You have no idea.But I don’t say as much, because I’m trying my absolute damnedest not to let my feelings for Evi get in the way of what needs to be done.
When I get home, the house is dark except for the lights that guide me to our room. Evi’s still awake, curled over some blueprints with her thick chestnut waves falling loose around her face, light flickering off her wedding band. She looks up when I walk in, her expression shifting instantly from concentration to relief, then chagrin.
“You’re hurt again.”
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, dropping onto the bed beside her. “Guy caught me in the ribs, that’s all.”
She rises, fetching the first aid kit like she’s been expecting this. Maybe she has. Lately, it’s become our routine—me getting bruised, her staying up to fix what’s left of me.
“Sit still,” she murmurs, crouching in front of me. The antiseptic stings as she dabs it over a cut along my brow I didn’t even know I had, and I flinch despite myself.
She smiles faintly. “You always pretend you don’t feel it, but you do.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
Her touch is gentle, precise. There’s something about the way she focuses on every cut and bruise that makes me forget where I am for a second. She’s taken charge of this house like she was born to—contractors coming in and out, staff running on her schedule, even Raf’s starting to defer to her when it comes to logistics.
And through it all, she smiles. Warm. Unshakable. Like the decay of this mansion doesn’t bother her. Like she can’t see the rot and the ruin that haunts this family.
“You’ve got paint on your arm,” I say, brushing my thumb along the cream-colored smudge just below her elbow.
She glances down, sheepish. “We started in the dining room today. The east wing’s still too damaged to touch, but I thought we could at least make a few intact rooms look decent.”
I grunt approvingly. “Good.”
Her brows lift. “That’s it? Just good?”
I can’t help a smirk. “Fine. It’s great. You’re doing great.”
That earns me a smile—the real kind, soft and bright enough to make my chest ache.
When she finishes patching me up, she brushes her fingers across my knuckles, bandaged and raw. “You don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“For Raf?”
“For all of us.”
She studies me for a long moment, like she wants to say something else but decides against it. Instead, she leans in to press a kiss to my cheek. “Then at least let me keep you in one piece while you do.”
The pit smells like sweat and cheap whiskey as soon as I step into the ring once again. And the din of the crowd’s voices reverberating against the cement walls makes my ears ring.
Raf’s already talking with a few of the Irish in the corner. They watch me like hawks, faces sharp under the dim lights. I recognize a couple of them—O’Shea’s men, just like Raf said. Their family is loyal to the Murrays, but they’ve been known to branch out and do some mercenary work on occasion—with the Murrays’ blessing.
Dragging my attention away from Raf’s negotiations, I focus on the fight ahead. My opponent’s bigger tonight, slower too. The kind that tries to make up for lack of skill with brute force. The bell rings, and we come together, circling each other at the pit’s center. I let him swing wide, let the crowd get restless as I hesitate, dancing back.
Then I move in.
When I do, it’s with precision—fists landing with the kind of rhythm I’ve learned to trust.
Every punch burns, but it’s a clean fire. Controlled. Necessary.
My opponent doesn’t stand a chance. And while he puts up a good fight, landing a few stunning blows that knock the air from my lungs, he’s just too big and hulking. I take him out in record time, his body like a tree as it meets the sand, making the ground beneath me shake.
And as the ref steps forward to raise my hand, the crowd chants my name.
