Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Erin
To be honest, the only thing keeping me here in this car is my sister.
The last doctor’s visit gave her six months. Six months to live—unless something drastically changes.
The beautiful thing about free healthcare is that it’s free. The terrible thing about free healthcare is that it means waiting.
Waiting so long, you start forgetting what it feels like to hope, and in some cases, the treatment comes after it’s already too late.
So here I am, in the back of the car.
Da is driving, with Mam next to him, her hands folded in her lap.
Me—sitting in the back, itching to count something. Anything.
I need an anchor. A number. A rhythm.
Something to stop me from focusing on the way this dress clings to my skin like a second layer of sweat. Moisture pools beneath my breasts, between my thighs, making me feel filthy and exposed.
I want to claw at my skin. Rip the fabric away. Scream.
Instead, I count.
One. Two. Three. Four.
It’s too much. Way too much.
I don’t know how to claw my way out of this space.
“Stop making that face,” my mother snaps. “You look like you’re about to have an accident or something.”
“What?” My cheeks flush hot. “What are you talking about?” I shake my head.
“Your face is all scrunched up like that, and I—”
“Tara,” my da cuts in, placing a hand on her wrist. “Leave her alone. You know how she is.”
And somehow… that hurts even more than her chiding. Like I’m broken and defective, something to be managed.
My throat tightens. I dig my nails into my palms until it hurts.
Better. Pain I can control.
I swallow hard. I can’t think of that, not now.
I hope Bridget knows how much I love her.
I hope whatever negotiations they’re planning tonight are worth it.
They better be fucking worth it.
“Oh my,” Mam mutters under her breath. “It does look sort of majestic in this light, doesn’t it?” She can’t hide the jealousy in her tone as we pull up to the McCarthy estate. The McCarthy estate, famous in Ballyhock and the surrounding towns as well.
Floodlights burst across the gravel, lighting our path in harsh, golden stripes.
And for a second… I forget everything.
I forget the cologne.
The sweaty dress.
The pinched shoes.
My mother’s sharp, needling voice.
Because the McCarthy estate is stunning.
It swallows the landscape… swallows me whole.
“Property’s worth fifty million euros,” my da mutters.
“I can see why,” I say with a sigh.
My mother rolls her eyes, lips pursed tight.
“Mam, I thought you were friends with Caitlin McCarthy?”
“I am.” She clears her throat. “She’s a very nice person… but she didn’t build this or anything.” She waves a hand toward the house.
“No one said she did,” I reply, giving her a look. “What a weird thing to say.”
“She’s too nice,” my mom mutters. And I know exactly what she means.
She doesn’t play games. Doesn’t bluff or bite.
Good.
Caitlin and I are probably going to get along just fine.
“Fifty million euros,” I say again, shaking my head.
“They say it was worth eleven when the McCarthy family bought it,” Da adds. “When Keenan McCarthy became the head of the clan, they expanded it so family could stay close. Close-knit clan, they say.”
Indeed.
“All of them still live here?” I ask.
“Some moved on. Some live in the nearby village. But yes, a few still have residence here. Bronwyn. Kyla. The single lads. And though Seamus has a place with his wife… Cavin’s still here.”
My blood goes cold.
Cavin fucking McCarthy.
The boy who made me cry in bathroom stalls.
The man who carried me out of a bombing like I weighed nothing. Like I was something precious.
My pulse kicks up just thinking about his hands on me, his voice in my ear.
Christ, what’s wrong with me?
Great.
“Why is he here?” My voice tightens. “Isn’t he, like, twenty-eight?”
Two years older than I am. I know that much.
“He moved back home after his release from prison,” my da says quietly.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Right. Didn’t want to keep up his property while in prison, so now he’s back. Working the estate.”
My lips flatten into a hard, thin line.
Well.
If Cavin McCarthy needs me to play nice for one family dinner… I can do that. For one night.
I can smile. I can nod. I can forget the way he used to look at me. The way he made me feel. The way his voice sounded like a threat, no matter how he talked to me.
Maybe he’s changed.
God.
As if.
He was an evil son of a bitch… and there’s no way in hell he’s had a personality transplant.
Uniformed staff greet us as the car pulls up. One man steps forward to park it for us.
“Thank you very much,” my mother says, her tone sweet, her posture stiff. I can tell she’s impressed but pissed. They’ve got something she doesn’t.
“This is gorgeous,” I say, half under my breath. “Just look at it.”
The gardens stretch for acres. Cut hedges. Trellises. Old trees, bent like they’re praying. The greenhouse glows behind the main house like a buried lantern.
You can see how huge the place is from here—how many rooms, how many secrets.
“Stand up straight,” my mother hisses from the corner of her mouth. “Stop fidgeting, for god’s sake, Erin.”
I inhale slowly, then let it out through tight lips.
“And maybe you,” I murmur, “should stop being so phony.”
“What?” she snaps, just as the door opens.
Even my father smiles at that.
“Hello, hello.” Caitlin McCarthy stands framed in the doorway—tall, regal, her hair pinned in a tight silver bun. Her face is lined, but there’s still a glint of youth in her eyes. A smile so warm it makes your guard slip without warning.
I like her immediately.
There’s something about her, something that makes you want to be better—kinder, more human.
“Hi,” I say shyly as she extends her hand.
“And you must be Erin,” she says, smiling.
I swallow, then nod. “Yes. Pleased to meet you.”
Did I do that right?
“Come in, come in,” she says. “I’m so glad you could make it.”
“Your home is absolutely breathtaking,” I say sincerely. “I can only imagine how beautiful the gardens must look in daylight.”
I stand there in awe, my jaw slack, and my mother shoots me one of those looks to stop gawking.
But I can’t help it. It’s stunning. I love it. It’s the kind of house that makes you want to play hide-and-seek, or go set up a tripod in the front yard and take pictures or paint.
It makes me want to throw my hands in the air and spin like some idiot in a fairy tale. Just to take it all in, the majesty of it.
“Thank you so much,” Caitlin says. “My mother-in-law, Maeve, God rest her soul, took such good care of the place.” She smiles at me. “You know, Cavin's out in the garden. Maybe he could show you around?”
Cavin. Why Cavin? Doesn’t she have like five or six other children who could do the job? Why do I have to be alone with my high school tormentor?
I can still hear the way he’d mock me, the sneer in his tone, not even bothering to hide his open disdain.
“Careful, Little Miss Perfect, you might trip on your own thoughts.”
“That would be lovely,” I say with a polite smile. “But you don’t have to do that—I don’t want to invade your privacy.”
“Wouldn’t be an invasion at all,” she says, smiling slyly. “Especially with our arrangement.”
Arrangement?
What arrangement?
My stomach drops. My hands go ice cold. I press them flat against my thighs to stop them from shaking.
What did they agree to without telling me?
She smiles and turns toward the door.
I give my mother a sharp look, but she won’t meet my eyes.
Our arrangement? What the hell is she talking about?
My father clears his throat just as a distinguished man in a charcoal-gray suit rounds the corner.
I can tell he was handsome once, probably a heartbreaker in his day.
Silver hair now, but his face still carries the evidence: deep smile lines around his eyes, posture like an old soldier, quiet authority.
“Welcome,” he says warmly. “Pleased to meet you, Erin. Keenan McCarthy.”
I’ve heard of this family. Their history’s become part of Ballyhock lore for generations. How Keenan found Caitlin, the lighthouse keeper’s daughter, and took her as his own. How his father’s death left him seated on the throne as leader of the clan until he retired. I wonder why.
And I wonder why the McCarthys seem so damn happy to see me?
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” I say, nodding, taking his hand.
I know how to play the good girl. Don’t know how to shut off the constant buzz of anxiety, but I can fake it, at least for a little while.
He escorts us into a sprawling reception room. Staff in uniform hold trays delicately in gloved hands.
There are so many people.
My stomach flips until I spot Bronwyn.
She has to be the youngest. She looks… approachable. Kind, even. When our eyes meet, she offers a broad smile and a little wave.
Just like that, I can breathe a little easier again.
She’s standing next to another woman though. And that one? Not so friendly.
I try to piece it together.
Seamus McCarthy is easy to spot. Everyone knows him, the man they call The Undertaker.
He’s got a younger woman on his arm, and she wears a wedding band. That must be his wife. Someone said he married a Russian princess. Zoya something?
I know one of their brothers is still incarcerated, though Cavin was recently released…
What arrangement?
They always tell me I get hyperfixated.
But who wouldn’t?
Who wouldn’t get hyperfixated when the word arrangement gets tossed around with families like ours?
We drove an hour, no stops, just to “discuss the possibility of some form of alliance.”
I said I’d be friendly, said I’d play nice because Bridget’s worth it.
After her last incident, with blood loss so bad she nearly didn’t make it, they gave her an infusion and sent us home, where we have twenty-four-hour care.
The problem is, when my sister bleeds, it doesn’t stop like it’s supposed to.
Ironic, isn’t it? That her disease is poisoned blood.
And blood is what ties us all together. My family. The McCarthys. Good blood, bad blood, and everything in between.
Before we left, my da made sure she was stable.
Of course he did. He loves Bridget.
He gives me a look now. That don’t-fuck-this-up kind of look.
Play nice, Erin.
And maybe I can.
But the last person on this planet I want to be alone with?
Cavin McCarthy.