Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Cavin
The dining room feels too stuffy, too formal. All gold and noise and too bright for the hour. Light reflects off the silverware, and for a second, I wonder if this is what Erin sees.
She blinks when it’s too bright and flinches at loud sounds.
And now, I feel it too.
I don’t want to fucking be here.
Everyone’s in place. My brothers and sisters. My cousins—Declan, Daire, Ashland, Colm, Donovan, and Lorcan. We’ve other men in the clan but have kept it to family tonight.
The room is full but silent, tension-packed like gunpowder. Erin’s mother shoots her a warning look across the table, and I feel it, the echo of my own childhood—disciplined, polished into silence.
Behave. Remember that your presence reflects on all of us.
I love my family, I truly do, but they’ve been hard.
My father always said he held us to standards we’d be grateful for one day. And Seamus stepped into that role without missing a beat.
He sits to our father’s right, and Declan sits next to him.
Where Seamus is bound by rules, I’m led by loyalty.
My cousin Declan has neither. He’s done unforgivable things for reasons we understand and doesn’t do anything by halves.
He’s watching Erin’s parents with undisguised curiosity and suspicion.
Declan’s the kind of man who’d drag a rival boss into the street at noon just to make a point.
Then there’s Daire—the youngest, reckless. Doesn’t speak unless he has something to really say.
Colm's eyes meet Erin's directly—no hesitation, no judgment in them—just steady assessment, like he's reading a ledger. Then he nods once, respectful. He’s brutal in his own right, but brutality tempered with brilliance.
Cousin Ashland shifts in his seat when I say Erin's name, the barest movement, but I catch it. His eyes stay fixed on the table in front of him, his shaved head glinting in the overhead lighting, jaw taut. He's biting his tongue. Good. He learned that lesson at least.
His brothers Lorcan and Donovan sit further down. Donovan smiles when he catches my eye. His are pale and almost colorless, scary to most. But he’s older and married, sort of a big brother to me.
My younger sister Kyla sits between Mam and Bronwyn. Kyla’s made of iron but never bends. With her deep red curls, unruly and defiant, she’s my grandmother’s legacy.
Then there’s Bronwyn, Kyla’s opposite in every way. Delicate, almost angelic. Her face is rounder, gentler. A flush of pink blooms when she’s embarrassed or emotional.
Seamus nods to the two empty chairs. One at the McCarthy end, one that bridges both sides of the table. Erin’s and mine.
Great.
Excellent.
Exactly what I don’t want.
I can’t fuckin’ believe she didn’t know.
I can still feel the sting on my palm from the right good spanking she earned. What I’d give to take her to The Craic and punish her properly…
“Welcome,” Mam says. Da’s hand covers hers—larger, rougher, and protective. “Have a seat, love,” she says to Erin. “Did you enjoy your tour?”
Erin looks at me before she speaks. “I did,” she answers plainly. “Especially outdoors.”
If there’s one thing I’ll give the lass, it’s this—she’s sincere. No poker face to save her life.
I wonder if she enjoyed the tour of her nose pressed up against the wall with my hand across her arse.
“Your house is beautiful,” Erin says. “I absolutely adore it. I could stay outside for hours.”
The girl’s always been that way. The only time I ever saw her get in trouble at St. Albert’s was for staying out too long, slipping past curfew to feel the rain on her face. Not for breaking rules but for refusing walls.
“Thank you,” Mam says. “I can’t take credit for the garden. My mother-in-law did it, you know. It was her little sanctuary.”
“I can see why,” Erin says softly.
Erin’s uncomfortable, of course. Can’t blame her for that. Even if she grates on me, even if she’s a thorn in every conversation, she’s been tossed into the lion’s den without a weapon or a warning, and I don’t envy her that.
I pull out her seat for her, and she nods her gratitude but doesn’t meet my eyes.
Seamus raises his glass. “A toast,” he says, voice steady and measured. “Tonight we let bygones be bygones, and look to the future.”
Erin shoots a glance at her mother, who doesn’t look at her.
“To the future,” Seamus repeats, and the table echoes it back.
To the future.
The fucking future.
Erin’s staring at me.
“Pick up your glass,” I whisper, irritated that she’s not playing her damn part.
She does, but she fumbles and knocks it over. Red wine spills like blood across the white tablecloth.
“Oh no—”
“It’s nothing, lass, don’t worry,” my mother says quickly, as Erin’s mother’s eyes blaze, as if Erin’s existence is a personal betrayal.
Even I want to slap her mother for looking at her like that.
Mam waves a hand, and in seconds, staff appear to mop up the mess.
“Could’ve found another way to tell them you don’t drink,” I quip, but it falls flat. Declan’s the only one who snickers, but Erin’s face flushes. She looks like she wants to disappear under the tablecloth.
Maybe she’s not Miss Perfect after all.
I pour her another glass.
“No, thanks. I actually don’t drink. I’m sorry,” she whispers.
“For what?” I whisper back.
“For spilling my glass.”
Great. So we’re pretending that’s what this is about.
“It was an accident. It’s fine,” I say, my voice tight.
The old men are deep in discussion now, throwing around routes and partnerships. Ports in Greece. Western harbors. Talk of linking the Belfast lanes.
Does she know she’s the bridge they’re using to build all of it?
While they negotiate their future, I slide a dish her way. I don’t give a fuck about the routes. I know my role and play it well.
“I’m sorry,” she says again.
“It’s fine,” I mutter. Why’s she still fuckin’ apologizing? “Have some bread.” I pass her the bread basket.
“Oh… thank you,” she says shakily.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her in a whisper so only she can hear. “You’ll learn the rhythm soon. Smile when they drink. Laugh when they boast.”
My fingers brush hers as I refill her water glass, and Christ, there it is again—that dark pull I've no business feeling.
She’s here because she has to be.
Just like me.
We work through salad and appetizers while they finalize the deal. Her coast will become my roots. Our lives signed, sealed, and sold before dessert arrives.
She hates me for it. Good. That’s easier. At least I know where I stand.
Her hand moves under the tablecloth. That counting thing. Tapping, always tapping.
I let her… for now.
Why does she do that? It makes me want to reach over, grab it, and squeeze until she stops. Until she’s still. Until she sees me.
She makes me feel like a fucking bear, like she expects me to bite her.
I have no plans to do that.
Not yet, anyway.
I stand up from the table. “Seamus. A word.”
All eyes snap to me. Good. Let me be the awkward one for once.
Seamus rises, dabs his mouth with his napkin, and folds it with military precision. Then he nods toward the exit door that leads to the hallway. We step outside together while my mother picks up the conversation.
“What is it?” Seamus asks, his voice low, calculating. He knows I wouldn’t interrupt dinner unless I had a damn good reason.
“I took Erin on a tour of the estate before dinner like Mam asked, and mentioned our betrothal, like you said. The one that she knows nothing about, Seamus.”
“I—” Seamus starts, then stops. His brow creases. “She didn’t know what the fuck you were talking about?”
I nod once, watching his eyes widen as he rakes a hand through his hair.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ…”
“I know.”
“Why does she think she’s here?” he mutters, more curious than concerned. “Some kind of formal dinner? A get-to-know-you thing, maybe? Friends?” He shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “Oh my god.”
“Don’t bring it up at dinner,” I say.
I don’t know why I say it. I just know that if he does, she’ll unravel, right here, in front of everyone.
“Okay,” Seamus says, nodding. “I can do that. Why?”
“Because I don’t think it’s fair to her, putting her on the spot like that…” I trail off. My jaw tics. “I wouldn’t want that done to me.”
He glances at me, slow and knowing. “A soft spot for your betrothed…”
“No,” I snap. Then quieter, “Yes. Whatever. I just… I don’t think it’s fair. I’d fucking kill you if you did that to me.”
One of his brows rises, and I rein in my tone. He’s the head of the family now. I don’t talk back to him. Not outright.
“I’d want to kill you,” I amend, which isn’t much better, and he actually snorts. “If you sprung a betrothal on me at a goddamn dinner party.”
“Aye, right. Alright then,” he says. “So… after dinner, I’ll take her father for a smoke. Bit of whiskey. We’ll chat. Then we bring it up.”
“Aye. Sounds good.”
“Back inside before her mother loses her goddamn mind.”
He noticed too, then.
I mutter under my breath, reentering the dining room.
Erin still looks like a deer caught in headlights—eyes wide, frozen—her knife buttering the same piece of bread for what has to be five minutes now.
“Erin,” my mother says, gentle. “What’d you do for work? Remind me.”
“I’m the bookkeeper for—” Erin starts, too fast. Her voice trips over the words, too eager to fill the silence.
Mam’s gaze warms. “Take your time.”
Erin nods too quickly. “Right. Yes. I-I manage the ledgers for the warehouses along the western coast. The imports, exports, the taxes, well, not the real taxes, obviously, but the collections, and the shipments. I track the whiskey barrels, and the—”
“Erin,” her mother cuts in, a warning in her tone.
But Erin keeps going, momentum carrying her past sense. “There’s a discrepancy in the Limerick accounts. I think someone’s double invoicing, but no one listens when I—”
Tink.
The sharp tap of metal against glass freezes her mid-sentence. Tara doesn’t raise her voice. Silence stretches, heavy and hot.
I lean back in my chair and watch Erin curiously, elbows resting loose on my knees.