Chapter 14 #2
Tommy “The Butcher” O’Sullivan shoulders his way through the crowd, that ugly grin splitting his fuckin’ face. He’s thicker now, running to fat around the middle, but his hands are still the size of goddamn dinner plates.
We’ve got history, Tommy and me. Bad blood that never got properly settled.
Excellent.
“Heard you’ve gone soft inside, McCarthy,” he says, climbing into the ring and stripping off his own shirt. “Heard prison feckin’ broke ye.”
“Do I look broken?” I say to him, then wink. “Come find out, ye thick bastard. Let’s see if your fists work better than your brain.”
The spectators are losing their minds now. They know what this is—old grudges, old violence, coming home to roost.
I don’t respond beyond that. I watch him, let him run his mouth while I measure the way he’s moving. He’s favoring his left side. Knee’s probably shot.
Noted.
“Nothing to say?” Tommy spreads his arms wide, playing to the crowd. “Cat got your—”
I hit him.
No warning, no preamble. My right fist crashes into his jaw, and his head snaps back. Blood sprays from his mouth. I’ve split his lip.
Good.
The bell rings a second too late, and nobody cares.
Tommy roars and charges at me like a bull. The referee’s behind us shouting, but he knows better than to come between an O’Sullivan and a McCarthy.
Tommy always fought like this, all power, no finesse. He swings wild, and I duck under, driving my fist into his kidney once, twice. He grunts but doesn’t go down.
His elbow catches me in the temple, and stars explode across my vision. The taste of copper floods my mouth.
There it is.
Yes.
God, that’s what I needed. I feel like a shark tasting blood as adrenaline surges through me.
We trade blows in the center of the ring, neither of us backing down. My knuckles split open on his teeth. His fist connects with my ribs, and something cracks—not broken, but close.
The pain is clarifying. Pure. I goddamn welcome it.
I’m not thinking about Erin anymore. Not thinking about those defiant eyes, that smart mouth, the way her pulse felt under my—
Tommy’s fist crashes into my jaw, and I stumble back against the ropes.
Focus. Fucking focus.
He charges in for the kill, and I let him come. At the last second, I drop low, grab him around the middle, and use his own momentum to flip him. One swift move and his back hits the canvas hard enough to bounce. The air goes out of him in a whoosh.
I’m on him before he can take a breath. Knees pinning his arms, fists raining down. It feels like a symphony.
Left, right, left, right. Methodical. Brutal.
His face becomes a mask of blood, and he’s trying to buck me off, but I’m locked on. Immovable.
Erin’s face swims in my vision for a moment. In this ring, I don’t have to pretend.
This is what I am. This is what I’ve always been.
Strip it all away and I’m just a bare-knuckled fuckin’ McCarthy from Ballyhock who knows how to hurt people.
“Yield,” I growl, my fist cocked back for another strike.
Tommy’s eyes roll, unfocused. He’s done.
“He yields!” the ref shouts. “He yields, McCarthy!” He grabs my shoulder. “He’s done!”
I stare down at Tommy’s ruined face for another long moment, my chest heaving, blood dripping from my knuckles. Every muscle in my body is screaming. My hands are destroyed, and I can already feel tomorrow’s bruises forming.
But the fire’s burned down to a low ember.
Finally.
Finally, I can breathe.
I climb off him and let the ref raise my arm.
The crowd’s absolutely mental, chanting my name like I’m some kind of god, some kind of savior.
“McCARthy! McCARthy! McCARthy!” Money’s changing hands everywhere—bets being settled, new ones being made for my next fight.
I don’t fuckin’ care. I didn’t come here to be worshipped like a goddamn hero.
I spit blood onto the canvas and turn toward the ropes, ready to climb out, ready to disappear back into the night—
And I freeze.
Because she’s there.
How? She isn’t supposed to be here.
Erin is standing at the edge of the crowd, partially hidden in the shadow of a support beam.
Her face is pale in the strobing lights, making her look almost ghostly.
Still wearing that same outfit she wore to the club, minus the purple band.
Her eyes are wide, locked on me—on my bloodied knuckles, my split lip, my bare chest, and all the scars I carry like medals of dishonor.
She’s seeing exactly who I am. No polish, no pretense, no expensive suits or charming smiles. Just violence in its purest form. Just the beast she’s being forced to marry.
Our eyes meet across the chaos, and I watch something flicker across her face—something I wish I could see closer, something I need to understand. Is it fear? Disgust? The horror of realizing what she’s trapped herself into?
Or is it something else? Something that looks almost like…
Arousal?
No. Can’t be. Not for this. Not for the monster standing in a ring, covered in another man’s blood.
But I remember the way her eyes danced in the club, the way her body practically screamed at me to be dominated… Christ. If Erin likes what I think she does…
I can’t tell in the dim light, but she doesn’t look away.
Neither do I.
The moment stretches between us like a taut wire, vibrating with tension. Everything else fades—the crowd, the noise, Tommy groaning on the canvas behind me. It’s just her and me and the question hanging in the air: Can she be with a man like this?
With a man who needs violence the way other men need air?
The crowd surges between us, drunk men stumbling, pushing to get closer to the ring, and when they clear, all I see is the back of the fuckin’ guard I hired for her—Declan’s man, escorting her out, protecting her like I asked him to.
But I felt it, that connection, that pull.
And I wonder if her presence was good luck or something darker.
I wonder if she came here looking for me, or if fate’s just cruel enough to keep throwing us together.
I wonder if she’s running from me or running toward something she doesn’t understand yet.
I climb through the ropes, and someone hands me my shirt and a towel. I wipe blood from my face, can’t tell if it’s mine or Tommy’s, and shrug into my shirt, not bothering to button it.
“McCarthy.” O’Grady flags me down. “Yer winnings, son.”
I frown. I don’t need the damn money. Still, I take the thick envelope and nod my thanks.
I walk to the exit, staring at my purse.
I didn’t do this for money. I think about what to do with it, and finally decide to call Bronwyn. I can trust her.
“Hello?” she says, sleepy.
“Bronwyn,” I say when she answers, even though it’s two a.m.
She sounds instantly alert. “Cav? Are you okay? Where are you?”
“I need a favor. A private one.”
A pause. Then, “Go on.”
“I’m sending you money. I need you to give it to Erin. Tell her it’s from you. Tell her it’s… I don’t know, wedding gift money, or shopping money, or whatever.”
“How much money?” I glance at the envelope. “Eighteen thousand euros.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. What did you do, rob a bank?”
“I fought.”
Another pause, longer this time. “You went back to the ring.”
“Aye.”
“Does Seamus know?”
“No.” Not yet. Won’t take long. “This is from you, Bronwyn. Can you do that for me?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
I step out into the cold night air, and it hits my overheated skin. Steam rises from my body. My breath comes in clouds.
I lean against the car for a moment, letting my heart rate slow, letting the adrenaline drain away.
But before I go home, I need answers. I send Erin a text.
How the fuck did you get here? You were supposed to be going home
I hope she hears the implied raised eyebrow there.
Erin
Overheard your cousin say you’d be there, so I told the guard to bring me after we dropped Bridget off at home
I go to respond when another message pops up.
Erin
Also. You’re a monster.
And I grin at the words. Is that right, darlin’? Am I such a monster that you ran from me? Or did you have to come see for yourself?
But then three dots appear. She’s typing again.
Erin
But I’m…
beginning to see the appeal of the villain.
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the car.
Christ.
This girl is going to destroy me.
Or save me.
Maybe both.