My father always said he held us to standards we’d be grateful for one day. And Seamus stepped into that role without missing a beat.
He sits to our father’s right, and Declan sits next to him.
Where Seamus is bound by rules, I’m led by loyalty. My cousin Declan has neither. He’s done unforgivable things for reasons we understand and doesn’t do anything by halves. He’s watching Erin’s parents with undisguised curiosity and suspicion. Declan’s the kind of man who’d drag a rival boss into the street at noon just to make a point.
Then there’s Daire—the youngest, reckless. Doesn’t speak unless he has something to really say.
Colm's eyes meet Erin's directly—no hesitation, no judgment in them—just steady assessment, like he's reading a ledger. Then he nods once, respectful. He’s brutal in his own right, but brutality tempered with brilliance.
Cousin Ashland shifts in his seat when I say Erin's name, the barest movement, but I catch it. His eyes stay fixed on the table in front of him, his shaved head glinting in the overhead lighting, jaw taut. He's biting his tongue. Good. He learned that lesson at least.
His brothers Lorcan and Donovan sit further down. Donovan smiles when he catches my eye. His are pale and almost colorless, scary to most. But he’s older and married, sort of a big brother to me.
My younger sister Kyla sits between Mam and Bronwyn. Kyla’s made of iron but never bends. With her deep red curls, unruly and defiant, she’s my grandmother’s legacy.
Then there’s Bronwyn, Kyla’s opposite in every way. Delicate, almost angelic. Her face is rounder, gentler. A flush of pink blooms when she’s embarrassedor emotional.
Seamus nods to the two empty chairs. One at the McCarthy end, one that bridges both sides of the table. Erin’s and mine.
Great.
Excellent.
Exactlywhat I don’t want.
I can’t fuckin’ believe she didn’tknow.
I can still feel the sting on my palm from the right good spanking she earned. What I’d give to take her to The Craic and punish her properly…
“Welcome,” Mam says. Da’s hand covers hers—larger, rougher, and protective. “Have a seat, love,” she says to Erin. “Did you enjoy your tour?”
Erin looks at me before she speaks. “I did,” she answers plainly. “Especially outdoors.”
If there’s one thing I’ll give the lass, it’s this—she’s sincere.No poker face to save her life.
I wonder if she enjoyed the tour of her nose pressed up against the wall with my hand across her arse.
“Your house is beautiful,” Erin says. “I absolutely adore it. I could stay outside for hours.”
The girl’s always been that way. The only time I ever saw her get in trouble at St. Albert’s was for staying out too long, slipping past curfew to feel the rain on her face. Not for breaking rules but for refusing walls.
“Thank you,” Mam says. “I can’t take credit for the garden. My mother-in-law did it, you know. It was her little sanctuary.”
“I can see why,” Erin says softly.
Erin’s uncomfortable, of course. Can’t blame her for that. Even if she grates on me, even if she’s a thorn in every conversation, she’s been tossed into the lion’s den without a weapon or a warning, and I don’t envy her that.
I pull out her seat for her, and she nods her gratitude but doesn’t meet my eyes.
Seamus raises his glass. “A toast,” he says, voice steady and measured. “Tonight we let bygones be bygones, and look to the future.”
Erin shoots a glance at her mother, who doesn’t look at her.
“To the future,” Seamus repeats, and the table echoes it back.
To the future.
Thefuckingfuture.
