“Help?” He laughs, but there's no humor in it. “You want to help? Then tell me who the fuck deleted that file. Tell me who you've been talking to.”
“I haven't been talking to anyone!”
“Then how the hell do you explain it?”
I can't. I don't have an answer.
Behind Declan, I see Seamus appear in the hallway, his massive frame blocking the way to the stairs. Lorcan's there too, his arms crossed, watching me like I'm a threat. And Christ, they're not going to let me get to Cavin.
But Iknow… it's one of their men. One of the McCarthys deleted that file.
And tonight, if that tribute doesn't get paid, what's going to happen?
“Declan,” I say, my voice steady even though my hands are shaking, “I didn't betray Cavin. I would never betray him. My father—whatever he did—it had nothing to do with me.”
“Of course that's what you'd say,” he says coldly.
“Someone is setting us up,” I say. “Someone wanted him dead in that ring. And someone doesn't want us to figure out who.”
“Us?” Declan'seyes narrow.
I catch myself. “We need to find out before they try again.”
Declan stares at me for a long moment, and I can see him trying to read me. Trying to figure out if I'm lying.
“There is nowe, Erin,” he says coldly. “Not until you prove you're not the one behind this.”
And just like that, it's over.
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing in the hallway, with Seamus and the rest of the family blocking my path.
Upstairs, Cavin's alone, barely conscious, with only a vague idea that tonight's the deadline.
I have to get to him. I have to get him out of here. I have to help him pay that tribute.
But how the hell am I going to do it when his own family won't let me near him? When his family thinksI'mthe one who betrayed them?
I have to do this myself.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Cavin
I waketo the smell of antiseptic and the feeling that someone's taken a sledgehammer to my fucking skull. The room tilts and rights itself, then tilts again. I sit up too quickly, and the blood rushes to my head in a sickening wave.
Jesus fucking Christ, am I in a hospital bed? My hand moves before my brain catches up, ripping at the IV in my arm, tearing the heart monitor clip from my finger. Alarms start screaming.
Good, let them fucking scream.
Wait.
This is no hospital. I'm home. I'm in my own home. It's just set up like a hospital room, with nurses on call and machines beeping, the works.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, and the floor rushes up to meet me. Or maybe I'm falling into it—hard to tell when the whole damn room's doing somersaults.
Doesn't fucking matter. I know what I need to do. I may be fucked up in the head, but I know I need to pay the bastards. Before?—
Erin. Jesus Christ, Erin.
