Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ashland
The posts start the next day.
I fucking hate it, but I have to let it go. Aunt Caitlin uploads a photo first—Bianca and Erin in the kitchen, flour dusting their cheeks, laughing over something. The caption reads: “Teaching the new girl how not to burn soda bread. She's a quick learner.”
Then Bronwyn shares a story—Bianca curled up in the library with Erin, both of them reading. “Book club recruits acquired,” with a stack of books emoji.
I didn't know the plan was to post Bianca. It feels like we're publicly waving her in front of Crowning's nose, but it seems the safest way to toss out the line. Better than letting her do anything in person.
Then Lorcan posts a video of Bianca attempting to explain the difference between Lancelot and Galahad to Tiernan, who's pretending to be confused just to watch her get more animated. The old man's grinning like a bastard at the end. That one amuses me even as my nerves are churning.
I watch each one from my phone, my jaw tight, gripping it so hard my knuckles whiten. They're claiming her publicly, probably making her part of the family narrative before anyone outside these walls can question it. Throwing the fucking gauntlet to Crowning because it will get back to him.
And if I know him, and I reckon I fucking do by now, he won't be able to stand it. Not another goddamn second.
Then Kyla posts one that makes my screen feel too small.
Bianca and me… in the garden, her hand on my arm, both of us smiling. Her head is bowed toward me, leaning into my arm. I'm looking down at her, my expression soft in a way that's downright foreign to me.
I want to take this picture, blow it up, and frame it because it's so right, so beautiful, seeing her lean on me like that.
“You'll see how it works,” Kyla says when I corner her about it later. “Algorithms and all that. Everybody loves a bit of gossip, don't they?”
“Aye, tell me about it,” I mutter.
When Seamus finally shows me the one he's posting tonight, it's me. Only I look somehow like a… fucking su perhero. The photo is black and white, and I'm standing in the ring, victorious, as the ref raises my arm.
The caption is simple: “He's back in the ring Friday. About time.”
And when he posts it, the comments explode.
McCarthy's enforcer returns. Fuck yes.
Been too long. We've missed him.
Money's on McCarthy. Money's always on McCarthy.
Who's he fighting?
Always bet on the McCarthy Monster.
I lock my phone and shove it in my pocket, needing to move, needing to think. It's been weeks since I took her, since I made it clear she wasn't going back to Marcus Crowning.
The fucking prick always had to be the biggest man in the room.
Now he's gone silent. That's not right.
I check my phone again at the top of the stairs, away from where Bianca might see me obsessing.
Crowning hasn't said anything about Bianca. No missing person posts. No demands. No threats. No reach-out to the family. It’s suspicious as fuck.
Her mother's the same. We've been watching her—Declan's got eyes on her movements. She's gone to the salon. Gone to brunch with her friends, like her daughter didn't just vanish off the face of the earth and claim the McCarthys as her new family.
I lower the phone and stare at the wall of my room, my chest tight with tension I can't shake.
They're planning something. They fucking have to be. No one like Crowning goes down like this, unanswered. And her mother wouldn't just shrug and move on.
I can't see the shape of it yet. Can't figure out what they're waiting for. And the not knowing's fucking killing me.
“You alright?” Bianca asks. “You seem distracted.”
Of course I am. I brush a strand of hair out of her eyes and tuck it behind her ear. “Aye, I'm distracted. Want this over with. I know Crowning's planning his attack, isn't he?”
She nods slowly. “I know it too. He has to be.” She swallows hard, her throat moving. “You ready for the fight tomorrow?”
“Aye,” I tell her. “I am.” I pause, meeting her eyes, and my voice drops. “You ready to stay home?”
She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest. “Sure.”
She walks away from me before I can argue, but I know she's not happy about it. She's gonna fight me on this all the way to the fucking ring… I kn ow she will.
But she is settling in now. Maybe it's just how she is—adaptable, determined to make the best of things.
She started helping Aunt Caitlin in the mornings, learning recipes and asking questions about the family history and traditions.
Erin puts her to work, too, though I'm not quite sure what she's doing yet. Not quite sure Bianca knows either. Erin says she's assessing Bianca's skills, testing her and seeing where she fits.
“She's got a mind like a steel trap,” Erin tells me one afternoon.
I smile with pride I can't hide. “Aye, she does.”
Erin would know—the lass is bloody brilliant herself.
Bianca sits with Bronwyn in the library, listening to stories about our childhood and laughing at things I don't even remember being funny. She laughs easily now, more freely than when I first brought her here. She’s nervous about tomorrow, just like I am. But she doesn't let it show.
I listen. I'm always listening.
At night, she comes to me. I'm not always good with words, but Bianca seems content with silence. She curls against my chest, her fingers tracing the tattoos on my arms while I hold her. Sometimes it feels like she might disappear if I let go.
“Fancy a read, lass?” I say one night.
“Aye,” she says softly, always eager when I offer.
She stays curled up against me until her eyes go half lidded and heavy while I read to her. Sometimes I stumble a bit over the words—never was one for academics and the like—but when I get into it, she smiles.
“What makes you smile?” I say, tugging a lock of her hair gently.
“You just get into the characters,” she murmurs. “It's cute.”
“Cute?” I tell her, pinching her nose lightly. She giggles, the sound warming something deep in my chest.
“You know, I think your family likes me,” she says softly in the darkness. “I didn't think they would.”
“Christ, why wouldn't they?” I run my hand through her hair, feeling the silk of it between my fingers. “You're easy to like.”
She tilts her head up, her dark eyes catching the moonlight through the window. “You think so?”
“I've always thought so.” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to. “That was maybe the problem, wasn't it?”
Her lips curve into a small smile, and she kisses me, slow and sweet. I forget about Crowning and her mother and all the shite waiting to come down on us tomorrow. For a little while, it's just us. Just her.
And I have to remind myself, this is why. This is why I will kill Marcus Crowning.
The fight night comes faster than I want it to and not soon enough.
I'm in the main house with Bianca, both of us pretending this is normal. She's under a blanket on the sofa with a book about Camelot. I'm checking my phone over and over, flexing and putting lotion on my hands, an old habit before a fight, even though my hands are already scarred to hell.
“You're nervous,” she says, without looking up from her book.
“I'm not.”
“You've touched your phone six times in the last hour.”
I set my phone down. “Just making sure everything's in place.”
She closes her book and looks at me fully. “Worried?”
I don't answer right away. The silence stretches between us.
“Ashland,” she presses. “Do you think he's going to show up tonight or something?”
“Don't know,” I say, rolling my shoulders to ease the tension. “Probably not. But if he does, I'm ready. We all are.” We fucking threw out that fishing line, didn’t we? Now we’re just waiting for the fucker to bite .
She stands and crosses to me, her hands sliding up my chest. “Maybe I should go?—”
“You have to stay here.”
“Why?” Her voice is small, almost pleading.
“Because Seamus asked. Because the family expects it.” I catch her wrists gently. “This is what I do, lass. I fight. And I won't let you be used as bait.”
“But you're the bait this time,” she says quietly. Her fingers curl into my shirt. “I wish you'd let me come with you.”
I grasp her wrists more firmly. “We discussed this. You stay here, where you're safe. You have to be safe.”
Her eyes grow misty, and she swallows hard. “What about you ? Who’s keeping you safe?”
I swallow the fuckin' lump rising in my throat.
“I'm always safe in the ring,” I tell her, gentler now. “I have my brother and cousins with me, don't I?” I kiss her. “Trust me. Seamus wouldn't throw me in like this if I wasn't ready.”
“He's throwing you in with sharks, Ashland.”
“But I'm a shark too, aren't I?” I kiss her cheek, her temple, trying to memorize the feel of her. “I'll be back before midnight, love. Promise.”
She searches my face, then nods slowly. “Alright.”
“Good lass. ”
I leave her standing in the main room, Caitlin already moving toward her with a bottle of wine and a reassuring smile. They'll keep her occupied. They'll keep her safe. That's what matters.
Tiernan's waiting by the car, his arm still bruised from his recovery. He's lost weight and looks older somehow. But he's better now, stronger. His expression is unreadable, but I know. He wouldn't miss this for anything.
“You look tense,” he says as I slide into the passenger seat.
“Always am before a fight, aren't I?”
“Bollocks. This is different.”
I don't answer.
“Do you think he'll come?” Tiernan asks after a moment.
“Aye.” I blow out a breath. “I do. I hope he fucking does.”
He drives in silence, the city lights flashing past the windows. I've fought here dozens of times. I know the space, the crowds, the rules, but my instincts are screaming tonight.
I don't like leaving her behind. I don't like this public spectacle at all .