Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 519(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 346(@300wpm)
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.
“They'll be fine,” Kyla says, joining me at the window. “They've done this a thousand times.”
“I know.” Still, I hug my arms around myself and rock back and forth, unable to settle and read or do anything but hold my breath.
Kyla studies me for a moment. “You really love him, don't you?” It's the first time anyone in the family has acknowledged it directly.
“Aye, of course,” I say softly.
She nods. “Good. Because that bastard has been half dead for years. You're the only thing that ever brought him back to life.”
Something unravels in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
She squeezes my shoulder gently. “Come now,” she says. “Bronwyn's making tea. No sense torturing yourself up here. Let's go get a little distraction.”
I follow her downstairs to find Caitlin, Bronwyn, Zoya, and Erin in the kitchen. They make space for me at the table without a word, and someone presses a mug of tea into my hands. Caitlin opens a flask of whiskey, and we all pour some in.
We don't talk about where they've gone or what they're doing. We talk about ordinary things—recipes and books and children and the weather—like this is normal, as if their husbands and sons and brothers aren't out hunting people in the dark.
My phone buzzes just before dawn with a text from Ashland:
Ashland
Done. Coming home. There's nothing more to worry about.
Relief crashes into me like a wave. “They're back,” I whisper to myself.
My mother calls the next morning. Ashland's still asleep in bed. He sleeps now—actually sleeps, deep and peaceful, instead of the restless half-consciousness he had before.
I stare at her name on the phone for three rings before I answer. Ashland opens one eye, watching me.
“Hello, Mam.”
“Bianca?” Her voice is sharp, laced with panic. “Where have you been? I've been calling you. You must’ve heard the news by now—”
“Yes.”
Silence stretches between us.
“And it’s his fault, Bianca. How could you—”
“You've spent all these years lying to me, living off their guilt money. How could you?”
“They're responsible for your father—”
“Don't give me that narrative again. I know the truth now, and I know what you’ve done.”
“I did what I had to—”
“The only reason I'm still alive to have this conversation is that one of the monsters you taught me to hate spent the last six years protecting me from my own mother's revenge plot.”
“So you're choosing them over your own family?”
“You stopped being my family when you decided my life was worth less than your affair.” I blow out a breath. “Don’t call me again.”
“Please—”
My vision blurs. I hang up the phone and block her number. Then I sit there, staring.
And it hurts. God, it hurts.
A warm hand settles on my shoulder. Ashland turns me to face him, his eyes searching mine.
“You alright?”
“I think so.” I lean into him, letting his solid warmth anchor me. “Is it wrong that I just feel… free? Relief and sadness, all at once?”
“Of course not.” He presses his lips to my forehead, the gesture so tender it makes my chest ache. “You feel that because of who you are, not because of who she is. It's not wrong at all.”
There, in his arms, I finally let myself grieve—not just for my mother, but for the woman I thought I had, the woman who never existed. But the man I have now, holding me, loves me unconditionally and has since long before I was ever ready to accept it.