“I promise, as long asyoupromise you don't get yourself beaten half to death again.”
He shakes his head, then winces. “Can't promise that, love.”
The words hang between us, a promise neither one of us can keep. Because next time, it might be too late. Next time, there might not be a gun. Next time, we might not both get up.
We stay like that, bloody and exhausted, until Declan finally knocks on the door.
“They're here. Let's get him home.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Cavin
Everything's fuckin'sideways. Voices drift in and out, familiar but distorted, like I'm drowning underwater. Hands on me—too many hands. I try to shove them off, but my body won't cooperate.
One arm's dead weight and useless, and the other swings wild, connecting with something solid.
“Easy, Cav, fuck off!”
“Where's Erin?” I try to talk, but the words come out wrong and thick and mangled.
“She's fine, lad. Knock it off.”
And then Seamus's voice, authoritative and angry. “Stop fuckin' fighting us.”
“Hold him down,” says somebody else.
No. Nobody's holding me down. Neveragain.
Somebody grabs my arm, and I thrash harder. Pain explodes through my fuckin' skull like a bullet—white-hot and blinding. I might scream. I can't tell.
Then her voice cuts through the chaos. “Cavin? Cavin, it's alright. You're home. You're safe.”
I feel her tiny hand slide into mine. “No,” she says to somebody, not me. “Don't hold me back. He won't hurt me.”
“Erin?” I force an eye open. Everything's blurry and doubled.
Faces lean over me—Seamus, Declan, Daire—too close, too many.
“Where's Erin?”
“I'm here, love.” My tongue feels too big for my mouth.
“I'm here.” Her small hands are on my face now, gentle and warm. “I'm right here. Please, do what you're told for once in your fuckin' life, will you?”
Somebody laughs behind her, but she's serious. Her hair's a mess, and she's streaked with blood.
“Oh my god, are you alright?” My vision swims.
“I'm fine,” she says quickly. “It's your blood on me, love. Please.”
When she blinks, a fat tear rolls down her cheek. She's crying.
I blink hard, trying to focus. She's pale as death, her clothes covered in my blood. But she's standing. Breathing. Thank Christ.
I can't remember what happened, but I remember her.
“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” I ask, the words scraped out of me.
