Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Erin
I’m still catching my breath when Cavin comes back inside. He moves differently now—shoulders tense, jaw set, like he’s steeling himself for battle. I see the shadow of his oldest brother walk down the hallway and wonder what they talked about.
“Come on,” he says. His voice has lost the softer edge from earlier, when he let his guard down, probably without meaning to. “One more thing before dinner.”
He doesn’t wait to see if I follow. I trail after him through narrow hallways, watching the way his shoulders fill the doorway, the way his hand grips the banister as we climb the stairs.
I don’t want to notice these things, but my traitorous eyes keep cataloging details: the ink that disappears under his collar.
The flex of muscle in his forearms when he shoves a door open.
The way his jaw tightens when he looks back to make sure I’m still there.
Need to report back to Bridget, don’t I?
“Is that why you used to sneak behind the school?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Because you didn’t want to be indoors?”
He stops, then turns. The look he gives me could strip paint. “You don't want to admit it, do you? What you did. How you made my life hell.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “What?”
His mouth curls into something cruel. “I’m not who I was at St. Albert’s, Erin. And neither are you.” He tilts his head, steps closer, and his tone grows sharper. “Or are you? Still gonna run tattling? Still gonna act like you’re too good to breathe the same air as the rest of us?”
His voice is venom, but he’s closer now. So close I can count his eyelashes. See the scar through his eyebrow. Smell the whiskey on his breath.
So close that if I leaned forward an inch, our mouths would touch.
The thought makes heat flood between my legs, even as my cheeks flame.
No. Absolutely not.
“I’m not perfect,” I mutter, hating how my voice shakes. Hating how my fingers itch to tap. Hating how my body doesn’t know if it wants to run from him… or toward him.
“Aye… you thought you were, back then. Didn’t you?” His smile sharpens, his voice low and ragged. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you got me into?”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“How many beatings I took because of you? How many times I faced my da’s belt?”
Oh god. I didn’t know. Didn’t think—
“How many times Malachy made me kneel on stone until my knees bled? How many times Seamus beat the shite out of me in the ring to ‘teach me discipline’? All because you couldn’t keep your perfect little mouth shut.”
His eyes are black and furious, but then they drop to my perfect little mouth. Just for a second. Just long enough.
Something hot and wrong unfurls in my stomach, then lower.
My heart thunders.
He steps closer.
“I never meant to get you in trouble, Cavin,” I whisper. “I—”
“Don’t.” His voice drops to gravel. “Don’t fucking lie to me again. Not here. Not now.”
His eyes bore into mine.
I let out a shaky breath.
“They’ll ring the bell soon. The next floor is bedrooms.” He turns and walks up the stairs without looking back.
I follow, cursing myself for everything.
For the way my eyes track his shoulders.
For the way my pulse jumps when he stops and waits.
For the damp heat between my thighs that shouldn’t be there.
For wanting someone who hurt me.
For being so fucked in the head that his anger makes me wet.
“This one’s Seamus’s,” he says, gesturing. “He stays here when he’s working late.”
Then he opens another door, stepping aside so I can see inside. The room is massive. Dark wood. A bed that could fit four people. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the cliffs. “This is mine.” He pauses, his eyes meeting mine in unexpected challenge. “Ours, soon, I guess.”
He’s watching me, gauging my reaction.
“What?” The word escapes before I can stop it.
“Ours. We’ll stay here after the wedding.” He pauses, running a hand across the stubble on his jaw, and his voice drops lower. Wicked. “Break it in properly.”
Break it in.
Images flood my brain, unwanted and explicit.
Him. Me. That bed. Tangled sheets. His hands on my skin. His mouth on my—
Oh dear god.
I’m not marrying him.
“What are you talking about?” My voice comes out strangled. “You’re takin’ the piss, Cavin. What wedding?”
“Jaysus.” He drags a hand through his hair, muscles flexing. “Why are you surprised, Erin? Don’t tell me your parents didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?” My voice spikes, sharp and frantic, but I can’t stop staring at that bed… at the room that’s apparently going to be ours.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” He mutters it under his breath, but not soft enough. “The purpose of your visit? Why do you think you’re here? You think this is just a fucking estate tour?”
A bell rings somewhere behind us. “That’ll be Mam,” he says. “Dinner in five.”
The air shifts.
“What are you talking about?”
“What did I say that confused you?” His eyes are dark. Unreadable. “I thought you were the one with straight A’s. You knew everything back then.” He steps closer. Too close.
“We’re not in school anymore,” he says softly. “And no one’s grading us.”
I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the way heat pools low in my belly.
“What the hell are you talking about, Cavin? This is ridiculous.” I toss my head. “I don’t believe in marriage.”
Another step. He’s so close I’d have to put my hands on his chest to push him back. The thought alone makes my palms tingle.
He smells good. Looks good.
And I hate him.
So why does my body feel like a live wire?
“Don’t tell me you don’t know the real reason you’re here,” he growls. “Your fucking parents didn’t have the bollocks to say it?”
“Don’t you dare—” I start, but he leans in.
His breath ghosts across my cheek. “No one told you?” he says. “You really thought this was just dinner?”
“Of course I did!” I snap, but it comes out breathless. Wrong. “We’re supposed to make friends with you. That’s it. We have to—” I stop myself. Too much. I’ve said too much.
His eyes narrow. “You were supposed to be polite to me.”
Heat floods my face. “Yes.”
He smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Well, if that’s your goal, you’re doing a terrible job.” He turns to leave.
“No.”
My fingers hook into the front of his shirt. I drag him back toward me.
He’s bigger, stronger, but I catch him off balance. He stumbles, and for one wild second, we’re chest to chest. His heart pounds against my knuckles before his hand shoots up and closes around my throat.
Not squeezing. Just holding. Just there.
A threat.
A promise.
“Let. Go.” His voice is raw and dangerous, but he doesn’t push me away.
His thumb finds my pulse and presses… feels it hammering.
“You’re terrified,” he murmurs. “Or turned on. Can’t tell which.”
Both.
I don’t respond.
His eyes flare, dark and hungry. “Fuck,” he growls.
His hand tightens on my throat. Just slightly. Just enough. And I feel it everywhere… the pressure, the heat.
His erection pressed against my belly.
Oh god.
He’s hard.
For me.
“What are you talking about, Cavin?” I demand, even though I’m shaking. Even though every nerve in my body is screaming at me to either run or close the distance. “What arrangement? What wedding?”
He stares at me for a long moment. “You're here because our families arranged a marriage.” A pause. “Between you and me.”
The world tilts.
He huffs out a breath without a trace of humor. “You never did have a poker face. You look like I just told you you’re marrying the devil himself.”
Marriage.
To Cavin McCarthy.
To the man standing in front of me right now, whose hand is still wrapped around mine, whose eyes are still burning into me like he wants to… What? What does he want?
The bell rings again—sharp and shrill, echoing down the hall like a countdown.
“I can’t fucking believe they didn’t tell you.” He shakes his head, but his grip on my hand tightens. “We have to go. My mother gets impatient when that bell rings.” His voice drops. “And you’ve already gotten me in enough trouble for a lifetime.”
I wrench my hand free and stumble back.
I’m still wearing his fucking coat. I rip it off and throw it at his face. Hard. He catches it one-handed and doesn’t even flinch.
Then he moves, fast, before I can react. His hand closes around my wrist and spins me. My chest hits the wall.
“That,” he growls in my ear, “was a fucking mistake.”
Oh god. I push, struggle, but can’t get away from him. “Let go of—”
Smack.
His palm connects with my arse, hard, through the thin fabric of my dress. The sound echoes down the hallway, and the sting blooms hot. I gasp and try to twist away. He holds me in place with one hand pressed between my shoulder blades.
The other—smack.
“You want to act like a brat? In my house?” His voice is gravel. “I told you we’re going to be married, Erin. You will learn to respect your husband.”
Smack.
Oh god.
Heat floods through me, and not just where his hand landed. Everywhere.
“Stop—”
Smack.
“That’s not your safe word.” His breath is hot against my neck. “You haven’t earned one yet.”
My dress has ridden up, so the next smack lands on bare skin, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning.
“Feel that?” he asks. His hand smooths over the burning skin. Possessive. “That’s what happens when you throw things at me.” He leans in closer, his body pressed against my back. I can feel how hard he is.
“And Erin?” His hand slides up and grips my hip. “Next time, I won’t stop at five.” He releases me suddenly and steps back. I’m shaking. Burning. My arse stings, my thighs are slick, and I can’t—I can’t—
“Pick up my coat,” he orders. “Now.” I turn, glaring at him through the blur of tears and rage and something else I don’t want to name.
His eyes are black, his pupils blown and his jaw tight.
Cavin McCarthy is as affected as I am.
“Pick. It. Up.” I bend down slowly, my cheeks on fire, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. It was petulant of me to throw it at him. I’m not a child anymore.
His fingers brush mine when I hold it out to him. “Good girl,” he says softly, dangerously. “See how easy that was?” Then he drapes the coat over my shoulders again. “Keep it. You’ll need it.”
His thumb traces my jaw. “You’re shaking.”
“I hate you.”
”I know.” He leans in. His lips brush my ear. “But your body doesn’t. Does it?”
I open my mouth to protest, but I’ve forgotten how to speak.
His voice drops to a whisper, low enough that only I can hear.
“Do us both a favor tonight.” It doesn’t sound like a request, not the way he says it.
Not with his body angled toward mine like he’s caging me in without touching me, and the sting of his palm is still throbbing on my arse. “Pretend to like me.”
I stop breathing. “Why the hell would I do that?”
He holds my gaze for one more second—long enough that I see something dangerous flash in his eyes.
Long enough that I feel an answering pull low in my belly that I absolutely do not want.
“Because otherwise, they might call off the arrangement.
And we both need this marriage, don't we? You, for whatever reason brought you here. Me, for mine.”
He walks away, leaving me trembling against the wall with my arse on fire and heat pooling between my legs.
Bastard.
I freeze. Disbelief burns to fury, then burns to something I don’t have a name for.
He glances back once. There’s amusement in his expression, but also tension.
Conflict. He doesn’t like this any more than I do.
But the way he looked at me, like he wanted to devour me and destroy me in equal measure.
I press my palms against the cool wall and try to remember how to breathe.
Cavin McCarthy, my… husband?
What just happened?