Chapter 5 #2
Then he steps back, creating distance and leaving me cold again, but… burning.
“I don’t—”
“Just wear it. I promise I’m only being nice because my parents taught me to be a gentleman. It’s nothing personal.”
Fine, then. It’s almost as comfy as my oversized jumper.
Cavin stands beside me, his hands jammed into his pockets. He doesn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he stares through the large arch-shaped window that overlooks the ocean cliffs. Wind howls somewhere below, ripping through the trees like teeth.
I want to walk through those cliffs. Barefoot, maybe. Stand right at the edge, where the sea spits salt into your face and the rocks disappear into foam.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, honestly. It’s really stunning.
“Thank you.” Cavin gives the barest nod. He accepts the compliment with quiet gratitude, no smile. I might think it a peace offering if I were the kind of fool who believed in those.
“Is that Holy Family?” I ask, leaning just enough to see the tall steeple rising beyond the far edge of the garden.
“Aye.”
“Oh.” Interesting. Near Holy Family is the graveyard I’ve walked alone, time and time again, despite my mother’s warnings.
I don’t mean to laugh. It just bubbles up, bright, stupid, ill-timed. The kind of laugh my mother would slap clean out of my mouth.
Cavin whips his head toward me. His expression cuts like wire. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just that…” My cheeks flush, and I hate the heat of it. “Well, nothing.”
Why do I laugh when I shouldn’t? Why do I always choke in the moment and spit out something inappropriate?
“Say it,” he growls. His eyes narrow. “What’s so funny?”
“It’s just… ironic that a house like this backs right up to Holy Family. And… well, your family, and mine, to be clear, are anything but… holy.”
He studies me for a second too long, then huffs a bitter laugh and shakes his head. Mutters something I can’t make out—just enough to drag me back to childhood.
Back to that familiar sting. The kind where people laugh and you don’t know why. You laugh too late, too loud—you’re the butt of a joke you didn’t hear.
My fingernails scrape my palms when my hands fist. I’m not the little Goody Two-Shoes I was back then, cowered by the likes of him.
“Stop it,” I tell him. “We’re not at St. Albert’s anymore, Cavin.”
His eyes dart to mine, alert and cautious. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You can’t bully me like you did back then. Okay?”
He blinks as if surprised. Was it my words or my willingness to talk back to him that took him off guard?
“I didn’t fucking bully you,” he says quickly. “Don’t say that.”
The air goes too bright and too loud. The sound of my own breathing starts to grate.
I can’t look at him without my pulse kicking out of rhythm, and I hate that. So I start counting because I know how this works.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.
Seven light fixtures down this hallway.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.
Ten stairs to the landing.
One, two, three portraits on the wall.
Tap pocket.
One, two, three, four.
Something flickers across his expression that I can’t read, before he turns and walks away as if he didn’t just watch me fall apart in real time.
And I can still hear it—the echoes from childhood.
Why does she count like that?
Why does her nose twitch?
Why does she have to watch everything?
“Down here,” he says, like we didn’t just start in this hallway, and I’m not standing here raw and stimming in front of him.
Why Cavin? Why did his mother send him to give me the tour?
It could’ve been Bronwyn, or Seamus, or literally anyone else.
But it’s Cavin. Always fucking Cavin.
He tries to make small talk.
“How’s your sister?”
“Alright,” I say, too quickly. I’m surprised he remembered I had one.
He blows out a slow exhale.
“You still talk to anybody from St. Albert’s?”
“No,” I answer, too fast, too sharp, like I’ve rehearsed it. Like the idea of those people still clinging to me burns.
It does though. It really, really does.
He glances over his shoulder. Casual. Calculating.
“You?” I ask, trying to keep the tone light. Trying to match him beat for beat.
But truthfully? I want to know.
Does he still have the hassle of boys trailing behind him? Still worshipped like some twisted Peter Pan, leading them straight into a Neverland full of crime and consequences?
“I…” He hesitates, then shrugs. “Of course, I have to.”
Right. He’s mafia, isn’t he?
St. Albert’s wasn’t just a school but a training ground. And I guess while I carved out some space for myself and stayed in the shadows, he never had that luxury.
Why does that make me feel sorry for him?
I hate that it does.
He walks faster, like he needs to outpace the conversation. Doesn’t even look back to see if I’ll follow.
Maybe he’s just as unsettled as I am, but if he is… he hides it well.
How do people do that?
That stoic expression. That blank, untouchable calm. It feels like a goddamn superpower, like flying or walking through fire without flinching. And I wish I had it.
The corridor stretches long and endless.
My eyes drop lower, taking in the way his trousers fit. The shift of muscle in his thighs as he walks.
Christ, I need to stop, but I can’t.
I watch the way his shoulders move. The way his hands flex at his sides like he wants to reach for something.
Or someone.
Stop it, Erin. Stop.
My fingers twitch at my sides. I count the beats.
One, two, three, four… just to keep my hands from shaking.
“These portraits go back a few hundred years,” Cavin mutters. His voice is flat, like he’s reading rehearsed lines.
“I bet you’ve run out of wall space.”
“Not yet.”
A pause, heavy with silence.
He straightens his back every few paces, like he’s under inspection. But he’s not watching me; he’s watching the space between us. And when he does glance over, I don’t meet his eyes.
I stare at the floorboards.
Anything but his eyes.
Anything but those broad shoulders that dwarf my entire frame.
Anything but the way ink trails across his neck, or the way his hands look dangerous, masculine, and capable of both violence and tenderness.
“This way,” Cavin says, dropping down a narrow staircase that opens to a side door. “Let’s go outside before they ring the bell for dinner, yeah?”
I nod. Can’t trust my voice. Yes, please, I want out.
I feel like a fish on tile, gasping, thrashing, humiliated.
But when he opens the door and steps aside, gentlemanlike, letting me through first, it feels good. I take a deep breath.
I tell myself it’s just how he was raised, that it has nothing to do with me.
McCarthy boys—men—have always known manners, even when they’re cruel.
I mutter under my breath.
Whatever. You’re not a child anymore, Erin. You’re an adult. You’re not here to make friends.
I know the rules.
Be cordial. Be polite. Don’t fidget or ask too many questions. Better yet, try not to ask anything.
Do it for Bridget.
Outside, the light softens. The sun is setting behind the cliffs, casting gold over the edge of the water.
The wind carries the scent of salt and lilac. It’s—god, it’s beautiful. We walk a paved path lined with flowers.
“My god,” I whisper. “Is this where you let the fairies out?” I want the words back the second they escape. My cheeks flush, but he gives me a half smile.
“The fairies and sprites, my grandmother used to say. She said they lived here in the garden.”
He talks about his grandmother like she’s holy. Maeve McCarthy—known in our circles. Revered.
“What would they do out here?” I ask, then almost slap my own mouth shut.
Why would I say that out loud?
“I suppose… dance down to the graves of my ancestors,” he says with a dry smirk. “Because mischief gets you in trouble. Aren’t sprites trouble?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak again. But it does feel like a place built for fairies and sprites, as if the edge of a rainbow will touch down and turn the very ground beneath our feet enchanted.
He’s looking at me differently now.
Not like the girl he tormented… but like something else. Something I don’t have a name for.
His eyes drop to my mouth and stay there. My breath stutters.
“You always were… different, Erin Kavanagh,” he says quietly. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing.”
He turns and we keep walking, his hands deep in his pockets, his too-big jacket sliding off my shoulders but still warm.
We reach a greenhouse, and the air shifts—humid, lush, alive with breath and green. Plants crawl up trellises. Flowers bloom like secrets.
“So you don’t live on your own now. This where they send you when you get out of prison?” I ask.
Why did I say that?
His jaw clenches. “Better than where they send the ones who don’t come out.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.” He steps closer. “You want to know if I’m the same bastard who made your life hell? If prison changed me?”
My heart hammers. “Did it?”
“No.” Another step. He’s close enough now that I can feel his breath. “I’m worse.”
I should back away.
I don’t.
“Good,” I hear myself say. “At least you’re honest.”
His eyes darken. “Honesty’s all I’ve got left, lass.”
He laughs but barely. Just a breath. A crack in the armor. Music drifts from somewhere inside the house—soft and classical.
It hits me with the brutality of a backhand: music class.
Fucking music class. They put the upperclassmen in with the younger ones, and I hated it so damn much.
I mutter something under my breath. He catches it and gives me a sharp look.
This time, I don’t bother to stop my words. “You shoved my notebook in the fountain after music class.”
He doesn’t respond.
“You destroyed my notes.”
“Aye,” he says, quiet and honest. I wait for an excuse or an apology, but none comes.
I look away, embarrassed by my own trauma. My fingers start their traitorous rhythm—tap, tap, tap, tap.
This time, I hide the twitch behind my back.
I don’t want to go back inside where I don’t belong. I never belong—not here, not in my family, not at St. Albert’s. But especially not here.
“Let’s go back inside,” he says. “They’ll ring the bell soon.”
“I don’t want to,” I snap. It comes out too fast. Too loud. “I want to stay out here.”
When he looks at me in surprise, my face flames.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” He cuts me off. “Never apologize for honesty. Jesus, lass. The least you can give me is honesty.” The intensity in his voice makes my stomach flip. “Why don’t you want to go inside?” he asks, quieter now.
Why does he care?
“It’s—” My throat closes. “It’s too much. Too loud. Too many people. Too many…” I wave my hand, frustrated. “Everything.”
Why am I telling him this?
He’s watching me like he’s seeing something for the first time.
“I used to find you in the library,” he says slowly. “Hiding during lunch or assemblies.”
I nod.
He gives me that look, curious, maybe a little confused. We step through the heavy door. The hall lights hum and crackle above us. Somewhere far off, voices, low and blurred, like we’re underwater.
My senses are already on fire.
The dress scratches at my skin. The air smells like old wood and wax. The house is so cavernous I barely know where I am, and I hate not knowing where I am.
Cavin slows his pace, but doesn’t say why. Doesn’t mention the way I’m tapping at my pocket.
“Before we go inside… there’s a space I want to show you.” He leads me through a narrow hall to a balcony. When he opens the door, I can breathe again. It opens over the dark lawn and stone steps.
I breathe the cool, clean air in deep.
“See?” he says. “I get it.” A pause. “It’s not always nice inside, is it?”
I don’t answer, but my shoulders relax.
“When I was…” His voice drops, rough and jagged. “When I was in prison, I used to dream about this balcony. Every night. I’d try to open the doors, but they were always locked.” He shrugs. “I spend a lot of time outside.”
I glance at him. Something sharp twists under my ribs. “I know what it’s like,” he says quietly, “to not want to be indoors.”
The wind picks up, whipping my hair across my face.
Before I can move, his hand is there, his fingers brushing my temple and tucking the strand behind my ear. The touch is surprisingly gentle for a man whose family is known for violence.
Our eyes meet.
Neither of us moves.
There’s something else happening here. Something neither of us is saying.
A pull. A want.
A dare.
Who will break first?
His thumb traces my cheekbone just as the sound of voices echo from inside. The spell breaks, and he drops his hand like I’ve burned him.
“We should go,” he says.
As I follow him back inside, I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.
And I wonder if Cavin McCarthy might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever encountered.
Not just because he’s cruel, but because part of me wants him to touch me again.