Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Erin
We are a fucking disaster. Cavin's sprawled on the bed, blood dried on his knuckles, bruising already blooming across his ribs. There's a cut above his eyebrow—it hurts like hell and probably needs stitches.
I'm not much better with my scraped knees and bruised and cut-up wrists. Everything hurts.
“We need to move,” I say quietly.
“Shower, meds, bed.” He grunts, but doesn't open his eyes.
“Cavin.”
“Five more minutes.”
“You're bleeding on your fancy sheets.”
“Fuck the sheets.” But then he shifts anyway, wincing. “Christ.”
I drag myself upright, every muscle screaming. “Come on. Shower first. Then we'll find the pain meds.”
The bathroom is all marble and golden fixtures—wealth evident even in the smallest details. I turn on the shower, and steam immediately fills the space.
Cavin leans against the doorframe, watching me with hooded eyes. There's blood on his shoulders and streaked across his jaw.
“Can you stand?” I ask.
“Can you?”
“Fair point.”
We strip slowly, carefully. “Jesus, Erin.” He glances down at my torso—bruises, lots of them.
We step into the shower together. The hot water feels glorious, soothing sore muscles even while stinging every cut and scrape. Cavin hisses through his teeth.
“Steady,” I murmur.
“I’m grand.”
“Oh, you liar.”
I get him under the spray, letting the water wash away the worst of the blood. “I talked to Bridget,” I say quietly. “She's doing alright. I only told her a little—just a wee bit.” I steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “Lean on me. I don't want you falling and hitting your head again.”
He does, his weight settling against my shoulder. We stand there, letting the water wash away the evidence of tonight's violence.
I reach for the soap and start cleaning him gently. The cuts look raw and angry. He winces, but he's been through worse.
“You are not allowed to fight anyone, protect anyone, or go into the ring for like… forever.”
“That right, lass?” he asks with a smirk. “You’re the boss of me now?”
“I’m your wife.”
My hands move to his chest, careful around the worst of it. He flinches when I touch his ribs.
“Bruised or broken?”
“Bruised, probably.”
“We should get you checked out.”
“Later.” He leans on me and lets me keep washing.
When I'm done, he takes the soap from my hands. “My turn.”
His touch is gentler, reverent almost, like he's afraid I'll shatter. I feel like maybe I will.
When we're both clean, or as clean as we're getting, I turn off the water. We dry in silence, but he cups my jaw, rubbing his thumb over my lips. Then he leans down and presses his mouth to mine.
“My love, it's going to be alright. It's all going to be alright. No more tribute. No more debts. No more blackmail.”
“Aye. But my parents…”
He sighs. “I don’t suspect your mother was in on this. Your father was. You know the rules.”
I nod. I do.
“Exile or death. I’ll make sure it’s the first option. I’d bet anything your father’s selfish and desperate, not dangerous.” He kisses my cheek. “He doesn’t have an heir to his throne, so his only option would be a power move, like this.”
“Please, Cavin. Exile,” I whisper. “My father and I have never been close, but I can’t imagine what—what it would do to Bridget.”
“You have my word, love.”
He frowns when he gets a text. He turns his phone to show me. “It’s Kyla.”
Kyla
You told me to find out who was posting to the St. Albert’s account. Bronwyn and I have been on it. And it’s strange, Cav, but we discovered who. It’s the photographer from the wedding, brother. Him, and Donovan
He shakes his head. “Of course. God. The photographer? The one my cousin Donovan just happened to defend for no reason.”
“Oh god.”
Cavin shakes his head. “He was there the night my car was bombed, there the day Bronwyn was taken, there the day she came back, and we had no security feed.” He sighs. “You were right. I didn’t want to believe you, but you were right.”
I kiss his cheek. “Shh. Put it down now. It’s over.”
The pain medication is in his nightstand. I grab water from the bathroom and shake out pills for both of us.
“Here.”
We swallow them, then collapse back onto the bed. The sheets are ruined with blood, but neither of us cares.
He pulls me against his chest, careful of our injuries, and his arm comes around me. I rest my head on his chest, on the one spot that doesn't seem to hurt.
“Cavin.”
“Hmm?”
“I love you. And I'm sorry. So fucking sorry for everything that happened. For my father, the debt—”
“Stop.” His hand comes up, his fingers threading through my damp hair. “You've shown loyalty to me and to my family. You've nothing to apologize for.”
“He used me,” I say, my voice shaking. “Here I was, thinking my mam was the villain.”
“He did use you, and your father made his choices. He'll answer for them.”
I sigh.
“Your father will be leaving Dublin for good.”
The words should hurt more than they do, but all I feel is relief, and then… shame for feeling relieved.
“Where?”
“Don't know. And he won't get to tell you.” His thumb brushes my cheekbone. “He won't get to hurt you again.”
“Cavin—”
“Sleep, love. We've got a long day tomorrow.”
Tomorrow, we meet with Dr. Rosenberg at St. Vincent’s.
Morning comes too soon, gray light filtering through the windows of Ballyhock. I'm moving like I'm fucking ninety years old. Everything hurts.
“I've arranged something,” Cavin says over a cup of tea. “For Bridget.”
“What's that?”
“Dr. Rosenberg’s waiting to see us at St. Vincent’s, with Bridget.”
“Is she okay?”
“She’s grand, but the hospital is a better place for her to see him.”
“Right.” I squeeze his hand. “Thank you.”
We take Cavin's car to St. Vincent's. Every bump in the road is agony, and the pain meds barely touch it, but neither of us complains. It's worse for him than for me.
The hospital is busy—morning rounds, visiting hours just starting. A nurse directs us to a private room where Bridget's been moved.
There, standing beside her bed, is Dr. Rosenberg.
“Miss Kavanagh—ah, excuse me,” he says with a smile. “Mrs. McCarthy. Pleased to see you again.” He takes a look at Cavin. “Seems like you may need some medical attention as well.”
“I'm fine.”
“Hmm. You sure about that?”
“He's not, sir,” I say. “But I think he'll listen to reason after you see my sister.”
Cavin's hand squeezes mine. It hurts, but I welcome it.
“Take care of Bridget,” Cavin says. “Please.”
Dr. Rosenberg studies him for a moment. “Very well. Family first. I respect that.”
Bridget looks worse than I remembered. Her skin's got that translucent quality, with purple shadows under her eyes. But when she sees me, she smiles.
“Erin.”
“Hey, Bridget.” I cross to her, take her hand. It feels so small, so fragile. “How are you feeling, love?”
“Like shite,” she says weakly. “But better now that you're here. Christ, what happened to you two?”
“Oh, it's a fucking long story,” Cavin says. “Bridget, meet Dr. Rosenberg.”
The doctor clears his throat and smiles kindly. “Pleased to meet you. I specialize in cases like yours. Your sister's gone to considerable trouble to arrange this consultation, and I'm here to help. If you'll permit me, I'd like to review your case and determine the best course of treatment.”
Bridget's eyes widen. “You’re the doctor from Glasgow?”
“The same.” He pulls up a chair beside her bed, then opens a tablet. “Now then, let's see what we're up against, shall we?”
I watch from the corner as Dr. Rosenberg starts his examination, asking questions in that calm, clinical voice. Bridget answers as best she can, though she's clearly exhausted.
“I’m sorry about all the… drama,” I say to the doctor.
He waves a hand. “Been friends with the McCarthys for years. I know how things go.”
I nod. “If there’s anything I can do—”
The doctor smiles up at me. “As a matter of fact, there is.”
I wait expectantly as he tips his head at me. “I hear you knit these bulletproof hats…”