Chapter 10 #2
Heads turn, spines straighten, and eyes drop.
Respect, the only currency that matters in a place like this. You either command it or you get swallowed whole.
I’m raging inside, and every man in this room can fucking feel it. “Mr. McCarthy.”
The barman—a slight dip of the head. The shadow of Rafferty behind the bar. He poured pints for my father before he poured for me. His eyes flicker once and then move on.
There’s reverence in the air, or at the very least, begrudging respect.
Yeah. This is what I wanted tonight.
A place where I rule. A place where I can breathe without playing nice. Where control isn’t just a fantasy but law.
I smile and let it bleed out slow. Because I’m not here to play… I’m here to burn something down.
Declan’s already inside by the time I reach the front bar. The front’s just the mask—a pint of Guinness and polite lies if you’re on the outside. But if you’re in, if you know the word, the look, and your background checks out, you make your way to the back.
The Craic’s been ours for decades. My mother protested, thinks it’s beneath us, that we shouldn’t tie our names to a place where rules are broken and vices are celebrated. She’s not wrong.
But we fucking love it. It’s sacred to us, a monument of vice in Ballyhock. You don’t get in unless you’re a McCarthy or close enough to bleed like one.
The elevator hums as it drops us to hell. And on the other side, freedom.
My cousin Declan’s there, drink in hand and leaning back like he owns the place. Lorcan is beside him, built like a goddamn weapon, his eyes brutal and assessing.
Declan looks up when I enter and smirks.
“You look terrible, mate. When’s the last time you slept proper?”
Too long.
I shrug and don’t bother answering, just order a Jameson neat.
My eyes scan the room. Cages, silk ropes, flesh in motion. Worship and violence so tangled they’re one and the same. Moans like prayers, and whimpers like confessions.
This place doesn’t just offer release. It demands truth—ugly, raw, and beautiful.
And I love it here.
The Craic may be elite, underground, and feral, where secrets are bought and dominance can be had for a price. Masks come off here. But what I love is not just that I’m welcome here, but that every part of me, even the ruthless, savage, scarred parts, is welcome too. Fuck, worshipped.
Everyone knows the heirs of the McCarthy name rule this place and that this is our playground.
I’m engaged to be married, though, goddamn it.
My phone buzzes. I check it. Still nothing from Erin.
“Why are you so pissed?” Lorcan’s curious.
I lean forward and scowl. “I’m not,” I growl, pissed that he’s calling it out.
“Oh, come off it,” he pushes. “What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
Declan and Lorcan exchange a look.
“What?” I snap.
“He’s pissed about the engagement,” Declan says, too casual.
My jaw tightens. I hate the way they talk as if I’m not right here. As if I didn’t just walk into the fucking room.
“Excuse me?” I say, loud enough. “Hello? I’m sitting right fucking here.”
Lorcan shrugs. He’s a big bastard, with arms like tree trunks and sandy-brown hair like his dad. His storm-gray eyes are always scanning. He’s a strategist, quieter than I am.
His brother Donovan’s next to him, dangerous and powerful… older. When Donovan speaks, people listen.
He’s a tactician, the cleaner. The guy we call when the job’s bloody and someone needs to make it disappear.
Give Donovan a command, and if he respects you, he doesn’t hesitate. Just gets the job done. No flinching. No noise. Unlike his brother Ashland, he’s charming, and uses it to his advantage.
His fingers tap the table, restless.
“You don’t like that you’re engaged?” Donovan asks, his pale blue eyes dancing before he smirks at his phone and shoots a text.
“Would be nice if I knew her,” I mutter.
“Would be nice if you let yourself know her,” Donovan corrects with his signature smile that’s meant to disarm. Doesn’t work on me.
“That’s the fucking problem,” Lorcan says. “He does know her, doesn’t he?”
“Would you stop it,” I snap. I down my drink and slam the glass on the bar. “Stop talking about me like I’m not right here.”
“We know you’re here,” Declan says, grinning.
My cousin Declan’s controlled chaos—adored for the way he masks violence with charm.
Declan was once the golden boy of the McCarthys. Gilded. Untouchable. But that shine dulled fast, fucked off somewhere between the pills and the power. Addiction made him chaos. Before he fell apart, everyone was drawn to him—half terrified, half mesmerized.
Where my eldest brother Seamus clings to rules like gospel, I deal in loyalty, quiet and unflinching.
Declan? He doesn’t bother with either. He slides under rules, ducks around them, and fucks them sideways if he feels like it.
He’s done unforgivable things, real twisted shit. He’s the headline in every scandal and the center of every storm. But somehow, he always chooses whether to follow or break rank. No one decides for him.
“Tell us the truth then,” Declan says, sipping his Jameson like it’s holy water.
A leggy blonde drapes herself around his shoulders. She’s in a silky purple number that barely clings to her tits and shows off the undercurve of her ass like a goddamn invitation.
She moans when he exhales.
“That feel good?” he murmurs, sounding almost bored.
“Would you like me to get my friend again tonight, sir?” she purrs in his ear, her eyes done up like a cat—headband, whiskers, the whole damn thing.
He nods. “Aye. Go get her.”
When she turns, he gives her a parting slap to the arse like she’s his favorite toy.
Declan likes his women in numbers, the McCarthy family fuck boy.
“She still holding a grudge?” Declan asks, eyeing me over the rim of his glass.
He had a different friend group back then, didn’t know how deep it went or how sharp it cut. I doubt even Seamus knows.
I shake my head and try to brush it off.
“Some of my class bullied her,” I mutter, but it’s weak.
Cowardly, really. “Fine, the truth is, I wasn’t very…
nice to her. She got me in so much goddamn trouble in school, which got me in trouble at home.
She was one of those goody-two-shoes types.
Did the right thing. Made the rest of us look worse just by existing. ”
“Ugh. One of those,” Lorcan says, wrinkling his nose. “And you’re marrying the lass, why?”
“Because Seamus fancies it’ll do us good,” I mutter, shrugging.
The truth? Her father made a deal we couldn’t refuse. No one’s been married in our family for a few years. “Guess it’s my turn. Would’ve been Torin’s if he wasn’t still rotting behind fuckin’ bars.”
Declan sighs.
“It’s just as well,” I say. “Torin’s got demons. Needs to fight ’em before he takes a woman.”
“You get my text, brother?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Aye.” I don’t look up from my phone. “Told you I had it sorted.”
“Couldn’t read through the communication log,” he mutters. “Tried.”
“We had a glitch or some such.”
I hate lying to my own. But I’ve no choice in it, have I? I had to hide it so no one would see communication about the damn tribute.
The clock is ticking before the next tribute’s due, with no lead on who’s demanding my goddamn bollocks in a sling, and I’ve got all the wedding festivities. Goddamn it.
Regulations for the tribute are clear, per Malachy. No more than twelve hours before midnight on the last day of the month. Not a second earlier. Not a second late.
“Can’t bring a new wife here, can you?” Lorcan mutters.
“Hell no,” I growl.
“Aye. A proper response,” Declan says, smirking, just as a second girl slides up next to him. One hand for each shoulder, they knead him like he’s royalty.
“A wife?” the one in purple asks, glancing at me. “You getting married, Mr. McCarthy?”
“Aye,” I growl again.
“It’s posted on St. Albert’s page, isn’t it?” the other girl says. “I saw it earlier.”
“What?” I pick up my phone. “What the fuck is that?”
“Social media, you dumbass,” Lorcan says.
“I hate that shite. Show me.” His fingers fly over his phone, and then he does indeed show me. I narrow my eyes at the screen.
There it is. St. Albert’s alumni page, with a big diamond ring announcement.
St. Albert’s is pleased to announce the betrothal of Erin Kavanagh and Cavin McCarthy.
Jesus. It already has five hundred views and twenty-seven comments.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
“Well, fuck,” Lorcan says, his eyebrows rising.
“What?” I growl.
“Comments aren’t very nice toward Erin, are they?”
“What?” I squint at the screen. Sure enough, there are a couple of nasty comments. A few say congratulations or the like, but half of them—
Goddamn it.
“This is terrible,” I say. “What the fuck? Who are these people?”
“You can’t do anything about it. People are idiots on social media,” Declan says. “Put it away.”
“Not if people are saying nasty things about Erin.”
A beautiful brunette named Katarina comes in, wearing all black. She eyes me from head to toe.
“Good evening, sir,” she says quietly. “Are you in need of a submissive tonight?” She wears the subtle purple band on her forearm per club regulations, indicating she’s a free submissive.
Am I in need of a submissive?
My god, I fucking am. I swallow hard and shake my head.
“Not tonight.”
Declan grins. “He’s engaged to be married. He won’t be taking any more submissives.”
I’m going to beat that boy’s fuckin’ arse.
Her eyes go downcast, and she walks away. “Farewell, sir. I wish you the best.”
“You’re not going to be a fuckin’ priest,” he says. “Brother, if that girl at dinner is meant to be the one you’re marryin’, she’s not givin’ you any ride.”
“As if she has a choice,” I say with a shrug. “We have rules in the McCarthy family, don’t we?”
“Aye,” Declan says. “Three days to consummate the marriage.”
“Well, fuck me,” Lorcan says. “You’ll have to let bygones be bygones and all that.”