Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Erin
He said… I love you. It made me cry all over again.
I didn’t say it back.
When I tell him I love him, I want him to know that I do. That when I tell him I love him, I’ll give everything I have for him. It isn’t something I can say lightly.
But I’m getting there. I know I am. I can’t even believe that a few months ago, I hated him, but now…
I will replay the image of him gently tucking the blanket in around Bridget on repeat, over and over, because I like the way I softened watching him with her.
Money doesn’t mean shite if I can’t use it to help the people I love.
I love you.
I love you.
I drive home with those thoughts circling through my mind.
The city lights blur past my windows. Ciarán’s driving, and I barely register the route we’re taking while my brain replays everything.
His confession. His tenderness with Bridget.
The way he looked at me like I was the only solid thing in his collapsing world.
I send him a text because I’m curious.
What brought you to the hospital?
I can see he’s texting when the little dots appear, but they start and stop a few times. Finally, a brief message comes through.
Cavin
Let’s talk about that in person
Okay
I must have drifted off. Noises from downstairs wake me. When I reach the landing, he’s in the sitting room, standing by the window with a glass of whiskey in his hand, staring out at nothing. When I step through the doorway, he turns, and the raw vulnerability on his face makes my chest tighten.
He’s stripped to just a white tee that stretches across his back, but is still wearing the fitted trousers that hug his arse. Bridget wasn’t kidding. He is easy on the eyes.
“You woke up,” he says, voice rough.
He sets the glass down and runs both hands through his hair, a gesture I’ve come to recognize as his tell when he’s about to say something difficult.
I love how it makes his hair stand up on end a bit, all boyish and disheveled.
“We need to talk, love. Properly this time. No more keeping you in the dark.”
I settle onto the sofa, tucking one leg under me. “I’m listening.”
He paces for a moment, then stops, facing me fully. “Every month, on the nose, I’m tasked to pay a fuckin’ tribute. The money I’ve been hemorrhaging every month isn’t some business arrangement gone sideways. It’s extortion. Pure and simple.”
My stomach drops. “How long?”
“Since Malachy died.” His jaw works. “Five hundred thousand euros. Every month. Like clockwork.”
“Jaysus.” The numbers make my head spin. “That’s—”
“Millions. Aye.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Been draining us dry, bit by bit. I’ve had to make moves I never wanted to make, get into bed with people I shouldn’t have, just to keep the cash flowing.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “Why? Who’s demanding it?”
“That’s the fuckin’ problem, Erin. I don’t bloody know.
” He drops onto the sofa. I can’t help it—I crawl into his lap, facing him.
“The instructions come through burner phones. Different numbers every time. Drop-off locations change. I’ve tried tracing the money—it gets laundered through so many accounts it’s impossible to track.
Malachy wouldn’t tell me who, and I know it’s because he suspected that I’d refuse or get my brothers involved and cause a fuckin’ war. ”
I reach for his hand, threading our fingers together. “So he just wanted you to keep paying a ridiculous sum of money to a stranger? You, one of the most powerful and feared men this side of Ireland? That’s gobshite.”
He holds my chin, tips my face toward his, and kisses me. “That’s my girl,” he says softly.
“Cavin, there has to be something. Some clue about who—”
“I know. And if I don’t pay it, my family pays. Bronwyn’s kidnapping was a warning.”
“My god,” I mutter. “That’s terrible.”
His grip on my hand tightens almost painfully. “I can’t… Erin, I can’t let anything happen to them. Christ. I don’t want someone innocent hurt.”
The anguish in his voice breaks something open in me. This dangerous, violent, complicated man would do anything for his family.
“I still don’t get why Malachy didn’t tell you who it was?” I ask. “He had to know.”
Cavin’s expression darkens. “That’s what’s been eating at me. He knew, Erin. I know he did. Right before he died, he told me about the tribute—said I had to pay it, no questions asked. Said I couldn’t tell anyone, couldn’t try to find out who was behind it. He made me swear.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would he—”
“I don’t know!” The frustration in his voice makes me flinch. He immediately gentles, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. “Sorry. It’s just… he was terrified. Whatever this was, whoever this is… He said if I tried to investigate, if I told anyone, they’d know.”
“So you’ve been dealing with this alone.”
“Aye. Couldn’t risk telling anyone. Every month, I make the drop and pray it’s enough to keep her safe. Family’s caught on some, but I’ve kept them in the dark. Malachy said if I told my brothers or cousins, they’d find out.”
I shake my head. “Then there’s someone on the inside.”
“Of course not,” he scoffs. “We’re all fucking loyal to the core.”
“Then why not tell them? Why not use the resources your family has to find out who this is?”
He sighs. “I can’t risk it. Malachy made that abundantly clear.”
“Then we find them,” I say firmly. “Whoever’s doing this, we find them, and we end it.”
He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “We?” He snorts. “Erin—”
“You think I’m going to sit back and do nothing? After everything?” I shift in his lap. “I’m not some fragile thing that needs protecting. I grew up in this world, too, remember? My da wasn’t exactly running a charity.” I tug a lock of his hair. “You should know that.”
“This is different. This is—”
“This is the bastard who’s been bleeding you dry and threatening your sister.
” My voice turns hard. “I want every detail about the tribute. Every single one. Dates, times, locations, amounts, instructions—everything. And I want a list of every enemy your family has. Everyone who might have a grudge, everyone who’d benefit from bringing you down. ”
He stares at me. “That’s a long fuckin’ list, love.”
“Then we better get started.” I lean closer. “I’m not walking away from this. From you. So either we do this together, or I do it on my own, and you can spend your energy worrying about both me and Bronwyn… and Bridget.”
A muscle tics in his jaw.
I stand, suddenly restless. “I need to change. I’ve been in these clothes all day and fell asleep in them.”
“Go on, then. I’ll start making that list.”
I head upstairs to the bedroom, stripping off my jeans and jumper.
I completely forgot I was wearing the periwinkle-blue top underneath.
It came just before Bridget’s nurse called me, so I just pulled a jumper over it.
It’s backless, the fabric draping elegantly but leaving my entire back exposed. Sophisticated but sexy as hell.
I stare in the mirror. The color brings out my eyes, and the way it skims my curves while showing off my back makes me feel powerful. Dangerous.
I’m still admiring it when I hear Cavin’s footsteps on the stairs. He appears in the doorway, and the moment his eyes land on me, he goes completely still.
“What’s this, then?” His voice has dropped an octave.
“Something I ordered online. Just trying it on.” I turn, giving him the full view. “It’s called periwinkle. Isn’t that cute? I thought maybe when you take me back to The Craic—”
“No.” He crosses the room in three strides, his hand sliding possessively across my bare back. “Absolutely fuckin’ not.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide. “If you wear that in public, Erin, I swear to Christ, I will bend you over my knee and spank your arse until you can’t sit.”
Heat floods through me at the promise in his voice. “Is that supposed to discourage me?”
He makes a sound low in his throat—half growl, half groan. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Good thing you love me, then.”
His hand slides up my spine, fingers tracing the exposed skin. “Aye. Good thing.”
Then he’s kissing me, and it’s hungry and desperate and everything we both need after the day we’ve had. His hands map every inch of bare skin, and I arch into his touch.
“The list can wait,” he murmurs against my mouth. “We need make-up sex.”
“Aye,” I breathe out. “It can wait. I like the sound of make-up sex.”
He backs me toward the bed, and I forget about tributes and enemies and everything else except the way he makes me feel—wanted, needed, his.
When my legs hit the mattress, he eases me down, following me onto it. His hands slide under the fabric, pushing it up and over my head in one fluid motion. Then I’m bare from the waist up, and he looks at me like I’m something precious. My breath catches.
“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers, and then his mouth is on my breast, his tongue circling my nipple before he takes it between his teeth, just enough bite to make me arch into him with a cry.
My fingers tangle in his hair, holding him to me as he lavishes attention on first one breast, then the other. Every touch feels electric, like my skin has been sensitized to him specifically.
I tug at his shirt impatiently, and he helps me pull it off, baring the sculpted muscle and scattered scars beneath. I trace one with my finger—a long, thin line across his ribs.
“Belfast job gone wrong,” he murmurs. “Four years ago.”
I lean up and press my lips to it. Then another scar, and another… mapping his history with my mouth until he groans and captures my lips again.
His hands make quick work of the rest of my clothes, dragging them down my legs along with my knickers. Then I’m bare beneath him, and the hunger in his eyes makes me feel powerful.
“You’re overdressed,” I tell him, my voice husky.
“Aye. Can’t have my girl lookin’ at me with all that hunger and not give her what she wants, can I, mo chroi?
” He smirks and stands to shed the rest of his clothes.
When he’s finally naked, I let myself look.
Really look. He’s all lean muscle and coiled strength, and his thick erection tells me he wants me.
He prowls back onto the bed, settling between my thighs. His fingers trace up the inside of my leg, teasing, until I’m squirming beneath him.
“Mmm, yes. Please.”
“Please what?” His finger circles where I need him most but doesn’t quite touch. “Use your words, love.”
“Touch me. Please.”
He rewards me by sliding one finger inside, and I cry out at the sensation. He adds another, curling them just right while his thumb finds my clit. The combination makes stars burst behind my eyelids.
“Mmm, look at you, already trembling. You’ve missed my hands, haven’t you? Sweet fuckin’ Jaysus, you’re tight as a drum, love,” he murmurs appreciatively. “So perfect.”
He works me with devastating precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until I’m right on the edge. Then he withdraws, ignoring my whimper of protest, and replaces his fingers with his mouth.
The first stroke of his tongue makes me arch off the bed. He grips my hips, holding me in place, while he devours me like a man starving.
Every nerve ending feels like it’s on fire, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
“Cavin, I’m going to—”
“That’s it, love. Let go for me. I want to feel you fall apart on my tongue,” he commands against me. “Come for me, Erin.”
I shatter, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. He doesn’t stop, working me through it until I’m trembling and oversensitive.
When he finally pulls back, his lips are glistening, and his eyes are dark with need. He crawls up my body, kissing me deeply so I can taste myself on his tongue.
“I need to be inside you,” he growls.
“Yes. God, yes.”
He positions himself at my entrance, then pushes inside in one slow, devastating thrust. We both groan at the sensation—the perfect stretch, the overwhelming fullness.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You feel incredible.”
He starts to move, finding a rhythm that has me clinging to his shoulders. Each thrust hits deeper than the last, stoking the fire building in my core all over again.
“Harder,” I demand, raking my nails down his back.
“Aye, my lass wants it rough, does she? Take it then, Erin McCarthy. Take what’s yours.”
He complies with a growl, snapping his hips faster, rougher. The headboard bangs against the wall with the force of it, and I don’t care. I just need more—more of him, more of this, more of us.
“You’re mine,” he says fiercely. “Say it.”
“Yours.” I gasp. “I’m yours.”
He buries his face in my neck, his teeth finding that spot that makes me see stars. I can feel another orgasm building, bigger than the first. He knows exactly how to play me, and I am savoring every second.
“Come with me,” I manage. “I want to feel you—”
“Aye, love,” he whispers.
His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit, and that’s all it takes. I come apart with a cry, clenching around him, and he follows with a guttural moan. I feel him pulse inside me as he empties himself, and the intimacy of it makes emotion swell in my chest.
We stay locked together for long moments, both of us breathing hard. Finally, he pulls out carefully and rolls onto his back, dragging me with him so I’m sprawled across his chest.
His fingers trace idle patterns on my spine. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
I press a kiss to his collarbone. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
He huffs a laugh, and I feel it rumble through his chest. We lie there in comfortable silence, our heartbeats slowly returning to normal.
“We’ll figure it out,” I finally say. “The tribute, whoever’s behind it. We’ll find them. We’ll do it.”
His arms tighten around me. “Together?”
“Together,” I promise. “There’s an answer somewhere.”
“Aye. There is.” His voice is determined now, not defeated. “And we’ll find the bastard.”
And in this moment, tangled up in him, with the weight of the world waiting outside, I almost believe it.