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)
He’s in a dark suit that fits him too well and shows every line of muscle underneath.
My mouth goes dry.
No. Absolutely not.
I will not be attracted to Cavin fucking McCarthy.
But my body doesn’t seem to care what I will or won’t do.
Heat floods my face. My thighs. Lower.
His eyes find mine across the room—they’re dark, unreadable, dangerous.
For a second, just a second, his gaze drops… down my body, slow and deliberate, like he’s taking inventory. Doesn’t anyone else see this, or are they all too busy chatting?
My nipples tighten under the thin fabric of my dress.
Traitor body.
When his eyes meet mine again, something flickers in them. Or maybe I’m imagining it?
Maybe I’m losing my fucking mind.
Cavin McCarthy is gorgeous. Yeah, I said it.
All the McCarthys are, which is probably half the reason Ballyhock worships them so.
I try not to stare, and wish Bridget were here because I want her to see this guy.
Am I staring?
God, I hope I’m not staring.
But when his gaze meets mine a second time, I take an involuntary step back. There’s a coldness in his eyes that wasn’t there at St. Albert’s, a rough edge etched into the bone of his face. I suddenly wish I could hide.
My gaze drops, too, to the powerful column of his neck and masculine collarbone. He left one tiny button undone… and still, the heat beneath his shirt pulses.
My gaze drops further. Thick arms. Tanned skin. Veins like cables.
Hands that look strong enough to crush or cradle.
I feel… small.
Oh Jesus, help me.
Even my mother’s eyes widen, probably half expecting to see the boy from St. Albert’s, and not this man who takes up half the room.
My father straightens, recovering fast. “Cavin. Pleased to meet you, son,” he says, extending a hand.
This boy—no, man, takes up too much of my brain space rent-free because of how he treated me, and my own father’s never even met him.
Cavin doesn’t smile, just nods and shakes my father’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”
His voice is deeper, rougher than it was in school. We barely talked at the cemetery. I didn’t notice.
Then he turns to me and takes in a deep breath again.
“Mam says you’d like a tour of the estate,” he says gruffly.
His eyes find mine, and for a second, just one, something wild and feral flashes across his face.
Recognition.
Hunger.
Rage.
My breath catches. Didn’t anyone else see that?
He crosses the room in three strides. Doesn’t stop until he’s in my space—close enough, I can feel the heat coming off him.
“Erin.” He says my name like a curse. Like a promise.
I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Up close, he's even worse. The tattoos crawling up his neck, the brutal line of his jaw, and shoulders broad enough to block out the rest of the room. And fuck, he smells good—expensive and male and wrong for how much I want to lean in.
My mother stares at me, silently begging, and I don’t know why.
I swallow hard.
God, I hate playing by these rules. Of all the people in all the places in the world…
“That would be lovely,” I lie.
“Excellent,” he says, also lying. He looks as thrilled as I feel.
“I’ll walk you through the estate.” He turns and starts walking fast, without bothering to see if I’m following.
I am, of course.
“Da used to let people come through for a tour,” Cavin says over his shoulder. “But he stopped. They made a mockery of it.” A beat. “Thought it was some kind of circus or the like.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate.”
Unfortunate? That’s unfortunate?
He doesn’t answer, just leads me down a marble corridor that looks like you could ice-skate on it.
“You’ve grown up,” he says after a beat. “Didn’t think the world’d let you.”
My chest tightens. Oh, he’s still the same, that lazy cruelty—half compliment, half dagger.
“And you’ve grown predictable,” I say lightly. “Still mistaking cruelty for charm.”
He glances over with a faint smirk. “Still mistaking honesty for cruelty?”
Come again?
“Well, I see you haven’t lost that scowl,” I mutter. “Charming.”
“Not charming,” he replies. “Familiar.”
Silence… hot and sticky with history. Old wounds wrapped in heat neither of us asked for. And why is he standing so close to me?
Did I move, or did he?
I try to focus on the estate. It’s beautiful, yeah. Majestic even. But none of it matters because I’ve never been good at pretending.
And right now? All I can think is—I’m alone. With Cavin McCarthy.
And I hate him.
I hate him so much.
I hate that his family holds more power than mine.
I hate that he’s so fucking handsome.
I hate that he knows it.
And I hate that no matter how hard I try, I can’t rewrite our past.
“This is the kitchen,” he says, bored. I’m nervous and don’t know how to reply, so the words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Right by the dungeon,” I quip. “Where you keep your prisoners… or maybe it’s where you train your dragons.”