“Erin.” His voice is gentle but firm. “You looked like you’d seen a ghost when I introduced him. And that bit about reading his research? You weren’t just being polite.”
I swallow hard, debating how much to tell him. But he’s going to be my husband. And if there’s anyone who might actually be able to help me get Bridget in to see Dr. Rosenberg…
The bruising and bleeding aren’t getting any better. My sister’s running out of time.
We’re interrupted by someone calling Cavin’s name—some business associate wanting to talk about investments or politics or whatever it is these people discuss when they’re not busy destroying lives.
“Mr. McCarthy!” The man is tall and barrel-chested, with a red face that suggests too much whiskey and too many rich meals. “Been wanting to catch you. Need to discuss the developments in?—”
“Not now, Finnegan,” Cavin says smoothly, but there’s steel underneath the politeness.
“But it’s important?—”
“I said not now.” Cavin’s voice drops lower, more dangerous. “I’m with my fiancée. Whatever you need can wait until Monday.”
Finnegan’s face gets redder, but he backs off with a mumbled apology.
“Christ,” Cavin mutters once he’s gone. “This is exactly why I fucking hate these things.”
“Because people want to talk business?”
“Because everyone wants something from you, and they don’t care if you’re in the middle of a conversation or eating dinner or taking a piss. They just want, want, want.” He runs a hand through his hair, disrupting the carefully styled look. “It’s exhausting.”
I understand that feeling more than he knows.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand again. “Let’s get you out of here for a minute.”
“We just got here.”
“And I’m already done with it.” His mouth quirks. “Perks of being the groom—I can leave whenever the fuck I want.”
He’s lying, of course. We both know we can’t actually leave, but I appreciate the sentiment.
He leads me through the crowd, and I notice the way people part for him. The way they watch him with a mixture of respect and fear. The way even the most powerful men here give him a wide berth.
And somehow, that makes me feel safer than I have in years.
I like being with the scary one.
We end up in a hallway that’s blessedly quiet, away from the main party.
“Better?” he asks.
“Much.” I lean against the wall, suddenly exhausted. “I don’t know how you do this all the time.”
“Practice,” he says. “And a healthy amount of not giving a fuck what people think. This way,” he says, leading me down a long corridor, past a bunch of flittering faces. “If you want to get out of the crowd and you don’t want them to stop you, you have to act like you’rewalking with purpose.” He says it with a smile. “Hold your head up, Erin,” he says, guiding me toward the exit. “This way. Left.”
A couple of people are bold enough to try to stop us, but he only gives them a little smile and a shake of his head, gesturing toward where we’re going. We have somewhere to be, somewhere important, and nobody’s going to interrupt us. Not now. That’s very clear.
Finally, we find ourselves in the kitchen.
“Why are we in the kitchen?” I say with a smile, shaking my head.
The staff is busy, but we’re at the far end near the refrigerator, and they’re all clustered by the industrial ovens. Trays are clacking, overhead lights bright, but here in the corner, it’s quiet. Private.
“Christ.” He loosens his tie, and I watch his throat work as he swallows. “It’s worse than I expected.”
“What is?”
