Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Cavin
I’m sitting on my bed—the big, cavernous bed that is soon to be occupied with an enemy.
I yank at the stupid tie and tug it off, tossing it next to me.
I know the McCarthy family rules like the back of my hand. I’m not only expected to marry her, I’m expected to take care of her, and I’m expected—god—expected to knock her up.
I’m tense. Dammit, I want some relief.
I want to go down to the club with my brothers, grab a woman or two or three, and relieve some of this tension. But I’m an engaged man now with an invisible noose around my neck. Better than another night of shite sleep fighting my demons.
I stand up and pace the room, my hands shoved into my pockets. Voices sound at the door outside my room, and then pass. My parents have long since gone to bed. Seamus and Zoya as well. They’ll probably go home tomorrow. Declan’s out, and Daire is too.
I text them.
Where are you?
Declan responds a minute later.
Declan
At the club. You?
Home.
I scowl at the screen.
Declan
Come join us, brother. Bachelorette party tonight. The girls are in rare form. I recommend it.
I roll my eyes heavenward and respond to him in another text.
You know I can’t do that.
Declan
Can’t? You’re not married yet.
For fuck’s sake. I toss my phone down, then pick it up again, tap out a message, and send it to Erin. I wait for her to respond.
And wait.
And wait.
But no response comes.
Perfect. Grand. Maybe she’s gone to bed too.
Maybe I should.
Instead, I head to the shower and strip out of my clothes. I want the water scalding hot, hot enough to chasten me.
Why can’t I get the woman out of my mind?
God, she looked gorgeous tonight. I was taken off guard, if I’m honest, and nothing ever fucking takes me off guard.
That dress that clung to her curves and dipped just right, revealing perfect cleavage, just enough for a goddamn handful. She’d fill my hands and my mouth, and I—
I frown.
I’m thinking about the way she looked too small, draped in my coat. The way she refused wine at dinner and sparred with me. The way her mother treated her like absolute shite.
I’ll put an end to that. I might not know her family… but they will know me.
And for a second, I imagine taking her to the club. We'd get a private room. And god, the way I'd tease her, using every implement and tool at my disposal.
I'd bet she'd lose her fucking mind with a hood or a vibrator.
But which one? Would she prefer sensory deprivation or overstimulation?
The way she responded when I had her pressed against the wall with my hand across her arse tells me she's got a submissive streak she may not know about yet.
That sharp inhale, the heat radiating off her skin, the way she didn't fight me—just took it.
Her body already knows what it wants, even if her mind won't admit it.
I'd make her come, over and over again, until I'd mapped every response. Does she need it rough, or does she fall apart with gentle touches? Would she beg, or would I have to drag it out of her? How much teasing could she take before she broke?
What would make her submit completely? Restraints? My hand fisted in her hair? Orders whispered against her ear while she's trembling and desperate?
What would she taste like? What would she look like stripped bare—not just the clothes, but that fucking attitude? Would she still have that sharp tongue when she's tied down and needy? Or would she finally go soft and pliant?
A man can't help but wonder about his wife when he's fucking engaged to her.
Can't help but wonder if she'd take a proper spanking—not just the quick punishment I gave her, but a real one.
Slow. Deliberate. Would her arse flush that same perfect pink?
Would she count for me? Would she cry? Would she get wet from it?
I want to find out. Want to bend her over and take my time, see exactly how much she can take. See if she'd break… or beg me for more.
I do a mental list of everything I know about her.
She gets nervous in crowds and in unfamiliar settings, and sometimes she flinches when the lights are too bright or the sounds are too loud.
Will she be as timid in bed?
Is she a virgin?
Two fuckin’ months. Eight more weeks.
Less than sixty days until my life as I know it will be over.
I scrub shampoo through my hair, then rub a bar of soap over myself and a washcloth. Wash up.
I’m frustrated, blood’s up, and I want something to relieve my pain. Feels like it did when I was in prison—too much testosterone, too little to do. Not enough freedom.
I fist my thick cock and stroke it, chasing something, anything, that’ll get me out of my head. And my mind lands on… Erin.
Kneeling on her knees in front of me. There’s something about that look in her eyes that makes me fucking ferocious.
I want to ruin her.
I want to feel that pretty, smarmy mouth of hers around my cock.
I imagine how she’d look after a good session at The Craic. Her eyes blown wide. Her body trembling. Her arousal dripping between her legs.
I want to teach her to mind her manners. How to be a good girl.
I stroke harder, faster. Imagine her sprawled on the bed, tits down, ass in the air, marked with my belt, my teeth, my hand. Imagine her slick pussy waiting for me, and I collide right into it. I imagine pumping in and out.
I fuck my hand until I come with a growl locked behind my teeth.
I’ll teach her, like I’ll teach her everything else—how to kneel. How to spread her legs when I eat her out. How to do what she’s fucking told and respect her husband.
I clean off, and water scalds the back of my neck. Steam fogs the mirror. I turn off the water, dry off, and wrap the towel around my waist. Then I check my phone.
Still no fucking text from Erin.
Why the fuck do I care?
She’s nothing to me, and yet… she knows how to get under my skin, and I hate that. Makes me feel young again in the worst goddamn way—back when I was some pissed-off teenager with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.
She made me feel small. Weak. Stupid.
She’d push her glasses up that stuck-up nose and say shite like That’s not how it’s done, in that clipped, condescending voice that made me want to throw a desk across the room.
I’m gonna tell on you.
She used to clutch her books like a goddamn shield. Always watching. Always judging. The thorn in my side.
I remember that day in the hallway—my friends holding the bathroom door shut while she screamed behind it. Pounding. Crying for someone to help her—the one day I felt a spark of sympathy.
When she finally got out, red-faced and shaking, she pointed right at me.
Blamed me.
And I let her.
Hell, part of me wished it had been me.
Because I hated her.
Hated the way she made me feel, like I could bust my bollocks all day, graft myself sick, ace every bleedin’ thing they threw at me, and it still wouldn’t count for shite.
Not when she sat there smug as fuck, hands folded on a page full of perfect answers.
Perfect grades. Perfect fucking everything, teacher’s little fuckin’ pet.
And now?
Now I get to marry her.
Imagine that. A lifetime of that voice correcting me at dinner. Telling me I’m not doing it “the right way.”
I don’t drink.
Of course she doesn’t. God forbid.
Saint bloody Erin. Miss Perfect lick-arse. Collectin’ gold stars like rosary beads.
Everyone loves a girl who plays by the rules, don’t they?
And does she?
I check my phone again, my jaw tightening.
Still nothing.
She’s my fiancée. My goddamn betrothed. She’s supposed to respond.
I drag the towel over my head, hair sticking up in all directions. I need out.
I need The Craic.
Not gonna fuck some nameless cunt in the back room tonight, but I will have a drink. I will see the boys. Let off some steam and remind myself who the fuck I am.
Because the nerve of her not replying?
The audacity of her parents marrying her off without even telling her? As if I’m some last-minute footnote in her story.
My phone buzzes, and I glance at it.
Not her.
Of course it’s not her.
Shipment moved. No details. Just a location change. Belfast.
Fine.
I’ll go tomorrow.
Another thing for the list: check the shipment, confirm the transfer, prep the route. Once I marry her, I’ll gain access to all of it.
But my house has to be in order first.
The ride to The Craic takes fifteen minutes. I know every turn and light as I ruminate over Erin Kavanagh.
I hate that.
I hate that I can’t control it, control her.
She doesn’t want to marry me.
Good. The feeling’s mutual, princess.
And jerking off in the shower sure as hell didn’t help. Didn’t even make a dent in my frustration. Maybe it’s not even sexual.
I glance at my phone again.
Nothing.
Fuck.
I drive faster, cutting through the night like it owes me something.
Christ, but I missed this—driving. Speed. Autonomy. The wind blowing through the cracked window. The hum of the engine underneath me. In prison, I damn near forgot what it meant to be free.
My phone vibrates. A flicker of hope… gone in an instant.
Declan. Seamus.
I breathe in deep, then exhale through clenched teeth. No one keeps me waiting.
No one ignores me.
Christ.
I think about the tribute, counting the days until the next one’s due again. Another bloody reminder: The marriage isn’t the only thing slipping through my fingers. I don’t even know who the hell we’re paying.
I park the car, and the valet steps forward.
I hand over the keys and a thick roll of notes. I like them to remember who I am and show respect.
Even if she doesn’t.
I don’t walk into The Craic—I storm in because I own the fucking place.
No mask. No hesitation. Just clean, brutal purpose and my standard uniform—black on black, tailored shirt, unbuttoned just enough to show I don’t give a shite.
Sleeves rolled high, ink and scar tissue on display like a fucking roadmap of every bastard who thought they could take me.
And when I show? They part like the fucking Red Sea.