Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
This time, I don’t bother to stop my words. “You shoved my notebook in the fountain after music class.”
He doesn’t respond.
“You destroyed my notes.”
“Aye,” he says, quiet and honest. I wait for an excuse or an apology, but none comes.
I look away, embarrassed by my own trauma. My fingers start their traitorous rhythm—tap, tap, tap, tap.
This time, I hide the twitch behind my back.
I don’t want to go back inside where I don’t belong. I never belong—not here, not in my family, not at St. Albert’s. But especially not here.
“Let’s go back inside,” he says. “They’ll ring the bell soon.”
“I don’t want to,” I snap. It comes out too fast. Too loud. “I want to stay out here.”
When he looks at me in surprise, my face flames.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt. “I shouldn’t have—”
“No.” He cuts me off. “Never apologize for honesty. Jesus, lass. The least you can give me is honesty.” The intensity in his voice makes my stomach flip. “Why don’t you want to go inside?” he asks, quieter now.
Why does he care?
“It’s—” My throat closes. “It’s too much. Too loud. Too many people. Too many…” I wave my hand, frustrated. “Everything.”
Why am I telling him this?
He’s watching me like he’s seeing something for the first time.
“I used to find you in the library,” he says slowly. “Hiding during lunch or assemblies.”
I nod.
He gives me that look, curious, maybe a little confused. We step through the heavy door. The hall lights hum and crackle above us. Somewhere far off, voices, low and blurred, like we’re underwater.
My senses are already on fire.
The dress scratches at my skin. The air smells like old wood and wax. The house is so cavernous I barely know where I am, and I hate not knowing where I am.
Cavin slows his pace, but doesn’t say why. Doesn’t mention the way I’m tapping at my pocket.
“Before we go inside… there’s a space I want to show you.” He leads me through a narrow hall to a balcony. When he opens the door, I can breathe again. It opens over the dark lawn and stone steps.
I breathe the cool, clean air in deep.
“See?” he says. “I get it.” A pause. “It’s not always nice inside, is it?”
I don’t answer, but my shoulders relax.
“When I was…” His voice drops, rough and jagged. “When I was in prison, I used to dream about this balcony. Every night. I’d try to open the doors, but they were always locked.” He shrugs. “I spend a lot of time outside.”
I glance at him. Something sharp twists under my ribs. “I know what it’s like,” he says quietly, “to not want to be indoors.”
The wind picks up, whipping my hair across my face.
Before I can move, his hand is there, his fingers brushing my temple and tucking the strand behind my ear. The touch is surprisingly gentle for a man whose family is known for violence.
Our eyes meet.
Neither of us moves.
There’s something else happening here. Something neither of us is saying.
A pull. A want.
A dare.
Who will break first?
His thumb traces my cheekbone just as the sound of voices echo from inside. The spell breaks, and he drops his hand like I’ve burned him.
“We should go,” he says.
As I follow him back inside, I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.
And I wonder if Cavin McCarthy might be the most dangerous thing I’ve ever encountered.
Not just because he’s cruel, but because part of me wants him to touch me again.
Chapter Six
Cavin
I lean against the stone railing after she steps back inside, my hands braced, head down, trying to get my breathing under control.
What the hell am I doing? She’s Erin Kavanagh. The girl who made my life hell at St. Albert’s.
The girl who’s about to become my wife, whether either of us wants it or not.
And I just stood there on that balcony, close enough to touch, and spilled my guts like some lovesick fool.
I drag a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath. She looked at me different after that. Not with pity, thank Christ, but with something worse.
Understanding.
Her eyes had gone soft. Her lips parted, just slightly, like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how. And for one dangerous fucking second, I wanted to close the distance between us. See if her mouth was as soft as it looked.
Christ.
I’m losing my mind. She’s the girl who ratted me out at every turn. Who got me beaten more times than I can count. Who looked at me like I was dirt. But when she was counting under her breath earlier, fingers tapping that nervous rhythm against her thigh—I remembered. All those times at school when she’d do the same thing. When the other kids would mock her for it. When I’d stand there and do nothing, or worse, when I’d join in, just to keep the attention off how much I noticed her.