She smiles at me, adjusting the hat on my head. “You really do look obscenely good in this.”
“Keep talking like that and I'll miss the fight tonight,” I murmur against her ear, my eyes closing as I smell her, hold her, feel her, ground myself in the woman I love… my wife.
“The fight.” Her eyes widen. “Shite. What time is it?”
I glance at my watch. “I've got an hour.”
“Then you'd better get moving,” she says, kissing me again, this time quick and sweet. “Go. Win me some money so I can buy some yarn.”
“Five days till the fucking tribute's due,” I say, shaking my head. “This purse will help.”
“Or maybe we won't pay it this time.”
She pulls her clothes on, efficient, unselfconscious. “Remember, you said I could come with you this time?”
“Aye. But I don’t know about that.”
“Cavin,” she says, warningly. “Someone needs to tend to your inevitable bruises.”
“Inevitable?”
“You're fighting Mackey. Rumor has it he’s a dirty bastard.”
“Aye, but I'm dirtier.”
She crosses to me, standing on her toes to kiss me properly. “I love you, you know that.”
The words still feel foreign on my tongue, but they're so fucking true it terrifies me. “I do know it. And you know I love you too.”
“Now go.”
Another message from Declan.
Declan
We need to talk about Padraic. Now.
I delete it. I'll deal with it after the fight, after things settle.
After I've figured out how to keep her.
Because losing Erin isnota fucking option.
I look back at her one more time. She's curled up on the sofa again, her knitting needles clicking away. Home—that's what she's made this place.
“Cavin,” she says without looking up, “you're staring.”
“Just appreciating the view.”
“You're a sap.” But she's smiling.
I force myself to get ready, the weight of Declan's messages heavy in my pocket.
Five days until the tribute's due.
Five days to find a way to keep everything fromfalling apart.
I'm still wearing the hat she made. Won't fucking take it off, even though we just had a what bordered on another row.
