Chapter 30 #2
“Easy. Easy.” I get under his good shoulder, taking as much of the weight as I can. Christ, he's heavy, all muscle and bone and dead weight.
Ciarán's face is white. “Ciarán, help me.”
He takes Cavin's other side, carefully avoiding the shoulder. Between us, we haul him to his feet. Cavin's legs barely hold him. His head lolls against my shoulder, and I can feel him shaking.
“Declan’s come,” Ciarán says. “Got yer text.”
“Right. Get him to the office.”
Declan barrels toward us and helps me carry Cavin.
“Some man came at him with a pipe,” I tell Declan when he appears, grateful he can help carry him. “Hit him right in the head.”
“Ciarán says you shot the gun.” Declan's eyes flicker to me, then back to Cavin.
“Aye.”
We drag him through pure carnage. The place is wrecked—overturned tables, broken glass crunching underfoot, abandoned drinks scattered across the floor.
My bare feet slip, and I don't even think about what it might be.
Someone's phone is ringing. The telly's still playing, showing a football match like nothing happened.
We lower him onto the couch in the office, and his face goes gray.
“Get the first aid kit,” I tell Ciarán. “This is a fucking fight ring. They've got to have something.”
Ciarán looks at Cavin, who manages a slight nod, then disappears.
I grab the whiskey off the shelf—the good stuff—and pour it over my hands. They're shaking now, the delayed reaction setting in and the adrenaline fading, leaving me hollow and nauseous.
The whiskey stings the cuts on my palms, but I watch it turn pink and think, distantly, this might stain.
Can't fall apart. Not yet.
I turn back to Cavin, and in the office light, I see the full extent of it.
The gash on his head is deep, at least ten centimeters long, and bleeding profusely.
His left shoulder sits wrong, the joint visibly displaced beneath the skin.
Bruises are already blooming across his ribs like dark flowers.
And when he breathes, I can see how he favors one side.
Definitely a concussion. Or worse.
He could have… died.
That hits me like a physical blow. I stifle a sob. My knees go weak, and my stomach rolls. I'm going to be sick.
He could have died right there in front of me.
“Erin.” His voice is rough. “You're alright, lass.”
Even half dead, he's worried about me.
“And you're not, and I'm sorry. This is going to hurt.”
He grunts, rolling his eyes. “Not my first time.”
I've seen the scars marking his body, the evidence of the beatings he's taken. Fights. Every time, he survived something that should have killed him. My fucking husband with nine lives. The knife wounds and bullet grazes and marks from fists and boots and god knows what else.
But this time I was there. This time I watched it happen and tried to stop it—but couldn't.
Ciarán comes back with a proper first aid kit, military-grade supplies in a little case. Good. Illegal fighting rings have people who don't go to hospitals. They’re prepared for someone to sew them up and send them out.
Tonight, I'm that person.
I take the kit with shaking hands and open it. Gauze, antiseptic, surgical thread.
“Ciarán, I need a lighter or matches. And something clean he can… that he can bite down on.”
He produces a leather belt. Cavin eyes it. “Don’t bloody need it.”
“Scalp wounds are different. You're going to feel every stitch.”
I take a deep breath and steady myself. The gash needs to be closed.
“If it's an ambush, they'll be back,” Declan says. “Patch him up fast. We'll get him back to our house.”
“Right. Sew me up, Erin,” Cavin says, his eyes already half closed.
“Declan says—”
“Sew me up, lass. Can you do it? Could bleed out if you fucking don't.”
Jesus. Up close, the wound is worse than I thought. Deep enough, I can see the pale gleam of skull beneath bone and torn skin. It'll take at least six, maybe eight stitches. I don't know. I knit, I don't fucking sew human flesh.
I press a towel to his head to staunch the bleeding, my belly roiling.
“I've never done this before. Not on someone I—” My hands start to shake.
“Erin,” he says, his voice slurred. “You can do this.”
“I'm not a… not a doctor.”
“You're smart as fuck. Figure it out.” His good hand reaches up and catches my wrist. “Bravest fucking lass I know. You can do it. Trust yourself.”
Then he closes his eyes, and my pulse spikes.
“Cavin?”
“I'm still here. Just need to close my eyes a minute, okay?”
“No closing your eyes. If you fuckin’ die on me, you bloody bastard—”
“Not dying tonight, love,” he says, but his voice is weak.
“Hold his head still,” I say to Declan.
I thread the needle with surgical thread, my hands steadier now. Mam did this years ago. I saw her when my father came home from a fight outside a pub. I know I can do this.
I peel back the towel. Fresh blood wells up immediately. I dab at it with gauze, trying to see the edges clearly.
“This is going to hurt. One. Two—”
I don't wait for three.
The first stitch goes in, and Cavin's jaw clenches, but he doesn't make a sound.
“You're doing grand,” he says through gritted teeth. “Grand, lass.”
The fact that he's trying to reassure me right now while I'm literally sewing his head shut—
“You're delirious,” I say to him, but I can feel myself smile in the midst of it all. My voice wobbles. “Hush, love, and hold still.”
I lean down and kiss his sweaty cheek, brushing my free hand to wipe away tears, and go back to sewing. “I love you,” I whisper.
My hands steady. Another stitch. And another.
I tie it off and cut the thread. Blood is still oozing around the stitches, seeping through. “Ciarán, hand me that gauze. All of it.”
Another stitch. The needle punches through skin, and I feel it in my teeth. Nausea rumbles. The wound closes slowly, the work rough but functional. It just needs to hold.
Everything just needs to hold.
My hands are shaking so badly that the next stitch goes crooked. I need to move, need to do something with this energy crawling under my skin, but I can't because my hands are covered in his blood, and… and… if I stop stitching… what if he dies?
I try to bounce my knee, but it makes my hands shake worse. Fuck.
The next stitch goes in, and my vision blurs again. Tears or shock or both, I don't know, don't care. I'm humming without meaning to, some tuneless anxious sound, trying to self-soothe while my brain screams at me that this isn't working, nothing's working, I need to move—
“Erin,” Cavin says, his voice soft and slurred. “Look at me, love.”
“I'm busy saving your life, will you please shut the fuck up.” My voice cracks. I can taste bile in the back of my throat. I'm rocking now without meaning to, tiny movements while I work. “Jesus Christ, there's so much blood—”
“Erin.”
“I can't—if I don't get this closed—” Another stitch. My fingers are slick and red, and I can't tap them, can't flutter them, can't release any of this pressure building in my chest because I have to hold the needle steady, have to keep going.
“Look. At. Me.”
I meet his eyes, and the intensity there nearly breaks me. He's the one bleeding, the one with his head split open, and he's looking at me like I'm the one who needs saving.
But I do.
“You're doing perfect, love. Just keep going, my brave lass.” His hand finds mine and gives it a weak squeeze. “I love you. I'll never forget this.”
The words hit me hard. I choke on a sob, still rocking slightly, and force myself to keep stitching. I can fall apart after. After he's safe. After he's breathing steady and his eyes stay open.
Just hold on. Both of us just need to hold on.
I realize I've been holding my breath. My lungs burn as I take in air.
“Relax,” I tell him. “Just relax now, okay?”
But Cavin tries to sit up and immediately goes white. He's trembling. Fuck. Shock is setting in properly now. His skin is gray and clammy, and his lips are starting to lose color.
His left arm hangs at an odd angle. The goddamn shoulder.
“Shoulder’s dislocated,” Ciarán says. “Help hold him steady. Grab his hand, Erin.”
“Christ.” I exhale. “What are you—”
“I need to put his arm back in the socket. We’ve done this before. On three,” he says. “One… two… three.”
He pulls, twists, and pushes with his whole body weight.
The pop is audible and horrible, loud enough that even Ciarán flinches. The joint slots back into place with a wet grinding sound that makes my stomach heave.
Cavin makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a scream, more like a growl dragged up from somewhere deep and primal. His eyes roll back, and I fear he's going to pass out.
“He's a big man. I can't hold him if he—”
“Fuck!” He gasps. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.”
“Done. It's done. It's back in.”
“Good,” he says, breathing hard.
This time, I can't help it. I fall to my knees, grab the wastebasket just in time, and heave up the contents of my dinner. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and take a deep breath. Got that sorted. I don’t have time to be sick again.
When I stand back up, Ciarán’s draped someone's jacket over Cavin's chest. He's still shaking, teeth chattering now.
“He's in shock,” I say. “We need to keep him warm.”
We're not done.
For once in my life, I’m grateful that the many trips with Bridget to the hospital have taught me a thing or two.
I check his pupils again, clean the smaller cuts on his face and hands. He needs a CAT scan and X-rays and proper care.
I think to myself… of all the fucking things in the world, he's going to end up at the same hospital as my sister.
But I already suspect he won't go, that he’d rather die on this couch than answer the questions that come with walking into an emergency room like this.
So I do what I can with what I have.
“You saved me,” he says quietly, catching my hands.
“You'd have done the same.”
“Course I would.” His good hand comes up, cups my face.
And I burst into tears.
“Oh, Cavin.” I collapse against him, careful of his injuries.
“Shh,” he says, holding me against his bloody, sweaty chest. “I know, love. I know.”
“Good. Then live. Don't die, okay?”
Declan clears his throat from somewhere near the door. “I'll give you two a minute. You alright?”
“Alright,” I whisper.
The door clicks shut. We're alone in the wreckage—blood on the floor, torn gauze and scattered supplies everywhere.
“Fuck,” Cavin mutters.
His forehead is still pressed to mine, and I can feel his breath, shallow and uneven.
“You could have got yourself killed, Erin. The gun.” His voice cracks. “You could have—it could have gone off while you were running. If someone had grabbed you, if that shot had gone wide—”
“It didn't.”
“You don't know—”
His good hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my sticky hair. “Don't ever fucking do that again.”
“I promise, as long as you promise you don't get yourself beaten half to death again.”
He shakes his head, then winces. “Can't promise that, love.”
The words hang between us, a promise neither one of us can keep. Because next time, it might be too late. Next time, there might not be a gun. Next time, we might not both get up.
We stay like that, bloody and exhausted, until Declan finally knocks on the door.
“They're here. Let's get him home.”