Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Nine months later…
Ashland
Bianca's nineteen years old today. Nineteen .
I’m thirteen years older than she is.
And I'll never touch the lass. I can admire her from a distance and not… touch her. I could never . It would be like marring a flawless diamond, dulling something precious and pure.
I've taken on the role of her distant protector though.
She's majoring in history, because of course she is. Reads Arthurian legend like it’s gospel. Drinks coffee with an obscene amount of cream and sugar. Leaves her door unlocked when she's home alone .
That last one keeps me up at night.
If she were mine, I'd change that right quick. She isn’t though. She can’t ever be.
My phone buzzes with an alert, and I quickly glance at the screen.
Bianca's home.
I breathe a sigh of relief. The lass decided it would be an excellent idea to walk alone in the moors after dark, said something to her rosy-cheeked classmate about it being “melancholy and romantic,” and off she went.
Fuck.
“Ashland, you ready, brother?” Cavin waits at the entrance to the ring, frowning at me as he cracks his neck from side to side.
“Aye.”
We're practicing together. Seamus would fucking kill us if he knew, because we're not allowed to fight each other. McCarthy versus McCarthy means broken bones or worse.
But Cavin and I know how to keep each other intact.
Well, mostly.
My phone beeps with another notification. I quickly silence it, but Cavin notices and flashes me a grin. “You got a woman, mate? What're you hiding over there?”
“Shut it.”
“You do! You fucking do. Let me see!”
He grabs for the phone, but I catch his wrist and twist. He winces and howls, pulling back. “Christ, brother, you don't have to?—”
“Don't touch my phone.”
“Why won’t you fuckin’ admit it?” he asks, still nursing his hurt wrist, genuine curiosity in his gaze.
I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”
“Will you ever see someone? Christ, lad, you can at least come to The Craic with us, get a quick lay, see if?—”
“No.”
How the fuck would I explain this? Explain her? I couldn't fucking do it.
They'd think I was a fuckin' predator, and I—I'm not.
Stalker?
Well, is it still stalking if it's for her own good?
And I don't go overboard. I'm very… moderate in my… methods.
Yeah, I was able to install tracking software on her phone, but that's only basic; that's the easy step. I know her major and might know she gets good marks as well. I watch her at all times because she doesn't have a fucking bodyguard on her, and why doesn't she have a bodyguard ?
And I now know that Bianca White’s dad once worked for our family, managing the very ring I’m in.
Cavin lifts the rope to the ring and gestures for me to join him.
Happily .
We circle each other, and I let him make the first move. He always does.
Cavin lunges with a jab that I dodge easily, then another. I block the third and counter with a hook to his ribs that makes him grunt. He recovers quickly and lands a solid hit to my jaw that snaps my head back.
Good. I need this.
I come at him harder. A combination—left, right, uppercut that catches him under the chin.
His head whips back. I don't give him time to recover.
I'm on him, driving him into the corner of the ring.
Another hit to the ribs, then to his kidneys.
He tries to block, but I'm faster, angrier, and I don't know why, but I can't fucking stop.
I see her walking alone in the dark. I see those men from last year. I see every fucking danger she puts herself in without even knowing it.
My fist connects with Cavin's cheekbone. Blood sprays. He staggers, tries to swing back, but I catch his arm and drive my knee into his gut. He doubles over with a strangled gasp.
I'm about to hit him again when? —
“Mercy, brother! Mercy.”
I let him up, breathing heavily, and he scowls at me. “Jesus, Ash, you'd think I fucking ran over your dog.” He winces, dragging a hand across his chest to support his bruised ribs. Seamus would kick my goddamn arse.
“Save it,” Cav says, shaking his head. “For a fight that matters.”
Christ, I've got to get a grip. I have to.
I reach for my phone on instinct, checking the notifications again. Bianca’s at the bookstore.
Okay, good. I can do this. I have to go to the bookstore anyway because my mother's birthday is coming up, and I want to buy her a book. This will make things easier.
Pragmatic or something.
I park the car a good distance from the entrance, making sure I'm nowhere near Bianca's little blue hatchback. She's probably at the back, with her?—
And then Bianca's right there in front of me, her eyes wide when she accidentally steps into my space. Her perfume hits me before I can brace for it, roses and something warm underneath, something that short-circuits every rational thought I have.
I’m dizzy with the knowledge that she's here … in front of me.
My heart slams against my ribs. I feel as tongue-tied as a lad as I shake my head and gesture for her to go ahead of me. My hands are shaking. I never fuckin' shake .
Roses.
I can see the individual dark lashes framing those eyes, the way her lips part slightly in surprise, the delicate pulse at her throat.
Christ, I want to put my mouth there.
“Oh! I'm so sorry. Excuse me.”
She has the voice of an angel.
I swallow hard, my throat tight. “Oh, nothing at all. Go on, then,” I manage, the words coming out rougher than I intended. I gesture stiffly for her to go ahead of me, my hand trembling slightly before I shove it into my pocket.
Fuck, I sound like an eejit .
She grins at me. Actually grins .
And my heart—my fucking heart —comes to a standstill for a fraction of a second.
Long enough that I forget how to breathe, forget my own name, forget everything except the way her smile transforms her entire face.
It's the real smile, the one I've cataloged and memorized.
The one that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners and shows the tiny gap between her front teeth.
“Thanks,” she says, her voice soft and warm. Christ, I've heard that voice through cameras and from a distance, but never directed at me . Never this close .
She slips past me, close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm, and I have to lock my knees to keep from reaching for her. From touching her. From doing something completely fucking absurd, like pulling her against me just to see if she fits as perfectly as I've imagined.
The spot where we touched burns like a brand.
I stand there like a useless gobshite, watching her walk toward the history section—of course she's going to the history section—her dark hair swaying with each step.
She's wearing a cream-colored jumper that's too big for her, slipping off one shoulder, and those goddamn jeans that hug her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry.
Get a fucking grip.
I force myself to move, to head toward a completely different section, putting distance between us before I do something I can't take back. Before she notices the way I'm looking at her.
Before she realizes I'm not some random stranger in a bookstore, but the man who's been… watching her… for nine months.
My hands are still shaking.
I clench them into fists, feeling the familiar ache in my scarred knuckles, and try to remember why I came here in the first place.
Right. A book for Mam.
But all I can think about is the way Bianca smiled at me.
This is wrong. So fucking wrong.
She doesn't know me at all, yet I could recite every intricate line and detail of her life to her.
But I'm not a stalker .
I'm a protector .