Page 95 of Wicked Ruin

“This isn’t mine,” Valentina says, her brow knit together.

“Uh, no.”

A beat of silence passes between us as she folds the jumper, her lips pressed together, and I push my hands in my pockets.

“I’m not an idiot, Declan. This belongs to your ‘best friend,’ doesn’t it?”

I don’t respond, which is damning enough. Christ. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

“I don’t care,” she says in a low voice. “Do you understand? I don’t care who she is. I don’t care what she is to you. That’s not my business, and I’ve already made it very clear there’s no romance between you and me.” Her jaw tightens. “What I’m telling you is that you are fucking marrying me. Because if you don’t, my father will give me to that insufferable douche from Prague.”

She looks at me then, and for just a second, the composed performance drops entirely. What's underneath it isn't anger but cold calculation, like she's already decided what happens if I say no, and she’s prepared to pull out whatever weapon she needs to.

I go still. “What?”

“Merrick,” she says. “He’s been asking for two years. And I’m not going to that man. So whatever you’re doing”—she gestures between me and the car—“don’t be so fucking sloppy, because I need this to happen.”

I take the jumper she holds out to me.

“I’m not here because I want to be. Neither are you. But what we’re doing matters, and we both know that.”

She turns and walks away, the sound of her heels clicking on the pavement, her back ramrod straight.

Christ’s sake.

I stand in the car park for a long while. The night is cold, and I can hear the function through the hotel walls. I stare at the jumper in my hands and barely refrain from bringing it to my face, knowing it would smell just like her.

I know enough about Merrick to understand what Valentina was saying underneath her words: I am as trapped as you are, and there is nobody else to ask. I fold the jumper and slide it onto the passenger seat. Jesus fucking Christ.

Valentina knows about Bridget.

I’ve been spending days researching doctors and sour sweets and hematologists, dreaming about a life I want and know I can’t have, telling myself this is temporary. Bridget will understand.

But I know things have to move. Things have to change. I’m just not sure how.

I pick up my phone and text Cavin.

Need a word. Tonight if you can

Then I sit there a moment longer, looking at nothing, slide my phone into my pocket, and go right back to being a loyal cousin to the McCarthy clan.

Chapter Twenty-Three

BRIDGET

Caitlin greets me at the door and gives me a big hug. “How are you feeling, love?” she says brightly. She has her watering pail in one hand, a trowel in the other, and pink floral gardening gloves. “Cavin was a bit worried.”

“I’m grand,” I say. “Cavin was just concerned because he thought I was relapsing, but I’m totally fine.”

I hate lying to Caitlin. She’s been so good to me, and she loves me like I’m one of her own daughters. For one crazy second, I almost open my mouth and blurt out the whole truth, but I don’t. It wouldn’t be fair to her or to Declan.

“If you need anything, anything at all, all you have to do is say the word, love.”

How about: Can you talk to someone so Declan and I can be married? Okay?

But I just give her a smile and nod. “Thank you, Caitlin. Really. It means the world to me.”

“Of course,” she says with a wink. “The girls are in the kitchen. Bronwyn made some excellent scones. Go have a few. I’ve just put the kettle on.”