Page 11 of Wicked Ruin

“Right,” he says. But then he leans forward in his chair, and he's too close, and he smells too good, and he is too fucking much of everything. “But listen, alright?”

I nod.

“I know sisters tell each other everything. But I don’t want you telling Erin about this. I have no interest in fighting for my life because your brother-in-law decides to fucking murder me because I decided to bring you soup.”

“Of course. My god. I'm not telling Erin anything—are you kidding me? She would lecture me straight to hell and back.”

“Good.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He gathers the containers I haven't touched, stacks them neatly, wipes down the tray table without being asked, and sets the Coke within easy reach.

I don't know why that's so sweet, but it just is. Bronwyn would say I manifested this.

At the door, he turns back.

“Get some sleep,” he says. Practical, direct, the voice he'd use for any instruction he expected followed without question.

“Yes, sir,” I say teasingly before I can stop myself.

His gaze heats, but he just pulls the door shut behind him with a soft click.

My god, it felt good to say that.

I have to remind myself that he’s not safe. He’s a dangerous criminal. All the McCarthys are.

I can’t help but stare at the ceiling for a long time after he's gone. The room smells like Italian wedding soup and expensive cologne, and something has just happened that I don't entirely have a name for yet.

Because in spite of the IV, the bruising, and the fact that I am almost certainly making a terrible, terrible decision—I feel more alive than I have in months.

Chapter Two

DECLAN

I shouldn’t be watching her.

That’s the thought I keep coming back to, standing at the edge of the room, with a drink I haven’t touched, wishing it were something stronger.

I lost my battle to pills once, and that was enough for a lifetime. I won’t do it again. And because of that, I’ve made an effort to avoid alcohol now too.

But I’ve never been more tempted.

And why can’t I look away from her?

Bridget’s getting treatment and getting better. Dr. Rosenberg says she’s well on her way to remission. I hate the fucking word remission though. Seems like it implies a temporary lull, and I don’t like temporary. Still, it’s good seeing some color in the lass’s cheeks.

After that first night when Cavin asked me to keep an eye on her, I promised myself I would, in fact, keep an eye on her.

The party rolls on, Erin and Cavin under the spotlight for once, and I’m grateful for it. Hell, the newlyweds deserve a moment where it’s just the two of them.

My cousin, Cavin’s older brother Seamus, is holding court in the corner while his youngest sister, my cousin Bronwyn, steals his drink and takes a long gulp. He narrows his eyes at her, but she’s been doing this since she was seventeen and shows no signs of stopping. She still looks like a girl, with her round, bright cheeks and twinkling eyes, but I know she’s an adult now. We all are.

I look across the room, and my eyes land on Bridget Kavanagh, who’s trying very hard to look like she isn’t alone.

She’s not doing a great job of it. And I’m not doing a great job at pretending I don’t care.

She’s got a Coke in her hand, as always, her ginger hair falling loose around her shoulders, and a pretty rose-colored crystal pendant on a gold chain at her throat that catches the light. She’s watching her sister and Cavin on the dance floor, with an expression she probably thinks is neutral. It isn’t. I’ve spent enough years reading rooms and the people in them to know I’m looking at someone who’s just had the floor rearranged under her feet and is still deciding whether to stand or fall.

And now that she’s getting better, I’ve got a promise and a club to take her to because I’m a feckin’ eejit who needs his head examined—because fucking around with a woman who’s too young for me, whose parents just fucking betrayed us…

Jesus, her fucking parents.