Five days to fix this with Erin before she realizes just how bolloxed we really are.
Another buzz. I check it at the door.
Declan
Don't ignore me, Cavin. We sort this tonight or I'm going to Seamus.
I delete it and pocket the phone. I head out into the night, my knuckles already itching for the fight. Maybe Mackey will give me an excuse to go truly brutal tonight.
Maybe I need to bleed a little before I can face her again.
The hat stays on.
Chapter Thirty
Erin
I checkin with Bridget before the fight, but she's not answering. Neither’s Mam. The mobile reception can be shite at the hospital. I know Cavin got a text that rattled him before he stepped in the ring. He doesn't want to admit it, but I can see it in him.
I probably shouldn't have brought it up, but I'm not very good at timing and knowing social cues or anything like that, so fuck it. I shouldn't have brought it up before he fought though.
I know he needs to focus, but sometimes rage fuels his energy unlike anything else. I probably shouldn't be here. But I made Cavin promise I could.
That's what Ciarán keeps telling me with his eyes every time I glance at my assigned bodyguard. He's positioned himself between me and the ring like his body can shield me from what's happening in there, but I can see through the gaps in the crowd. I can see Cavin.
He moves like violence personified—controlled, precise, and brutal. I can still feel him inside me.
I hope he can still feel me too. I hope his back stings where I scratched him and wrecked him. He likes that; I know he does.
He's fighting some young lad from Cork tonight, scrappy little Mackey with more heart than brains. Mackey's outmatched, and everyone knows it. You can see it in the way the crowd leans forward, hungry for blood, certain of the outcome.
Tonight's purse is heavy with bets placed. I should look away. I should go upstairs like a good girl and pretend I don't care, but I can't stop watching him.
The way his muscles coil with each punch, the ink on his ribs shifting with every breath. Blood on his knuckles—not his. Never his. The cold focus in his eyes, like he's somewhere else entirely—somewhere dark and distant.
This is who Cavin McCarthy is, and I know it better than anyone else in this fucking ring. Stripped of the suits and smooth words and the gentle way he touches me when we're alone. Just raw, dangerous man.Mine.
The navy cap I knitted him is pulled tight on his head. He’s fighting bare-chested, bare-knuckled, wearin’ the fuckin’ hat.
Something in my chest clenches at the sight of it. I wish we hadn't argued before the fight.
I wish?—
Then something in the crowd shifts. I feel it before I see it, and I wonder if it's my connection to Cavin. There's a wrongness in the energy, like the air pressure drop before a storm. Bodies move with purpose instead of excitement, and the roar changes pitch, goes from bloodlust to something sharper.
Ciarán feels it too. I watch his eyes flicker to mine, and then his hand goes to his weapon, his body tense.
“What the fuck—” I start, but then I see him.
A big bastard in a bandana pushes through the crowd on the far side of the ring. Not a fighter. Something worse. His eyes are cold and focused, and he moves too deliberately.
I grab at Ciarán. “Stop him—Ciarán, fucking stop him! What's he—” The man climbs into the ring behind Cavin.
“No. No. Cavin!” I scream. “Cavin!”
My voice hurts from the effort of screaming and pushing through the crowd. Ciarán grabs me and hauls me back, but I shove at him, batting his hands away..
“Cavin,behind you!”
