Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bianca
I scream when some fucking eejit tosses a glass bottle at Ashland’s head. My face aches from where Marcus slapped me, the skin stinging, but I forget my own pain when I see Ashland fall to the ground.
Before the bottle shatters, Cavin lunges with a vicious scream of rage, taking the attacker to the ground with him. Lorcan reaches for me and pulls me away from the ring, shielding me with his body.
“Let me watch!” I scream. “Let me watch, Lorcan!”
“Stay behind me,” he growls, but he doesn’t pull me away.
Ashland shakes it off and shoves himself to his feet. Hope surges in me again. No one will keep my man down. No one .
I was never going to stay home. He will lose his ever-loving mind on me, but as long as he's alive, it'll be worth it.
Kyla drove me in. She didn't want to—kept saying Ashland would fucking kill her if anything happened to me. But I begged her. Pleaded. Told her I'd go alone if she didn't help me.
And now that I’m here, my heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest.
I can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stare at the ring. At Ashland. Nausea roils in my belly.
He's covered in blood. His knuckles are split open, white bone visible through torn skin. His face is bruised and swollen, and there's a cut above his eyebrow, streaming red down the side of his face. But god, his eyes—gunmetal silver. Cold and focused. Utterly merciless.
The monster from that night six years ago. The killer.
And he's mine .
Marcus barely manages to stand. His face is a mess of blood and bruises, and he's holding his side. His nose is definitely broken, and one eye is swollen completely shut. He's swaying on his feet, trying to lift his fists to protect himself, but Ashland stalks forward like death incarnate.
Marcus gets him with a good hook.
Ashland falls to one knee .
And I can't help it. I scream out to him, my voice raw and desperate. “You've got this, Ashland! Do it!”
Because ending Marcus Crowning is the only way this all ends. This isn't just about Ashland and me. It's not just about me becoming a McCarthy. This is about everything that needs to end. No other woman will ever be his victim again.
Ashland shakes it off, blinks, and holds my gaze across the blood-soaked canvas. Then he pushes to his feet.
He surges forward like a man possessed. I crave the show of violence like I crave air.
“ Finish him ,” I whisper. “ Ashland. ”
Every punch lands like thunder. I can hear the impact of fists meeting flesh. Bone breaking. Marcus's gasps and groans, and then his pleas for mercy.
But there will be none tonight.
Above the crowd, I can hear my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. Ashland hooks his fist into Crowning's ribs. Once. Twice. The third hit makes Crowning double over, retching for a second time.
One of Marcus’s men tries to enter the ring, but Cavin grabs the back of his shirt, yanking him back and shoving him to the ground. “This is their fight.”
Ashland grabs him by the throat. Lifts him—fucking lifts him clean off the ground—and slams him down on the canvas so hard the whole ring shakes.
I should look away. I will see this in my dreams for the rest of my life, hear the wet crack of bone and the spray of blood, the animal sounds of a man being beaten to death.
I should close my eyes—cover them, run out of here screaming, and never look back.
But I can't. I won’t.
Because this savage, terrible, beautiful violence… it’s all for me.
Ashland hauls Marcus up by his hair, and Marcus's face is unrecognizable now. Blood pours from his nose and mouth, running in rivers down his neck. I hope the bastard’s choking on his own teeth.
Ashland slams him down again. The ring shakes. Marcus convulses, trying to curl into himself, but Ashland kicks his arms away, brutal and methodical, then drops his full weight onto Marcus's chest. I hear ribs crack like dry kindling.
Marcus screams. It's a wet, gurgling sound. There's blood in his lungs now.
“You killed them,” Ashland growls, driving his fist into Marcus's already-destroyed face. “And she was next.”
Each word is punctuated by another blow. Marcus's head snaps back with each impact, bouncing off the blood-slicked canvas. His arms flail weakly, uselessly. One of them is bent wrong, broken at the elbow from when Ashland stomped on it earlier .
This is old justice, witnessed and binding.
Ashland grabs Marcus's jaw, the part that isn't shattered, and forces his head to the side. “Look at her,” he snarls. “Look at the woman you thought you'd kill. Look at her, alive .”
Marcus's one good eye—swollen nearly shut, filled with blood—tries to find me. A wet, rattling sound comes from his throat. Not words, just the desperate wheeze of a dying man.
Ashland releases him and stands. Marcus curls in on himself, nothing but shattered bone and torn flesh. His chest rises and falls in shallow, irregular gasps. He's drowning in his own blood.
But Ashland isn't done.
He circles Marcus's broken body like a predator, and I see the monster he's always feared showing me. The thing he became in the alley six years ago when he saved a terrified eighteen-year-old girl. The weapon the McCarthys forged. The killer who protects what's his.
He's magnificent.
He's terrifying.
He's mine .
Ashland straddles Marcus's chest again, his boots on either side of his rib cage. His fist rises high, knuckles split open and dripping, his entire arm painted red to the elbow. Every muscle in his body is coiled, ready. Lethal .
This is it. The killing blow. The end.
But he stops.
His fist trembles in the air, his body tense and shaking with the effort of holding back. He's staring at me.
Our eyes meet across the blood-soaked ring, and I see the question there. The plea. Don't hate me for this. Don't fear me. Don't leave me when you see what I really am.
Something deep inside me, dark and terrible, unfurls like wings.
Somehow, the world narrows to just us. Just this moment. Just this choice.
He doesn't want me to see this side of him. The monster. The killer. But I already know what he is. I've always known.
And I love him anyway. Because of it. In spite of it. For it.
“I love you.”
Marcus gurgles something, maybe a plea, maybe a curse. His body jerks weakly beneath Ashland's weight.
I nod once, slow and deliberate.
Permission.
Blessing.
Mine .
And somehow, amid the blood and violence and screaming, Ashland hears that silent plea .
His eyes close, just for a heartbeat. When they open again, there's no hesitation left.
His jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark with purpose.
His fist comes down like a hammer. The sound is sickening, wet, and final.
Crowning's body goes limp beneath him.
Tiernan vaults into the ring, but Ashland doesn't move.
Tiernan kneels down and takes Crowning's pulse. He shakes his head once.
Ashland looks at Crowning one last time, then leans down, close enough to whisper in the dead man's ear.
“She was never yours,” he says, and I hear him. From where I am, I hear every word. “She was always mine. I hope you burn in hell knowing she’s mine.”
Tiernan nods to Seamus. “He's gone.”
Ashland stands and wipes the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He looks directly at me.
Seamus climbs into the ring as Ashland holds my gaze. He addresses Crowning's men, his voice loud and clear.
“You know the rules. It was a fair fight in the ring. Any repercussions from the likes of you will be quickly and severely dealt with. There will be no war that continues after this. Is that clear?”
The few men who remain nod grudgingly .
Seamus turns to one of them. “You know what to do now.”
I don't know what the legalities are, what the politics are. All I care about is Ashland.
The crowd parts as Ashland climbs out of the ring and walks toward me. He's limping, favoring his left side. His face is a mess of cuts and bruises, and his lip is split. Blood still streams from the gash above his eyebrow. His knuckles are raw and torn, exposing bone.
He looks like a nightmare made flesh.
He looks beautiful. My avenging angel.
When he reaches me, his palm cups my face, his thumb brushing over my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my eyes sting.
“Are you hurt?” he rasps.
My god. He's barely stitched together with flesh and bone, and he's asking if I'm hurt.
“Did he touch you?”
“No more than a little slap, the weak bastard,” I say, my lower lip trembling. I shake my head. “I'm okay.”
His eyes search mine, frantic and desperate. “Tell me you're okay. Say it again.”
“I'm okay,” I whisper, running my hand over my nose and wiping my eyes. “But you? You're bleeding everywhere. God, Ash?— ”
“Doesn't matter.” His other hand comes up to frame my face, both palms cupping my cheeks. “You shouldn't be here. You promised me.”
He doesn't seem to notice or care that he's smearing blood across my skin, and I'm crying freely now.
“I was never going to stay home…” I interrupt, my hands gripping his wrists. His pulse races beneath my fingers. “Do you think I'd let you face him without me here? You think I'd let you do this alone?”
Something cracks in his expression. The hardness falls away, leaving nothing but raw vulnerability.
“I don't want you to see me like this,” he whispers, his voice hoarse and broken.
“What do I see?” I whisper back, rising on my toes so I can press my forehead against his. “I see all of you, Ashland. The protector. The monster. The man who's been watching over me. I see you, and I'm not afraid.”
“You should be. You should be terrified of me.”
“It's too late.” I slide my hands up his arms, feeling the tremor in his muscles. “Take me home, Ashland. Please.”
“Home.” He repeats the word like it's foreign to him, as if he can't quite believe what I'm saying. “Take you back to the cabin?”
“Aye. I choose you. I choose this. I choose us.”
A shudder runs through him. His eyes close briefly, and when they open again, they' re wet.
“You're my monster, Ashland McCarthy. The only man who's ever truly seen me. And I'm yours. I've been yours since the night you saved me. I just needed to grow up a bit, didn't I?” It comes out as a half sob, half laugh.
Then he's kissing me—right here, in front of everyone—with Crowning's dead body still warm in the ring behind us. His lips are split and taste like copper, but I don't care. I kiss him back just as desperately, just as fiercely.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead is pressed against mine, his eyes closed and his breathing ragged.
“Mine,” he whispers against my lips, then kisses me again—soft and reverent this time.
“Yours,” I whisper back.
I cling to him, and he holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
“Let me clean you up,” I say softly.
He nods, but his grip on me tightens. “I need to get you out of here. Let Seamus clean up this mess. Really.”
I nod, catching movement in the corner. Tiernan stands where he was coaching during the fight. There's something like approval in his gaze. He nods at me, and I nod back.
The crowd parts for us. No one dares get too close. Ashland keeps one arm wrapped around me, like he's afraid I'll disappear .
“How'd you get here?” he asks as we push through to the exit.
“Kyla.”
“Christ,” he growls, then bends to kiss my temple. “I love you, and I'm still gonna whip your pretty arse for coming here.”
But there's no heat in it. Just exhaustion and overwhelming love.
I actually laugh, then reach up to wipe some of the blood from his face. “I know. And you're gonna let me tend to those wounds when we get home,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says. “And you're never doing anything this fucking reckless again.”
“I can't promise that,” I say honestly.
“My god, you're gonna kill me, woman.”
“No,” I whisper against his chest as we step into the cool night air. “I'm going to be your life. Your reason.”
“Right…” His voice breaks. “You already are, love. Always have been.”
We stand in the darkness, holding each other. Two broken people who somehow became whole together.
He's a monster. He's a murderer.
But he's mine.
And I will never let him go.