Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 401(@300wpm)
The cap? But there it is—Erin's holding it.
“A little knit cap like that. Who'd have known?”
“Maybe I knew,” she says with a wink. But of course she didn’t. She's just taking the mickey out of me, trying to lighten the mood.
Then she’s gone again, and it’s dark outside.
“Erin. Erin, where are you?”
“I'm right here, love,” she says. “Please, Cavin. Just let them take care of you, will you? For me. Do it for me.”
She's beside me now, her hand in mine.
The memory surfaces, jagged and surreal. The crack of the shot. The crowd scattering.
“We need to know,” I force out. “Who sent them. The big bastard with the fucking pipe.”
“Of course we need to know. What do you think we’re doing?” Declan says from somewhere distant. “We're working on it. We'll find him.”
“What is it?” I turn to Erin. “You've got that look.”
“Shh. Don't worry about that now,” she says too quickly.
I can't say anything about the fuckin' tribute in front of my family, but I'm worried. There's something there—something scratching at the edges of my consciousness. The text that came before the fight. The one that made me see red. The one I haven't told her about.
“I need to talk to Declan.”
“You will,” she says. “Right now, we're taking a look at you. Okay?”
First, the tribute. Somebody thinking they can squeeze me. Her da, not trusted. And now this—the ambush, the attack.
Has to be connected.
“How long—” I start, but the medic sticks something in my arm—painkiller, probably—and the world starts to blur.
I try to fight. I can't pass out. I need to stay awake. I need to protect Erin. I need to—
“Let it take you,” Doc Sullivan says. “Relax.”
“Please, Cavin. Just for a little bit,” Erin says. “I'll be right here.”
Her voice follows me down into the dark. “I promise.”
The dream comes in fragments—distorted and wrong.
I'm in a warehouse, one that Da used to use for storage. But it's different now. Darker. Colder.
Is it a warehouse or a cell? It's a cell in a fuckin' warehouse.
Bronwyn’s supposed to be here. That's what the note said. But it's not Bronwyn tied to the chair in the center of the room.
It's—
No.
Erin.
Her head's down, blonde hair falling over her face. And there's blood. Blood on her dress. So much fuckin' blood.
My feet won't move. I'm rooted to the spot, watching as a figure emerges from the shadows.
The big bastard with the bandana, the same one from the ring. And he's got a fuckin' pipe in his hand.
“No.” I'm running now, but as I run, the warehouse stretches impossibly long. Every step takes me nowhere.
“Get the fuck away from her, you fuckin'—”
The pipe rises.
“Erin!”
It comes down.
I wake gasping, pain lancing through my skull. For a second, I don't know if I got hit or she did. If I'm awake or asleep.
The room's wrong. Dark. Quiet.
But it all comes crashing back. The fight a few days ago. The attack. Home.
Erin.
The tribute.
Betrayal.
I try to sit up, and my body screams in protest. Everything fuckin' hurts. But I force myself upright anyway, breathing hard, sweat soaking through the tee that somebody put on me.
There's light coming from under the door, voices low and urgent.
What time is it?
I find my phone plugged in on the nightstand. It’s nearly midnight.
And there's a text waiting… from an unknown number.
Twenty-four hours. You know what happens if you don't pay.
The tribute’s due tomorrow night, and I still don't know who the fuck's demanding it.
But I know one thing: Whoever sent that big bastard with the pipe made the biggest mistake of their fuckin' life—because Cavin McCarthy doesn't play.
And I'm done fuckin' paying tribute.
I'm ready to collect it.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Erin
The kitchen smells like coffee and something burnt—maybe the toast sitting in front of Bronwyn that she's been staring at for the past five minutes without touching. It feels somber in here, like a funeral. I'm exhausted and haven't slept in days.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Cavin on the floor, blood pooling around his head, and that massive bastard with the pipe raising it for another swing. My hands won't stop shaking.
I force myself to think through the variables again. The timing of the attack, the placement of his injuries…the fact that they left him alive. This wasn’t random. Someone wanted to send a message, and they wanted Cavin conscious enough to receive it.
“Erin, love, you need to eat something,” Kyla says softly, pushing a plate toward me.
She's not the sensitive sort, but all of us have been affected by this beating. She's got dark circles under her eyes too—maybe none of us have slept. Caitlin busies herself by the kettle, switching it on, waiting for it to boil.
“Cup of tea,” she says to all of us. We nod quietly.
But when she pours it, she slips and burns herself. She curses and runs her finger under the tap.