The room tilts slightly. “His what?”
“He went to the ring… after whatever happened at the club. He fought Tommy O’Sullivan and won. This is what he earned.”
My mind races. I saw him. I saw him in that ring, bare-chested and bloody, fighting like something feral and beautiful and terrifying. I left quickly because I couldn’t process what I was feeling.
But I could’ve watched Cavin fightforever.
“He gave me his fight money?” My voice sounds small.
“All of it. Every cent.” Bronwyn’s expression is soft. “He made me promise to tell you it was from me. That it was family money or wedding money or whatever would make you take it.”
“But you’re telling me the truth.”
“Because you deserve the truth.” She reaches out and touches my hand. “Erin, my brother is… complicated. He’s rough and violent, and he’s done things that would horrify you. But he’s also…” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “He’s trying. In his own broken way, he’s trying. And soon, you’ll be his. His to protect. I think this is one way of him doing that. He probably knows that even though your familyhas money, it isn’t necessarilyyours.But this is.”
She rises. “Have some fun with it, Erin. Do some shopping.”
“Buy some of the fancy yarn and thenicepuzzles, hmm?” I say, then quickly wish I could take the words back. Was that too awkward? But she only laughs, kisses my cheeks, and heads to the door.
“I’m sorry, I need to go. Just wanted to give this to you in person.”
I stare at the money. I knowexactlywhat I’m going to do with it. And I smile to myself.
I may have a little hobby I’ve kept all to myself.
Later that night, he texts.
Cavin
I want to take you to dinner
I freakoutand quickly text him back.
No. I’m busy.
It’s a lie though.
He tries again the next day, and I feel guilty as fuck. Maybe itisa good idea. Maybe wecanat least find a way to pretend that we like each other for something like this.
Cavin
I’m not asking, Erin
I can still see him standing in the ring, sweaty and scarred—the first time I’ve seen my future husband bare-chested after a fight. I knew when he was in school, he fought, but I never witnessed it. I didn’t like violence.
But now—now, it affects me in a way I never anticipated.
He was magnificent. Terrifying. Beautiful in the most dangerous way possible.
The scars mapped across his torso told stories I’d never heard—white lines across his ribs, a puckered mark near his collarbone that looked like a stab wound, the evidence of broken bones healed wrong. His body was a history of violence, and under the lights, slick with sweat and spattered with blood, he looked like some ancient warrior marked with tribal ink.
But it wasn’t just hisappearance. It was the way he… moved.
I’ve never seen anything like it. Every punch was calculated, precise. He read his opponent three moves ahead, slipping strikes that should have connected, countering with devastating accuracy. There was an intelligence to his violence, a genius to the brutality that made it almost an art form.
He didn’t just overpower his opponent. He dismantled him. Systematically. Beautifully. Ruthlessly.
And I couldn’t look away.
