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)
Bronwyn's eyes dance at me. I get the distinct feeling that nobody sees the softer side of Ashland like I do.
“You want to bring him back here?” I say.
“You know, I think for now it's probably best we leave that alone. Lancelot's safe at my mam’s. And I don't want to risk any contact.” It hurts me to say it, but it's true. “I don't want her to suspect that I'm here.”
“I know,” Ashland says quietly.
“But if the time comes when you do feel like you want to bring your kitty here,” Caitlin says, “he's welcome too, of course.”
She walks us to a staircase. Kyla and Bronwyn are speaking in hushed tones behind us as two men round the corner—Cavin, I think he said, and Seamus. I've heard of these men. They were older than I am, so they were not in school at the same time I was. But Cavin likes to play in the ring too.
“I need to go talk with Erin,” Cavin says. “Ashland, let's chat later, shall we?”
“Aye,” Ashland says.
“I'm going to take your fight tonight,” he says.
“I don't think it's wise for you to go into the ring tonight, lad,” Seamus says.
“Ashland works his job,” Cavin agrees.
“Do you fight in a ring, Ashland?” I ask, surprised.
Everyone practically guffaws in unison.
“Ashland, fight in the ring?” Caitlin says. “My god, you haven't told her.” She shakes her head. “He's been crowned champion for three years in a row, love. It's what he does best. He and Cav put the McCarthy family on the map.”
“Aye,” Ashland says with a quiet shrug. “I like fighting.”
“Well, now that doesn't surprise me,” I say, which makes them laugh again.
“Alright, enough of this chatter,” Ashland says gruffly. “We need to have a talk alone now. Let's go.” But he doesn’t scare me the way he did at first.
Declan's in the hallway, and I hear him make a snide remark to Cavin. “Have a talk,” he says, using air quotes.
Ashland shoots him a look that makes Declan fairly run for his life. I love watching him around people who love him. It's like an entirely different side of Ashland I've never seen before. He has cousins, aunts and uncles, and a brother. I'll meet his parents eventually, but he speaks highly of them.
It's funny to see Ashland shy or self-deprecating, and the way he shields me, even from their gentle questions.
Then all thoughts of his family come to a screeching halt because we're alone. He shuts and locks the door behind him, then turns me around to face him, framing my face with his hands.
“How are you doing, lass?” His voice is rougher than usual, like the words cost him something.
I open my mouth to lie, to say I'm fine, that I just need a minute, but what comes out is a broken sound that's half laugh, half sob, like I’ve gone mad. We’re all mad here.
My throat closes up tight, and suddenly I can't breathe right. The tears are already burning behind my eyes, and I know that if I let even one fall, I won't be able to stop.
“I'm not so good,” I manage, and my voice cracks on the last word.
“Shh, love,” he says, holding me close.
That's all it takes. The dam breaks.
I'm crying freely, and it’s not the pretty, silent tears from movies, but ugly, gasping sobs that shake my whole body. The kind of crying I haven't done since I was eighteen and woke up screaming from nightmares I couldn't remember. The kind that empties you out and leaves you hollow, that makes my nose runny and my head feel like it’s been stuffed with cotton.
I don't remember moving, but suddenly my face is buried against Ashland's shoulder, my fists twisted in his shirt. And he feels… safe.
His arms come around me, solid and sure, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other spans my back. He doesn't shush me or tell me it's okay. He just holds me together while I fall apart, his chin resting on top of my head, his heartbeat steady against my cheek.
I cry until there's nothing left.
“Let it all out. It's good for you. I cried like my heart was broken when my brother died,” he says in my ear. “And it felt much better after. Let it out. Here.”
He picks me up and carries me, and I no longer protest. It doesn't hurt him. He's as strong as an ox. He likes carrying me, and truth be told, I like being carried.
We make our way to an overstuffed chair in the corner, nestled under the soft light of a lamp. He settles me on his lap and nuzzles my cheek. I put my head on his chest, and his fingers come to rest in my hair.
“Let it out,” he says. “It's been a lot, hasn't it?”