Page 3 of Wicked Ruin

Declan. His name is Declan.

Cavin’s cousin Declan? Declan McCarthy?

Oh no.

Declan McCarthy has a reputation in Ballyhock that reaches all the way to the craggy cliffs overlooking the churning waves of the Irish Sea.

He turns back to me, and the smile is back—easy, warm, and completely at odds with everything he just said.

“I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.” He tilts his head. “Why don't you walk with me? It would be wise for you. It would certainly be easier for me. And then we can both do what Mr. McCarthy has asked without either of us having a terrible evening.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “Where's Erin?”

“Having a conversation with her future husband. She's fine. Cavin wouldn't hurt her.”

“But he would if she weren't about to be his wife?”

He exhales through his nose, something between impatience and resignation crossing his face.

“Follow me,” he says. “Stop stalling, or I swear to Christ I'm going to put you over my shoulder and carry you, and you won’t enjoy it.”

Is he so sure about that?

I came here to get fucked, goddamn it, and I'm not leaving until I've been properly handled. I have a good reason.

I'm dying, and no one wants to admit it. My illness has taken center stage my whole damn life, and I'm over it. I'm desperate to feel something normal. I try to be optimistic, to be cheerful, so I don't have to watch the light dim in my sister's eyes one more time, but inside? Inside, I'm neither. I feel like every hour of every day, another grain of sand falls to the bottom of the hourglass of my life.

But I want to see my sister.

So I lift my chin, school my expression into something approaching indifference, and follow him. I have to walk quickly to keep up.

He stops short outside a closed door in a darkened hallway, and I nearly slam into his back. On the other side of the door, I can hear two voices: One is Erin's, and the other is a man's, low and controlled in a way that doesn't ask to be obeyed so much as assumes it. Must be Cavin, my future brother-in-law.

I don't know how I feel about that.

I edge closer, without meaning to, and feel the warmth of Declan's back. He smells way too damn good, but I'm intent on listening.

“That's Mr. McCarthy?” I whisper. “Cavin, I mean Cavin.” I'm not going to call my sister's future husband Mr. McCarthy, for Christ's sake. He’s my brother-in-law, or soon to be. I swallow hard and lick my lips. “He’s… scary.”

Declan glances down at me with something that might be amusement, the corner of his lips quirking up, his eyes almost sparkling at me as a smirk crosses his face. “He's not the only one who can be scary, sweetheart.”

“You don’t say.”

I feel as if my head is floating. My heart is pounding way too fast. My hands are clammy, and the rest of me—I can't think about that right now. I swallow hard, face forward, and say nothing. I don't know what I would say. I don't trust my voice right now.

The room he takes me into is private and distant, but I can see Cavin on the other side of a half-open interior door. Declan holds up a hand—not to push me back, but to keep me from going any further.

“You alright, Bridget?” Erin asks me.

“I'm fine.” My eyes feel wide open.

“She's grand,” Cavin says, then he looks at Declan. “Take her to the lounge. Get her whatever she wants. We'll be done here shortly. Take very good care of her, Declan—don't let her out of your damn sight.” His eyes flash at mine, and I feel immediately rebuked. Declan nods. Before I can protest, Cavin adds, “Wait for us in the club.”

He turns to me then, his eyes narrowed. “Bridget.” His voice is sharp and commanding.

“Yes?” My voice feels small and childlike.

A gulp. “Do you have a purple band on your arm as well?” I swallow and nod.