.”
I understand that feeling more than he knows.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand again. “Let’s get you out of here for a minute.”
“We just got here.”
“And I’m already done with it.” His mouth quirks. “Perks of being the groom—I can leave whenever the fuck I want.”
He’s lying, of course. We both know we can’t actually leave, but I appreciate the sentiment.
He leads me through the crowd, and I notice the way people part for him. The way they watch him with a mixture of respect and fear. The way even the most powerful men here give him a wide berth.
And somehow, that makes me feel safer than I have in years.
I like being with the scary one.
We end up in a hallway that’s blessedly quiet, away from the main party.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know how you do this all the time.”
“Practice,” he says. “And a healthy amount of not giving a fuck what people think. This way,” he says, leading me down a long corridor, past a bunch of flittering faces.
“If you want to get out of the crowd and you don’t want them to stop you, you have to act like you’re walking with purpose.
” He says it with a smile. “Hold your head up, Erin,” he says, guiding me toward the exit. “This way. Left.”
A couple of people are bold enough to try to stop us, but he only gives them a little smile and a shake of his head, gesturing toward where we’re going. We have somewhere to be, somewhere important, and nobody’s going to interrupt us. Not now. That’s very clear.
Finally, we find ourselves in the kitchen.
“Why are we in the kitchen?” I say with a smile, shaking my head.
The staff is busy, but we’re at the far end near the refrigerator, and they’re all clustered by the industrial ovens. Trays are clacking, overhead lights bright, but here in the corner, it’s quiet. Private.
“Christ.” He loosens his tie, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. “It’s worse than I expected.”
“What is?”
“Anxiety,” he says, and the admission seems to cost him. “Didn’t used to be like this before.” He shakes his head, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Christ, Cavin. We’re supposed to be married, remember? You’re supposed to be able to tell me these things. Before what?”
He looks at me for a long moment, something dark and haunted crossing his features. “Before I went to prison.”
The words hang between us.
He exhales roughly. “Didn’t mind the crowds before.
I could, you know, play along with it all.
But now? I can’t fuckin’ stand it. I don’t like that people disrespect personal space at events like this, you know?
And I get why we have to do it—it’s part of the game, right?
But I hate it. Don’t like being around people I can’t trust. Don’t like not knowing who’s planning something. ”
“You think someone’s planning something?” I ask carefully.
His eyes meet mine, and there’s no humor in them now. Only cold, hard certainty. “Someone’s always planning something, Erin. That’s how this world works.”
A chill runs down my spine—because he’s not wrong. And because I’m realizing that whatever happened to him in prison, whatever he saw or did or had done to him—it’s changed him. Made him harder. More paranoid.
More dangerous.
“Well, it’s one thing we have in common,” I say softly.
He lets out a breath and laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “Aye. I think it’s two, actually.”
“What would be the first?”
“I don’t know,” he says, and his eyes drop to my mouth. “I think we need to go back to The Craic to find that out. But I have my suspicions.”
Heat floods through me. “Oh dear god. Don’t tell me we’re going now, are we?”
“No,” he says with a laugh, and some of the darkness lifts from his expression. “No. You think I don’t have enough self-respect for that? I may not be a good man, Erin, but my parents raised me right. I’m a gentleman, and I’ll not take advantage of you before—” He shrugs. “Before I need to.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
My heart is thundering, and why do I feel this crazy need to tell him that it’s okay, that I want him to, that maybe I don’t want to have to dread our wedding night? Maybe I want this to be natural and not forced. Maybe I don’t want to feel like every choice in my life is being made for me.
But I don’t. I don’t tell him any of that.
Instead, I just nod, and he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is surprisingly tender.
“Come on,” he says. “Let’s get back out there before they send a search party. But stay close to me, yeah? Don’t let anyone pull you aside.”
“Why not?”
His jaw tightens. “Because I don’t trust any of these fuckers, and I’ll not have you alone with them.” He blows out a breath. “And to think we have to do this all over again in a matter of weeks.”
It should bother me, the way he’s being so controlling. But instead, all I feel is… safe. Protected. Like maybe, just maybe, I can trust him.
Even if I’m not entirely sure he trusts himself.
And something he said… makes a lightbulb go off in my head.
My mind spins and circles and puts pieces of the puzzle into place. The final one clicks.
“Cavin,” I say, resting my hand on his arm. “The absolute last thing I want to do is go home tonight, with my mother breathing down my neck planning this damn wedding. What if… what if we don’t have to wait for the wedding?”