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)
I shake my head and try to brush it off.
“Some of my class bullied her,” I mutter, but it’s weak. Cowardly, really. “Fine, the truth is, I wasn’t very… nice to her. She got me in so much goddamn trouble in school, which got me in trouble at home. She was one of those goody-two-shoes types. Did the right thing. Made the rest of us look worse just by existing.”
“Ugh. One of those,” Lorcan says, wrinkling his nose. “And you’re marrying the lass, why?”
“Because Seamus fancies it’ll do us good,” I mutter, shrugging.
The truth? Her father made a deal we couldn’t refuse. No one’s been married in our family for a few years. “Guess it’s my turn. Would’ve been Torin’s if he wasn’t still rotting behind fuckin’ bars.”
Declan sighs.
“It’s just as well,” I say. “Torin’s got demons. Needs to fight ’em before he takes a woman.”
“You get my text, brother?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Aye.” I don’t look up from my phone. “Told you I had it sorted.”
“Couldn’t read through the communication log,” he mutters. “Tried.”
“We had a glitch or some such.”
I hate lying to my own. But I’ve no choice in it, have I? I had to hide it so no one would see communication about the damn tribute.
The clock is ticking before the next tribute’s due, with no lead on who’s demanding my goddamn bollocks in a sling, and I’ve got all the wedding festivities. Goddamn it.
Regulations for the tribute are clear, per Malachy. No more than twelve hours before midnight on the last day of the month. Not a second earlier. Not a second late.
“Can’t bring a new wife here, can you?” Lorcan mutters.
“Hell no,” I growl.
“Aye. A proper response,” Declan says, smirking, just as a second girl slides up next to him. One hand for each shoulder, they knead him like he’s royalty.
“A wife?” the one in purple asks, glancing at me. “You getting married, Mr. McCarthy?”
“Aye,” I growl again.
“It’s posted on St. Albert’s page, isn’t it?” the other girl says. “I saw it earlier.”
“What?” I pick up my phone. “What the fuck is that?”
“Social media, you dumbass,” Lorcan says.
“I hate that shite. Show me.” His fingers fly over his phone, and then he does indeed show me. I narrow my eyes at the screen.
There it is. St. Albert’s alumni page, with a big diamond ring announcement.
St. Albert’s is pleased to announce the betrothal of Erin Kavanagh and Cavin McCarthy.
Jesus. It already has five hundred views and twenty-seven comments.
“What the hell?” I mutter.
“Well, fuck,” Lorcan says, his eyebrows rising.
“What?” I growl.
“Comments aren’t very nice toward Erin, are they?”
“What?” I squint at the screen. Sure enough, there are a couple of nasty comments. A few say congratulations or the like, but half of them—
Goddamn it.
“This is terrible,” I say. “What the fuck? Who are these people?”
“You can’t do anything about it. People are idiots on social media,” Declan says. “Put it away.”
“Not if people are saying nasty things about Erin.”
A beautiful brunette named Katarina comes in, wearing all black. She eyes me from head to toe.
“Good evening, sir,” she says quietly. “Are you in need of a submissive tonight?” She wears the subtle purple band on her forearm per club regulations, indicating she’s a free submissive.
Am I in need of a submissive?
My god, I fucking am. I swallow hard and shake my head.
“Not tonight.”
Declan grins. “He’s engaged to be married. He won’t be taking any more submissives.”
I’m going to beat that boy’s fuckin’ arse.
Her eyes go downcast, and she walks away. “Farewell, sir. I wish you the best.”
“You’re not going to be a fuckin’ priest,” he says. “Brother, if that girl at dinner is meant to be the one you’re marryin’, she’s not givin’ you any ride.”
“As if she has a choice,” I say with a shrug. “We have rules in the McCarthy family, don’t we?”
“Aye,” Declan says. “Three days to consummate the marriage.”
“Well, fuck me,” Lorcan says. “You’ll have to let bygones be bygones and all that.”
Just like that, I’m back to being fifteen again. Standing in the corner of the room while Malachy locked the door and glared at me, prepared to deliver my punishment.
I remember how Erin looked surprised when I told her I’d gotten in trouble because of her.
Didn’t mean to get you in trouble, she said. But back then, she absolutely did.
“School was a long time ago, mate,” Declan says. “Wasn’t it?”
“Not long enough.” I hate how I feel like a child again, just being back in that headspace.
Daire walks over from the side of the pub. He’s got a hickey on his neck and his eyes are blown, as if he’s just had a good time of it. He’s only been allowed access to The Craic for the past four years, and he’s taken full advantage.
He bumps his knuckles across his lips. They’re scarred with the history of his fighting—Daire, like all of us, being one of the best bare-knuckled fighters in all of Ireland. Violence isn’t abstract for him. It’s personal, physical, routine.