The elevator hums as it drops us to hell. And on the other side, freedom.
My cousin Declan’s there, drink in hand and leaning back like he owns the place. Lorcan is beside him, built like a goddamn weapon, his eyes brutal and assessing.
Declan looks up when I enter and smirks.
“You look terrible, mate. When’s the last time you slept proper?”
Too long.
I shrug and don’t bother answering, just order a Jameson neat.
My eyes scan the room. Cages, silk ropes, flesh in motion. Worship and violence so tangled they’re one and the same. Moans like prayers, and whimpers like confessions.
This place doesn’t just offer release. It demands truth—ugly, raw, andbeautiful.
And Iloveit here.
The Craic may be elite, underground, and feral, where secrets are bought and dominance can be had for a price. Masks come off here. But what I love is not just that I’m welcome here, but that every partof me, even the ruthless, savage, scarred parts, is welcome too. Fuck, worshipped.
Everyone knows the heirs of the McCarthy name rule this place and thatthisis our playground.
I’m engaged to be married, though, goddamn it.
My phone buzzes. I check it. Still nothing from Erin.
“Why are you so pissed?” Lorcan’s curious.
I lean forward and scowl. “I’m not,” I growl, pissed that he’s calling it out.
“Oh, come off it,” he pushes. “What are you hiding?”
“I’m not hidinganything.”
Declan and Lorcan exchange a look.
“What?” I snap.
“He’s pissed about the engagement,” Declan says, too casual.
My jaw tightens. I hate the way they talk as if I’m not right here. As if I didn’t just walk into the fucking room.
“Excuse me?” I say, loud enough. “Hello? I’m sitting rightfuckinghere.”
Lorcan shrugs. He’s a big bastard, with arms like tree trunks and sandy-brown hair like his dad. His storm-gray eyes are always scanning. He’s a strategist, quieter than I am.
His brother Donovan’s next to him, dangerous and powerful… older. When Donovan speaks, people listen.
He’s a tactician, the cleaner. The guy we call when the job’s bloody and someone needs to make it disappear.
Give Donovan a command, and if he respects you, he doesn’t hesitate. Just gets the job done. No flinching. No noise. Unlike his brother Ashland, he’s charming, and uses it to his advantage.
His fingers tap the table, restless.
“You don’t like that you’re engaged?” Donovan asks, his pale blue eyes dancing before he smirks at his phone and shoots a text.
“Would be nice if I knew her,” I mutter.
“Would be nice if youletyourself know her,” Donovan corrects with his signature smile that’s meant to disarm. Doesn’t work on me.
