Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ashland
The house settles into silence around three in the morning, but I'm still awake, still watching.
Who knew I'd miss her damn cat ?
I'm stretched out in the chair by the window of our bedroom— our bedroom.
When did I start thinking like that?
With the clear view of the drive and the front gate, I have to admit… I like that Seamus has put us here.
He knows I like to be vigilant, and I don't think the safety factor is the only reason we're in this room. Declan's got men on rotation, cameras on every approach, and Seamus has the security system locked down tighter than a drum. But I still can't fucking sleep .
Bianca's curled up in the large king bed, one hand tucked under her cheek, her dark hair spilled across the pillow. She looks so small in bed, vulnerable. Every protective instinct I have roars to life just looking at her.
Marcus Crowning is out there. Her mother's probably already gone back to his father, spilling everything she heard while she was here. We've got eyes on the bastard though. Declan's tracking every move.
I know men like him. I know what they're capable of when they feel cornered. Fuck it all, I've done it myself.
My phone buzzes with a text from Declan.
Declan
All clear. North perimeter checked. Go to fucking sleep, cousin.
I don't respond because he knows I won't.
Declan used to be our main enforcer, and now he's moved into position as head of security because he's fucking good at it. Nothing slips by him.
But Bianca’s my woman, my obsession, and I won't sleep until Marcus Crowning is buried.
I stand and move to the bed, checking the window locks for the third fucking time tonight, then check the lock on the bathroom window and the balcony doors.
“Ashland.” Her voice is sleepy and soft, husky. I turn to find her watching me, her big eyes barely open.
“Go back to sleep, love,” I tell her. “Just checking things.”
“Again.” She pushes herself up on one elbow. “You checked an hour ago.”
“Aye, and I'll check again in another hour.”
I move back to the chair, but her hand shoots out, catching my wrist. “Bed, Ashland.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine if you don't sleep.” She tugs gently. “Please. I can't even sleep when you're prowling around like a caged animal.”
I hesitate. Every instinct in me screams to stay alert, stay vigilant, but exhaustion pulls at my bones, and the plea in her eyes is impossible to resist.
“Declan knows what he's doing,” she says. “You know he does.”
Over the past few days, Declan's gone over security with her, every single detail. Making sure she knows the protocols, the safe rooms, and the escape routes.
“Alright.” I slide into bed beside her.
She immediately curls into me, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart, and her breathing begins to slow.
“Ah,” she whispers. “Better now.”
I wrap my arm around her, holding her close, and her warmth seeps into me. Her breathing evens out, but I still don't sleep. I lie there in the dark, listening to every creak of the house, to the whisper of the wind outside, protecting her. Always protecting her.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and Bianca's fingers tracing the scar that runs along my ribs.
“You're staring,” I rumble, not opening my eyes.
“You have so many,” she says softly. “It makes me sad to think about how you got them.”
I don't respond. Sometimes it makes me sad too.
Her finger moves to another scar, this one across my shoulder. “This one looks old.”
“It is. I was fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” she says, her voice catching. “You were just a child. Just a lad.”
“I was a McCarthy,” I say, opening one eye to find her propped up on an elbow, studying me with that intense gaze that goes right through me. “We're not children for very long, love.”
Her top has slid off her shoulder, showing me bare, creamy skin. I pull it back, brushing my thumb over the exposed flesh .
Her fingers trace lower, finding the puckered scar above my hip. “This one?”
“Knife fight. Twenty-two.”
“This?” She touches my knuckles, where the scars are thick and white.
“Too many fights to count. When I was a lad, in school, we were taught by a man named Malachy. He taught us how to fight. And we did, constantly. Trained us, disciplined us, he did.”
“Is that right?” she asks quietly. “You said Tiernan did too?”
“Aye, between Malachy and Tiernan, I was in the ring pretty much as soon as I was up on two and could walk.” I scrub a hand across my brow. “Getting older, though, aren’t I? Will be retiring from the ring eventually.”
“Up on two,” she says quietly, her fingers still moving over my skin, mapping every mark, every wound. “My god. Do they hurt?”
I shake my head.
“How’s Tiernan?”
“Recovering. The bastard’s too mean to stay down. Once a fighter, always a fighter.”
She pauses and bites her lip. “Did you ever think you wouldn' t make it?”
“Aye, every time,” I say with a dark laugh. “Every fight, I thought it might be the last. That's what keeps you alive, love. The fear. The edge.”
“I don't want you to die, Ashland,” she whispers.
“Not planning on it.” I pull her closer, tucking her against my chest. “Not now that I've got something worth living for, eh?”
She swallows hard and tilts her head up. “Tell me about your family. Growing up here. You speak highly of your parents.”
I tense. I don't like to talk about my brother, about the gaping hole his death left in all of us. But she's looking at me with such trust and openness that the words start to come.
“Donovan was older than me by a few years. Brilliant, charismatic, everything a McCarthy heir should be.”
“Aye,” she whispers. “You grew up together, did you?”
“We did. He was the eldest, the one to lead us. When he died, it fell to me. Nearly broke my mother.”
“That's why you're so protective,” she says softly. “Why you hardly sleep.”
I look down at her. “I failed him, Bianca. I wasn't there when he needed me. If I could have steered him in the right direction?—”
“It wasn't your fault, Ashland. You can't control everything. You can't save everyone. ”
I run my fingers through her hair, pushing the dark strands away from her eyes, and hold her gaze with mine. “I can save you .”
The words hang between us, heavy with promise and threat.
She cups my face. “You already did,” she whispers. “Will you let me save you back?”
But before I can respond, she kisses me, soft and sweet and full of something that scares me more than any fight ever has.
Later that morning, in the kitchen, Aunt Caitlin has a roast going for dinner, and Bronwyn's making her soda bread. But somehow, Bianca got roped into helping with the vegetables.
“Not much of a cook,” she says, holding a knife awkwardly over a carrot. “But I do like to help.”
“Here.” I move behind her, my hands covering hers. “Like this. Let the knife do the work.”
She leans back against me, and I guide her hands, showing her the rhythm. The curve of her arse presses against me. I have to fight the urge to bend her over this fucking counter .
“Ashland,” Aunt Caitlin says warningly. I know she's clocked my expression.
“What? I'm behaving.”
Bianca laughs, and the sound is bright and free. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear it until now.
“He's just teaching me how to cook,” she says innocently.
“Is that what we're calling it now?” Bronwyn mutters, grinning.
I press a kiss against Bianca's neck, just because I can. Just because she's here, she's mine, and I'll never let her go.
“If I cut my finger, it's your fault,” she mutters.
I step back, letting her work, but give her one more parting kiss on the shoulder.
I watch as she laughs with Bronwyn, as Aunt Caitlin tells her stories about Seamus and me as boys, as Erin wanders in and starts debating the merits of different potato varieties with the kind of intensity most people reserve for much more serious decisions.
Zoya comes in with a baby on her hip, and two more of her and Seamus’s children sidle up to the table for sweets from Bianca.
This is something I never thought I'd have—a woman who fits into the family like she belongs here.
“She's good for you.” Seamus appears beside me, leaning at my elbow with a Guinness, and hands one to me. We clink them together.
“I never thought I'd see the day,” he says.
“I know,” I say quietly. “Remember when you asked me if I liked lads?”
He chuckles under his breath.
“I do.” He takes a long pull of his drink. “You better not break her heart. McCarthys are not in the business of breaking girls' hearts or breaking vows. You know that.”
“I know, Seamus. I know. I'm keeping this girl, if she'll have me.”
“Oh, she'll have you,” he says with a laugh. “She looks at you as if you're the savior himself.”
He takes another swig of his beer. “Just don't fuck it up.”
“Helpful advice, as always.” I sip my drink.
“I'm a helpful man.” He claps me on the shoulder and wanders off to find his wife.
I turn back to watch Bianca. She catches me staring and smiles, that shy, beautiful smile that makes my chest tight.
Keeping her. That's one way to put it.
I take her to the training room in the basement after we have supper, where Seamus and I spar to work out the tension and rage that come with this life.
“We're going to do a little practice on how to defend yourself,” I tell her. “Just in case I'm ever not there, right?”
“I don't understand,” she says, looking around at the mats, the punching bags, and the weights. “You're always with me. You barely even let anybody look at me sideways.”
“I'm not omnipresent,” I tell her, moving behind her and adjusting her stance.
“Oh, using the big words now, are we?”
I slap her arse hard, and she giggles.
“Now listen. You plant your feet shoulder-width apart. Good. When you throw a punch, you don't just use your arm. Use your whole body. Put everything into it.”
I guide her through the motion, my hands on her hips, turning her into it. She's focused, determined, her brow furrowed in concentration.