Seamus
Aye. I understand. Staying out of your business, brother.
Like fuck he is. I blow out a breath.
Now that Torin’s gone—and he won’t be out for at least another year—I’m the second in command after Seamus. It’s on my shoulders to take this responsibility as my own.
Lorcan mutters something under his breath, then reaches out and grabs my wrist.
On instinct, I snap.
My hand flies out. I grab his arm and throw him halfway across the table before I know what I’m doing. People scream. Glasses shatter. Lorcan sprawls across the table, his eyes wide with shock.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Cavin!” he shouts.
“What the hell—” I pause, breathing hard. “I’m sorry.” I run a hand through my hair. God, I don’t know how to tell him. People grabbing me around the wrist like that—it reminds me of being in prison.
“You don’t touch his goddamn wrist,” Declan snarls at Lorcan. “You ought toknowthat by now.”
“Aye, I forgot,” Lorcan says, inspecting the cut where glass sliced him.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter again.
Thankfully, because it’s The Craic, it’s not out of the ordinary for people to make a commotion. A waitress comes over and quickly cleans things up. She’s a pretty little lass—petite, with large brown eyes, wavy hair, and a short skirt that barely covers the curve of her arse. The type I’d take back to a room tonight with an easy word and an arm around her waist.
But no more.
Declan shakes his head. “You don’t have to act like a monk. You’re not taking a vow of fuckin’ celibacy, you know,” he says under his breath. “You’re not being married for a couple months yet.”
“I know,” I snap at him.
Why did I come here? What the hell did I want?
Finally, I can’t take it anymore, and I send another text to Erin.
Did you get my text?
Huh. The color changes, and it doesn’t deliver. The message just sits there, mocking me.
“What the fuck is that?” Declan snorts and shakes his head. “Your betrothed blocked yer fuckin’ number.”
Fuck my life.
The door opens, and armed guards stride in. They walk straight to me.
“We have two men asking for entrance, sir,” one says in a low voice. “They say they’re kin, and that there was a time when their fathers frequented the pub.”
“Who the hell are they?” I ask.
“Don’t know, but they’ve got American accents, sir.”
“Are they on the roster?”
“Not on the roster, sir.”
“Then you know what to do,” I say, my patience thinning.
“They say it’s important. They want to see you directly.”
