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)
“What’s the story, lads?” he asks.
“We’re only after planning the wedding,” Declan says with a grin like a cat that got the cream, one I’m dying to wipe clean off his gob. I lamp him one in the shoulder, and he laughs away, rubbing at it even as he’s grinning like a fuckin’ eejit.
“When is it again?” Daire asks.
“Two months,” I growl. “Shut it.”
“Well, I don’t see why you have to be celibate until—”
“Leave it,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry,” Daire says, shaking his head. “It’s right, shit luck, isn’t it?”
“Could be worse,” I say. “I could be back in prison, like Torin.” Where I’d managed to avoid being raped, but not much else. I don’t sleep at night for the memories I have of that place. And while Seamus tells me the Russians have it worse in their prisons, I can’t imagine how.
My phone buzzes with another text, and I look at the screen this time.
Seamus.
Seamus
Why are you lads at The Craic tonight?
It’s a simple enough question, but he’s checking in—probably before he goes to bed with his wife and the kids.
Just blowin’ off a little steam
I respond, but I know what he really wants to know. Am I taking someone home tonight? Am I being loyal now that I’m an engaged man?
Don’t worry about me
I tell him, trying to hide the bitterness seeping into my tone.
I’m not here for the usual reasons, Seamus.
Seamus
Aye. I understand. Staying out of your business, brother.
Like fuck he is. I blow out a breath.
Now that Torin’s gone—and he won’t be out for at least another year—I’m the second in command after Seamus. It’s on my shoulders to take this responsibility as my own.
Lorcan mutters something under his breath, then reaches out and grabs my wrist.
On instinct, I snap.
My hand flies out. I grab his arm and throw him halfway across the table before I know what I’m doing. People scream. Glasses shatter. Lorcan sprawls across the table, his eyes wide with shock.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Cavin!” he shouts.
“What the hell—” I pause, breathing hard. “I’m sorry.” I run a hand through my hair. God, I don’t know how to tell him. People grabbing me around the wrist like that—it reminds me of being in prison.
“You don’t touch his goddamn wrist,” Declan snarls at Lorcan. “You ought to know that by now.”
“Aye, I forgot,” Lorcan says, inspecting the cut where glass sliced him.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter again.
Thankfully, because it’s The Craic, it’s not out of the ordinary for people to make a commotion. A waitress comes over and quickly cleans things up. She’s a pretty little lass—petite, with large brown eyes, wavy hair, and a short skirt that barely covers the curve of her arse. The type I’d take back to a room tonight with an easy word and an arm around her waist.
But no more.
Declan shakes his head. “You don’t have to act like a monk. You’re not taking a vow of fuckin’ celibacy, you know,” he says under his breath. “You’re not being married for a couple months yet.”
“I know,” I snap at him.
Why did I come here? What the hell did I want?
Finally, I can’t take it anymore, and I send another text to Erin.
Did you get my text?
Huh. The color changes, and it doesn’t deliver. The message just sits there, mocking me.
“What the fuck is that?” Declan snorts and shakes his head. “Your betrothed blocked yer fuckin’ number.”
Fuck my life.
The door opens, and armed guards stride in. They walk straight to me.
“We have two men asking for entrance, sir,” one says in a low voice. “They say they’re kin, and that there was a time when their fathers frequented the pub.”
“Who the hell are they?” I ask.
“Don’t know, but they’ve got American accents, sir.”
“Are they on the roster?”
“Not on the roster, sir.”
“Then you know what to do,” I say, my patience thinning.
“They say it’s important. They want to see you directly.”
Declan gives me a curious look. “What the fuck is that about?”
I frown, push to my feet, and walk to the elevator. I press the button for members only and head on up.
Two men, strong, inked, and intimidating, are waiting for me at the top when the doors open.
“You must be Cavin,” one says in an American accent.
“Aye. And you are?”
“Brogan McCarthy.” He extends his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
I shake his hand, firm and quick. “And you?”
“Tannen McCarthy,” the other says.
They look like brothers. Dark hair, sharp eyes, the kind of build that says they know their way around a fight.
“You’re cousins from America?” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. Something about this doesn’t sit right. “Strange place to meet family.”
“We were told we’d get the proper welcome here,” Tannen says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Right.” I study them both carefully.
But it doesn’t make sense. The stance is wrong. The energy is off. They’re here for something else entirely.