But her eyes are on me with suspicion. “Why won’t you tell me where you’re going? I’ve seen you fight in the ring before. Are you trying to keep something else from your family?”
“No,” I say, but it’s a lie. I shrug. “Maybe. I can’t tell them either. I hope someday I can, but not now.”
She bites her lower lip, and I can see that moment when her insecurity comes into play again.
“What kind of business is it?” she says, insistent.
“You don’t show me everything on your phone.”
“That’s different. That’s private.”
“Aye, and so is this.”
We stand at odds with each other.
“So we’re keeping secrets now?” she says. “That’s how marriage works in your family?”
Fuck this. I need to go handle this before it gets worse. I check the time. I’ve got hours before I need to pay the tribute, but I need to clear my head.
“Fine. Go. Do whatever you’re doing. Orwhoeveryou’re doing.”
I stop at the door and spin around. “That’s not fair, and you fucking know it.”
“Then tell me where you’re going!”
I can’t, but she won’t back down, so I leave angry—leaving her behind, hurt and suspicious—and I don’t like it.
I slam the car door harder than necessary. My hands grip the steering wheel tight enough that my knuckles go white.
Or whoever.
Her words echo in my head, making my jaw clench, as if I’d ever—as if there’s anyone else I’d even look at, now that I have her. Didn’t even fucking touch her until we were married.
But she won’t tell me who she’s texting, and I can’t tell her where I’m going.
Grand. Just fucking grand. Our first real fight, and we’re both too stubborn to back down now.
I start the engine, and my car purrs to life. The club is calling, and I need to bury myself in work to get my mind off this mess.
The hours at the club crawl by. I’ve been going through the books, meeting the lads about collections, making sure everything’s running smooth. But my mind keeps wandering back to Erin. The hurt in her eyes.
I check my watch. Two hours until I have to pay the tribute. Two hours before I need to be at the neutral ground, or they’ll use my tardiness as an excuse to start shite with Bronwyn.
My phone rings, and Lorcan’s name flashes across the screen.
“What?” I answer, too sharp.
“Boss, we’ve got a situation.”
My blood goes cold. “What kind of situation?”
“It’s Mrs. McCarthy.” He still sounds awkward calling her that, like he can’t quite believe Erin’s my wife. “She left the house abouttwenty minutes ago and told Ciarán she was just going for a walk, but?—”
“But what?” My voice comes out deadly quiet.
“She got in a car, boss. A black sedan that wasn’t one of ours.”
Everything in me goes still. That cold, calculating part of my brain that handles threats kicks into gear. “Where?”
