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)
“Will you be ready?”
“Already ready,” he says, reaching for me and tipping my chin up, forcing my gaze to his. “But until then, we live. We won't let him steal our time together by hiding in fear. Understood?”
“Aye,” I whisper.
“Good lass.” He kisses my forehead, gentle despite the violence I know he's capable of. “Come now, let's go upstairs and get some rest.”
“I don't think I can sleep.”
“I can hold you until you try.” Then his mouth twitches. “Or I can wear you out so thoroughly you face-plant on the mattress. Your choice.”
“Deal.”
He carries me upstairs, and by the time we're in the bedroom, I'm already exhausted. He tucks me into bed, then wraps himself around me, like a shield against the world.
Outside, Marcus is hiding. Plotting. Planning.
But here, with Ashland's arms around me, I'm safe.
For now, it has to be enough.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ashland
The house settles into silence around three in the morning, but I'm still awake, still watching.
Who knew I'd miss her damn cat?
I'm stretched out in the chair by the window of our bedroom—our bedroom.
When did I start thinking like that?
With the clear view of the drive and the front gate, I have to admit… I like that Seamus has put us here.
He knows I like to be vigilant, and I don't think the safety factor is the only reason we're in this room. Declan's got men on rotation, cameras on every approach, and Seamus has the security system locked down tighter than a drum. But I still can't fucking sleep.
Bianca's curled up in the large king bed, one hand tucked under her cheek, her dark hair spilled across the pillow. She looks so small in bed, vulnerable. Every protective instinct I have roars to life just looking at her.
Marcus Crowning is out there. Her mother's probably already gone back to his father, spilling everything she heard while she was here. We've got eyes on the bastard though. Declan's tracking every move.
I know men like him. I know what they're capable of when they feel cornered. Fuck it all, I've done it myself.
My phone buzzes with a text from Declan.
Declan
All clear. North perimeter checked. Go to fucking sleep, cousin.
I don't respond because he knows I won't.
Declan used to be our main enforcer, and now he's moved into position as head of security because he's fucking good at it. Nothing slips by him.
But Bianca’s my woman, my obsession, and I won't sleep until Marcus Crowning is buried.
I stand and move to the bed, checking the window locks for the third fucking time tonight, then check the lock on the bathroom window and the balcony doors.
“Ashland.” Her voice is sleepy and soft, husky. I turn to find her watching me, her big eyes barely open.
“Go back to sleep, love,” I tell her. “Just checking things.”
“Again.” She pushes herself up on one elbow. “You checked an hour ago.”
“Aye, and I'll check again in another hour.”
I move back to the chair, but her hand shoots out, catching my wrist. “Bed, Ashland.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine if you don't sleep.” She tugs gently. “Please. I can't even sleep when you're prowling around like a caged animal.”
I hesitate. Every instinct in me screams to stay alert, stay vigilant, but exhaustion pulls at my bones, and the plea in her eyes is impossible to resist.
“Declan knows what he's doing,” she says. “You know he does.”
Over the past few days, Declan's gone over security with her, every single detail. Making sure she knows the protocols, the safe rooms, and the escape routes.
“Alright.” I slide into bed beside her.
She immediately curls into me, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart, and her breathing begins to slow.
“Ah,” she whispers. “Better now.”
I wrap my arm around her, holding her close, and her warmth seeps into me. Her breathing evens out, but I still don't sleep. I lie there in the dark, listening to every creak of the house, to the whisper of the wind outside, protecting her. Always protecting her.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and Bianca's fingers tracing the scar that runs along my ribs.
“You're staring,” I rumble, not opening my eyes.
“You have so many,” she says softly. “It makes me sad to think about how you got them.”
I don't respond. Sometimes it makes me sad too.
Her finger moves to another scar, this one across my shoulder. “This one looks old.”
“It is. I was fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” she says, her voice catching. “You were just a child. Just a lad.”
“I was a McCarthy,” I say, opening one eye to find her propped up on an elbow, studying me with that intense gaze that goes right through me. “We're not children for very long, love.”
Her top has slid off her shoulder, showing me bare, creamy skin. I pull it back, brushing my thumb over the exposed flesh.