“I'm going to spend the rest of this week making sure you know exactly who you belong to.”
“Oh, I already know that,” she says, but she's grinning against my neck now, that beautiful spark back in her eyes.
“Aye, but I like reminding you, don't I?” I carry her toward the bedroom, my cock throbbing with need. “And when I get you to that club, when I've got you tied up and begging, when everyone can see how perfect you are, they'll know. They'll know you're mine.”
“Yeah,” she whispers against my lips. “Yours.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Bianca
Three days later,I stand in the McCarthys’ formal living room and watch Ashland pace like a caged animal. He's been doing this for the past hour, wearing a path in the damn rug, while Lorcan and Seamus discuss strategy around the table and how to handle Crowning's men—the stragglers who helped Marcus orchestrate everything, the ones who turned a blind eye to his two dead exes and nearly a third. I should be frightened, horrified by the cold calculation, but no. I feel nothing but relief.
They'll leave no stone unturned.
“Harbor warehouse,” Lorcan says. “That's where they're regrouping. Without Marcus, they're coming together. They're scrambling. Vulnerable.”
“And Crowning Sr.?” Ashland asks Seamus.
“Handled.” Seamus's smile is cold. “Erin found enough dirt on the brother to bury him ten times over. Crowning’s exes? We've got proof his brother covered up his connection. Sent it to Crowning Sr. with a simple message: We have the recording of Marcus agreeing to the fight, and we have evidence that his other son is a corrupt cop. He can accept that his son died honorably in the ring, or we expose everything, and he loses both sons, plus his political connections.”
Ashland stands still. “And?”
“He's a businessman. He chose survival over revenge.”
Ashland nods. “How many of his men are still standing?”
“Unconfirmed. Maybe ten, though there’s suspicion some went home to Boston, crying.” He scrubs a hand across his brow. “You know we’re on tenterhooks with the Boston contingent.”
“Only a matter of time before they come calling,” Lorcan says, his eyes darkening as he makes a quiet fist, ready to fight.
“Aye,” Seamus says. “But I have it on good authority their structure’s been dismantled from within. They don’t have the leadership to form an attack.”
“Not now, anyway,” Ashland says, and I take it to mean therewillcome a time when their grievances with the Boston contingent will rear their ugly head, but we’re momentarily at peace.
Declan leans back in his chair, studying him. “Right then. For those still here, still circling… we should go in quiet, clean it up before dawn.”
“No.” Seamus’s voice cuts through the room. “We said no war. Remember? Give them a choice. Walk away or die. Those who had no part in Marcus’s hobby get to leave breathing. Those who knew—they don't get a choice.” His gaze settles on Ashland. “You earned that right in the ring, didn't you?”
I watch Ashland absorb this, watch the violence coil tighter in his shoulders, like he's waiting for someone to try to take me away again.
“I thought you said there was no war,” I say to Seamus.
“I did. They decided not to honor it, so we're putting this down for good,” Seamus says. “You have to trust us, Bianca.”
I move without thinking and find Ashland's hand. “Ash,” I say quietly, trying to anchor him with just his name. It's enough.
He looks down at me, and something in his gray eyes softens, just a little.
“Tonight,” Declan says. “Ashland, you're with Lorcan and me. Seamus, you're coordinating the contacts. Make sure the cops look the other way.”
“Done,” Seamus says.
“I have to go.” Ashland kisses my cheek, his lips lingering for just a moment. “Let's put all this to rest, shall we?”
“Yes. Of course,” I whisper.
They leave just after midnight, and I watch from Ashland's bedroom window as they pull away from the McCarthys, taillights disappearing into the darkness.
