Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cavin
I don’t know how I got back here. I’m behind bars, the dank smell of my fucking prison flooding my senses.
“Where is she?” I growl into the dark. What did they do with my wife, and why am I here? I can’t talk to anyone in this condition because I’m pacing, my hands fisted by my sides. There are men in the cells behind me and around me, crowding me in.
“Where is who?” one taunts.
“My wife!” I roar. I punch one and then round out and punch the second.
When someone grabs me from behind and touches my wrist, I lift them, just about vaulting them across the room.
“Cavin!” It’s Erin’s voice in my ear. “Cavin, Cavin, wake up.”
I blink. When I come to, I have Erin pinned in my grasp beneath me, with the sheets tangled around my legs.
Holy fucking shit. Oh my god.
Erin.
I release her like she’s a hot coal and shake my head, trying to blink it all away. The desperation, trying to find her. The coldness of the cell. The way I knew I was going to be attacked and beaten by a gang.
Oh my god.
I cage myself over her and run my hands over every inch of her skin, looking at her eyes, her arms. “Did I hurt you? Are you alright?” The last time Lorcan grabbed me, I tossed him across the fucking table at the bar.
“I’m fine. You were just—you were sleeping, and you were tangled in the sheets, and you were very upset,” she says softly. “Are you alright now?”
She rests her hand on my cheek, and for the first time, I feel what she says I do for her. I’m quieting. My voice—the one in my head that constantly berates and judges me—falls silent.
“I’m fine.”
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. My voice is hoarse with worry. “You’ll have to sleep in another room.”
“Cavin,” she says, giving me a long look. “I’m not sleeping in another room.”
“You need to,” I snap, too harsh, too firm. “I’m sorry.” I run a hand through my hair. “I didn’t mean that. I just—my god, Erin.” I shake my head and look heavenward. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to hurt you.”
She sits up in bed, my beautiful bride, and eyes me curiously. “You didn’t hurt me, and I’m not sleeping alone.” She crosses her arms over her chest. Stubborn lass. I push out of bed and pace the room.
“I don’t want you to either. After that first night together, I thought we’d be fine. I thought that I’d been cured of my nightmares with my wife next to me. The second night was the same. But now…” I shake my head.
“Come here, Cavin,” she says, “please.” She pats the bed beside her, and I walk over. I sit on the bed, and she crawls over and curls up in my arms.
“It’s okay. You had a nightmare. Of course you did. After everything you’ve seen and you’ve done—especially that time in prison—of course you had a nightmare. It’s okay,” she says quietly.
I run my hands over her again, reassuring myself that she’s alright. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” she says. “Now let’s get up. I made some overnight oats. You have to soak them for exactly eight hours. The clock says it’s been precisely eight hours and fifteen minutes.”
When she tries to slip out of bed, I reach for her, wrapping my arm around her waist to pull her back. But she doesn't just let me—she turns in my grip, her hands already sliding up my chest as she presses against me.
“Going somewhere?” I murmur against her mouth.
“The oats”—she bites my bottom lip, hard enough to sting—“can wait.”
Her kiss is hungry, demanding, and suddenly, I'm the one being pushed back against the mattress. She straddles me, her hair falling around us like a curtain as she grinds down, making me groan.
“Thought you were worried about your fuckin’ breakfast,” I manage, gripping her hips.
“I changed my mind.” Her nails rake down my chest. “You can make it worth my while, can't you?”
“Is that a challenge, Mrs. McCarthy?”
She rocks against me, slow and deliberate, watching my face. “Maybe. You up for it, Mr. McCarthy?”
I flip her in one quick movement, but she's already wrapping her legs around my waist, pulling me closer. Christ, but I love it when I make her giggle.
“Overnight oats. What's the fuck is that?” I say against her throat.
“It's—” Her breath catches when I thrust into her. “Fuck—it's good for you.”
“So is this.” I move harder, deeper, and she meets me stroke for stroke, her hands fisted in my hair.
“Then give me a very good reason”—she gasps, her body arching beneath mine—“to let those oats soak for a little while longer.”
When she finally pushes out of bed, she’s flushed, her hair an absolute mess. “Now do you want breakfast, champion?” she says, sliding onto my lap, kissing my cheek.
I love her.
“Let’s go.” When she turns to go, I give her a teasing slap to the arse.
I’ve never been happier. Erin is everything to me. The house feels alive with her in it. I don’t miss being alone because I have… her.
I go down to breakfast and eat her overnight damn oats, and they’re not half bad. When I look at my calendar—Christ. Panic grips my chest when I realize I almost forgot, which would be fuckin’ disastrous.
It’s tribute night.
How will I explain my absence to my wife, who curls herself up beside me in bed? I can’t take her, no. And once again, I’m no closer to finding out who’s demanding the tribute.
“I have somewhere to be tonight, after I go to the club,” I tell her quietly.
“Oh, where?”
I look away. “Ah, I can’t say much about it. I’m sorry.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You can’t tell me? Why not? That makes no sense, Cavin.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m Irish mafia, Erin, you know that.
“Aye,” she says.
“And you know I have business to handle, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, it’s not safe for you to come with me, so you’ll stay here, right?”
“Well, aren’t I safest with you?”
Well played.
“I said no.” My words come out sharper than I intended, and she takes a little step back.
“Well, it didn’t take long for the honeymoon to be over,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself.
She’s wearing my shirt, and it rides up, showing the little dimple right at her thigh. I want to kiss it. I want to lay her back in bed and help her forget anything that’s ever troubled her, but I can’t.
“I have to go to the club first, but I’ll be late tonight.”
“Are you going back to the ring?” she says, her eyes meeting mine. She knows that Seamus and Da don’t approve of me going to the ring.
But I only shrug. “Maybe,” I tell her. “Maybe one more fight.”
“Well, I can’t see why I can’t go with you to that,” she says.
“No back talk,” I snap. “It’s dangerous business, Erin, and I don’t want you to worry about it. I’ll be back later tonight.”
But her eyes are on me with suspicion. “Why won’t you tell me where you’re going? I’ve seen you fight in the ring before. Are you trying to keep something else from your family?”
“No,” I say, but it’s a lie. I shrug. “Maybe. I can’t tell them either. I hope someday I can, but not now.”
She bites her lower lip, and I can see that moment when her insecurity comes into play again.
“What kind of business is it?” she says, insistent.
“You don’t show me everything on your phone.”
“That’s different. That’s private.”
“Aye, and so is this.”
We stand at odds with each other.
“So we’re keeping secrets now?” she says. “That’s how marriage works in your family?”
Fuck this. I need to go handle this before it gets worse. I check the time. I’ve got hours before I need to pay the tribute, but I need to clear my head.
“Fine. Go. Do whatever you’re doing. Or whoever you’re doing.”
I stop at the door and spin around. “That’s not fair, and you fucking know it.”
“Then tell me where you’re going!”
I can’t, but she won’t back down, so I leave angry—leaving her behind, hurt and suspicious—and I don’t like it.
I slam the car door harder than necessary. My hands grip the steering wheel tight enough that my knuckles go white.
Or whoever.
Her words echo in my head, making my jaw clench, as if I’d ever—as if there’s anyone else I’d even look at, now that I have her. Didn’t even fucking touch her until we were married.
But she won’t tell me who she’s texting, and I can’t tell her where I’m going.
Grand. Just fucking grand. Our first real fight, and we’re both too stubborn to back down now.
I start the engine, and my car purrs to life. The club is calling, and I need to bury myself in work to get my mind off this mess.
The hours at the club crawl by. I’ve been going through the books, meeting the lads about collections, making sure everything’s running smooth. But my mind keeps wandering back to Erin. The hurt in her eyes.
I check my watch. Two hours until I have to pay the tribute. Two hours before I need to be at the neutral ground, or they’ll use my tardiness as an excuse to start shite with Bronwyn.
My phone rings, and Lorcan’s name flashes across the screen.
“What?” I answer, too sharp.
“Boss, we’ve got a situation.”
My blood goes cold. “What kind of situation?”
“It’s Mrs. McCarthy.” He still sounds awkward calling her that, like he can’t quite believe Erin’s my wife. “She left the house about twenty minutes ago and told Ciarán she was just going for a walk, but—”
“But what?” My voice comes out deadly quiet.
“She got in a car, boss. A black sedan that wasn’t one of ours.”
Everything in me goes still. That cold, calculating part of my brain that handles threats kicks into gear. “Where?”
“Ciarán’s following at a distance. Boss, she’s heading to the hospital.”
The hospital.
My mind flashes to the phone and the texts she doesn’t explain.
And now she’s at the hospital. Something’s…wrong.
No. I’m not doing this. I’m not sitting here wondering, imagining, driving myself mad while she’s out there doing—what?
“Boss,” Lorcan says. “What do you want us to do?”
I check the time again.
Fuck them. Erin’s my wife. She’s out there, visiting a hospital, and every instinct I have is screaming that something’s wrong.
“Send me the location,” I say.