His arms tighten around me. “Together?”
“Together,” I promise. “There’s an answer somewhere.”
“Aye. There is.” His voice is determined now, not defeated. “And we’ll find the bastard.”
And in this moment, tangled up in him, with the weight of the world waiting outside, I almost believe it.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Erin
Cavin’s fighting tonight,and I’m fucking thrilled about it. The guy’s a ticking time bomb of energy, and nothing settles him like a brutal brawl. And let me tell you, watching him in the ring? It’s fuckinghot.
There’s something incredibly validating about seeing my man dominate like that. He takes every hit and gives it right back, tenfold. And the raw, primal energy? It’s a fucking aphrodisiac.
So when I slip into that blue top, I knowexactlywhat I’m doing.
It’s backless, held up by the thinnest straps, and it shows off way too much skin. Cavin ordered me not to wear it to the fights or in public. Which, of course, is exactly why I’m wearing it.
I check myself in the mirror one last time. My hair’s wild, falling in messy blonde waves around my shoulders. The fabric clings to all the right places, and the color makes my skin glow under the dim lights.
He’s going to be pissed, and that thought sends a thrill straight through me.
Ciarán gives me a knowing look when I emerge from the back room, but he keeps his mouth shut. Smart man. He’s learned not to get between Cavin and me when we’re playing these games.
Because that’s what this is. A dangerous game.
The ring’s packed, the energy electric. There’s a big fight tonight, some arsehole from Dublin thinks he can take Cavin down. Ha!Eejit.
I position myself near the bar where I know Cavin will see me—close enough to the ring that there’s no missing me, but far enough back that I’m “safe” in the crowd.
I should not be here, and I well know it. I put safety precautions in place, of course. All my guards and a few extra.
The lights dim. The crowdroars.
And then…heappears.
Cavin walks through the crowd like he owns the place. Every person here is part of his world, playing by his rules. He’s shirtless, his skin gleaming under the lights, scars and muscles on full display.
My mouth goes dry.
He’s mine.
He’s almost to the ring when his eyes find me.
I watch it happen in slow motion. His gaze sweeps the crowd, lands on me, and stops. I see the exact moment he registers that I’m there. That he sees what I’m wearing, sees the bare expanse of my back, the way the fabric drapes.
His jaw clenches, and his eyes go dark, dangerous.
He points at me, one finger, direct and unmistakable. Then he drags that finger across his throat in a gesture that’s crystal clear:I’m proper fucked now.
I smile at him—it’s slow, deliberate, and defiant.
His nostrils flare, and for a second, I think he might actually climb back down, come over here, and drag me out by my hair in front of everyone.
But the ref’s calling him, and the crowd’s chanting his name. He shoots me one last look of pure promise and climbs into the ring. I stifle a giggle, but the laughter soon dies in my throat when the first punch is thrown.
The fight isbrutal.
