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)
Which means whoever hired them was careful enough to keep themselves clean.
I stare at the wall, my jaw tight. Nameless men don't move on their own. Somebody pointed them at her specifically—somebody who knew where she'd be and when, somebody who wanted her and didn't want to be traced back to it.
The question gnaws at me. Why her? She doesn't fit the profile of a random grab. Too visible. Too… everything.
I don't have an answer. I don't like not having an answer.
All the more reason to keep an eye on her.
I get a box of takeaway for dinner, then shovel it down without tasting it. I train until my knuckles are raw and bleeding. I have another fight that night and sweep the floor with the bastard, an easy feat when I imagine the two faces of those fuckers from last night in front of me. Every punch lands harder than it should. Every hit is for her, even if she'll never know it.
And on the way home…
I drive instead of walking and find myself sitting outside her house at midnight.
Bianca's house.
Just once more. Just to make sure she's safe. Just to make sure they never come back.
Chapter Three
Nine months later…
Ashland
Bianca's nineteen years old today. Nineteen.
I’m thirteen years older than she is.
And I'll never touch the lass. I can admire her from a distance and not… touch her. I could never. It would be like marring a flawless diamond, dulling something precious and pure.
I've taken on the role of her distant protector though.
She's majoring in history, because of course she is. Reads Arthurian legend like it’s gospel. Drinks coffee with an obscene amount of cream and sugar. Leaves her door unlocked when she's home alone.
That last one keeps me up at night.
If she were mine, I'd change that right quick. She isn’t though. She can’t ever be.
My phone buzzes with an alert, and I quickly glance at the screen.
Bianca's home.
I breathe a sigh of relief. The lass decided it would be an excellent idea to walk alone in the moors after dark, said something to her rosy-cheeked classmate about it being “melancholy and romantic,” and off she went.
Fuck.
“Ashland, you ready, brother?” Cavin waits at the entrance to the ring, frowning at me as he cracks his neck from side to side.
“Aye.”
We're practicing together. Seamus would fucking kill us if he knew, because we're not allowed to fight each other. McCarthy versus McCarthy means broken bones or worse.
But Cavin and I know how to keep each other intact.
Well, mostly.
My phone beeps with another notification. I quickly silence it, but Cavin notices and flashes me a grin. “You got a woman, mate? What're you hiding over there?”
“Shut it.”
“You do! You fucking do. Let me see!”
He grabs for the phone, but I catch his wrist and twist. He winces and howls, pulling back. “Christ, brother, you don't have to—”
“Don't touch my phone.”
“Why won’t you fuckin’ admit it?” he asks, still nursing his hurt wrist, genuine curiosity in his gaze.
I shake my head. “No. I’m not.”
“Will you ever see someone? Christ, lad, you can at least come to The Craic with us, get a quick lay, see if—”
“No.”
How the fuck would I explain this? Explain her? I couldn't fucking do it.
They'd think I was a fuckin' predator, and I—I'm not.
Stalker?
Well, is it still stalking if it's for her own good?
And I don't go overboard. I'm very… moderate in my… methods.
Yeah, I was able to install tracking software on her phone, but that's only basic; that's the easy step. I know her major and might know she gets good marks as well. I watch her at all times because she doesn't have a fucking bodyguard on her, and why doesn't she have a bodyguard?
And I now know that Bianca White’s dad once worked for our family, managing the very ring I’m in.
Cavin lifts the rope to the ring and gestures for me to join him.
Happily.
We circle each other, and I let him make the first move. He always does.
Cavin lunges with a jab that I dodge easily, then another. I block the third and counter with a hook to his ribs that makes him grunt. He recovers quickly and lands a solid hit to my jaw that snaps my head back.
Good. I need this.
I come at him harder. A combination—left, right, uppercut that catches him under the chin. His head whips back. I don't give him time to recover. I'm on him, driving him into the corner of the ring. Another hit to the ribs, then to his kidneys. He tries to block, but I'm faster, angrier, and I don't know why, but I can't fucking stop.
I see her walking alone in the dark. I see those men from last year. I see every fucking danger she puts herself in without even knowing it.
My fist connects with Cavin's cheekbone. Blood sprays. He staggers, tries to swing back, but I catch his arm and drive my knee into his gut. He doubles over with a strangled gasp.