Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Bianca
It's been three weeks since the night I discovered who my mother really was. She hasn't reached out to me, not once. Three weeks since my world shattered and reformed into something darker, surer, sharper—but truer.
Three weeks since I stopped fighting what I know, what we are. The McCarthy family house has become home, and Ashland's arms are my sanctuary. Somewhere in the quiet, between his possession and my surrender, I've found a peace I never knew existed.
I miss the cabin, and I look forward to going back. Apparently, he used to own a flat right here in the city, but then bought the cabin after he started tracking me. It's so Ashland to make such a dramatic gesture for someone he'd never met, but already claimed as his own .
Makes me laugh when I think about it. I miss that quiet solitude. I miss Lancelot, and I look forward to going back.
But here—here with the McCarthys—we have family. Anyone who has both solitude and family is the richest person there is. Tonight, the peace that comes with finally accepting who I am fills the kitchen, where I stand arranging plates while Ashland moves behind me, his body a wall of heat at my back.
But right now, all I can think about is that I'm meeting his parents tonight. What are they going to think of me? I've seen pictures—he's told me about them, and he loves them—but what if they don't like me?
“You look beautiful,” he whispers in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “So fucking beautiful. Look at you.”
I’m wearing a dress I borrowed from Bronwyn.
If you'd asked me a month ago what I thought of Bronwyn McCarthy, I would have said she was absolutely gorgeous and completely untouchable. Now here I am wearing her clothes. Shows just how much my mother's poisoned perception got into my head. Bronwyn's beautiful, and I can be too.
And I am beautiful.
It's a pretty sweater-sheath dress that hugs my curves and dips just low enough to show a hint of cleavage in the front.
Warm and pretty but practical. Kyla braided my hair.
She's quiet and reserved but loyal—her fingers patient and careful.
Erin lent me the most beautiful emerald necklace that catches the light when I move.
And Aunt Caitlin lent me a pair of black flats.
I haven't bought any new clothes since we came here because the McCarthy women have so many—they've kept me completely outfitted. It’s fun, like I'm the little sister who gets to raid everybody's closet.
I just want it to be perfect.
I lean back into Ashland, letting him take my weight. “Your parents haven't seen you this—you know, settled. And I don't want to?—”
“They'll love you.” His mouth brushes my temple, soft despite the roughness of his voice. “They'll see how much I do, and they will. ” His hands find my hips with that casual ownership that still makes my breath catch. “You're working yourself into a state.”
“But they don't know me?—”
“They know enough.” His grip tightens just a bit. “They know you're mine and that I love you, and that's all that matters.”
It’s hard to imagine a world in which that’s… enough.
I turn in his arms, looking up at his scarred, beautiful face that has become the center of my world. “Ash?—”
He kisses me, one hand threaded through my hair to tilt my head exactly how he wants it, deep, possessive, thorough. When he pulls away, my cheeks are hot, and I'm breathless.
“No more fussing now,” he says firmly, tapping my chin with his index finger. “Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper. The words are automatic and natural now, clicking something into place between us that I crave.
I love the dark hunger that flashes in his eyes. “Keep that up, and we'll be having a very different kind of dinner party of our own, love.”
Before I can respond, gravel crunches outside. Ashland's body tenses, his hand automatically going to his waistband before he forces himself to relax.
“It's just them,” I whisper, pressing closer. “Just your parents.”
He exhales and nods, but he doesn't fully relax until he looks out the window and confirms it himself. Always vigilant, always protecting, even when it's his own family arriving.
Nolan McCarthy is an older, slimmer version of his son, with blondish-silver hair and silver eyes touched with blue. He has the same aura of barely contained violence wrapped in Irish charm.
His mam is softer, with gray hair pulled into a practical bun, but I can see the steel beneath her kind exterior. Ashland tells me she was an investigative reporter in her day .
“Bianca,” she says warmly, pulling me into a hug before I can even tense. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”
“It's so nice to meet you,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “I've heard so much about you. I'm sorry it's been so long—I know things have been complicated.”
“Aye, complicated,” she says with a knowing smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. “That's one word for it.”
These dinners have become a lifeline, proof that this isn't just captivity or possession, but something we're building. Something real.
Nolan clasps his son's shoulder, the gesture brief but weighted with unspoken pride. “Ash.”
“Da.”
We settle around the table that I set with actual care. Candles, pretty dishes Caitlin procured, food I'd spent hours preparing because I wanted to, not because I had to. They have a chef, but I needed this—needed to show them I can be part of this family.
“This is grand,” his mam says, looking genuinely pleased.
“Never thought I'd see the day you'd settle,” his da says, a hint of amusement in his gravelly voice.
The meal passes in easy conversation. Stories about Ashland as a boy that make me laugh and make him scowl, but I notice how he keeps touching me—my hair, my back, my knee—little points of contact that say mine without words .
“More wine?” he asks, reaching for the bottle.
“I've got it?—”
His eyes meet mine with that look that makes my stomach flip. “Let me take care of you.”
“Thank you.” I watch the satisfaction flicker across his face at my acceptance.
His parents exchange a look of surprise. Ashland really hasn’t ever had another woman, has he?
We're finishing dessert when we hear tires outside again. Ashland is on his feet before I can blink, positioning himself between me and the door, his hand on his weapon.
“Easy, lad,” Nolan says quietly, calm in the face of his son's razor-sharp instincts. “That'll be Seamus and the lot, I'd wager.”
The rest of the McCarthys went out to dinner to give Ashland and me the privacy we both wanted, but he doesn't put his weapon away until he confirms it himself.
“They're all alike, aren't they?” his mam whispers to me with fond exasperation. “Ever vigilant.”
“Aye,” I whisper back, then stand and walk to Ashland. I press my hand to his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart. “It's alright. Relax.”
“I know.” But his heart still beats hard under my palm .
Seamus lets himself in, his wife Zoya at his side. Another impossible pairing that somehow works.
“Sorry—didn't mean to come home so early,” Seamus says, though his tone doesn't suggest he really cares if he's interrupting anything. “But the babysitter says one of the kids has a fever.”
“It's all good. We're just finished,” Ashland says, his hand finding the small of my back. “Da, Mam—coffee?”
“Aye, in a bit.”
“I'll be right back,” Zoya says, giving me a wink before heading upstairs.
We move to the living room, Ashland pulling me down onto the couch beside him, his arm automatically going around my shoulders. I fit against him perfectly, my body knowing exactly how to curve into his.
“You've been hiding out here for weeks,” Seamus says, his eyes serious as he settles into the chair across from us. “Keeping Bianca safe, staying off the grid.”
“It was the right call.” Ashland's voice is flat, defensive.
“Aye, but you can't protect her here forever, lad.” Seamus leans forward, elbows on his knees.
Ashland stiffens. “I'll do what I have to.”
“And you can't stay up every night for the rest of your life,” I say, the words escaping before I can stop them.
His head whips toward me. “Bianca?— ”
“It's true.” I touch his shoulder, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. “You barely sleep, Ashland. You're exhausted, a damn zombie. You can't keep living like this.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not.”
The silence falls, charged with the weight of truth that neither of us wants to acknowledge.
“They’ve been begging you to return to the ring,” Seamus says quietly. “We could make a show of it. Ashland McCarthy’s big return. Not afraid of anyone or anything.”
Ashland nods and sits up straighter. “I’d fucking love to go back to the ring.”
“Then go to the ring,” Seamus says into the quiet. “We'll go with you. We'll spread the word, won't we? Post on socials. The girls keep family accounts now.” He smirks. “Let Crowning see that you're coming. Draw him out of fucking hiding.”
“You can use me as bait—” I start.
“We talked about that. No ,” Ashland insists.
“I want to end this,” Seamus says, meeting my eyes.
“But Ashland's right—you don't come near it.” He turns back to his cousin.
“You can put yourself on the hook, lad. You know I'm right. We bring the fight to him on our terms. We fucking finish this. Then you can have your peace. You can actually live with her instead of just surviving.”
“I don’t want him hurt by Crowning, Seamus,” Nolan adds.
“I won’t,” Ashland insists. “I’ll wipe the fucking ground?—”
“Won’t lose another son, Ash.” The room is quiet for a beat before Seamus speaks up.
“Aye. We won’t let that happen.”
Ashland is silent for a long moment, his mind clearly racing through scenarios and contingencies. “Fine,” he says finally. Then he looks at me, dominance flashing in his eyes, making my breath catch. “But you—you are not coming.”
“Ashland—”
“No. Absolute. Final . This is not up for discussion, Bianca.”
Heat flashes through me. “I should have a say?—”