Page 71 of Ruthless Dream

Cain glances at him and then at me. For a beat we hold each other’s eyes. I should clap. Smile. Do something to show that I do—I am—supporting my boyfriend.

“Come on!” Cain bares his teeth, waving his fist in the air when a new round begins.

A fist nearly knocks Ciaran’s head off. My hands squeeze together, my knees together, and my posture straight. Ciaran knows what he’s doing, and a second later I breathe when he slams both fists into his opponent.

An eruption nearly blows the roof off. The referee lifts Ciaran’s hand in the air, and I’m not sure who looks happier—his dad or uncle.

The blonde bombshell touches my shoulder. “Oh, girl.” A devilish smile takes over her face. I’m not sure what exactly she’s congratulating me for. On Ciaran’s win or the fact that I get to go home with him. Probably both.

Men congratulate Cormac, who buttons his jacket and smooths his blond hair back, recollecting himself. Cain, meanwhile, is ordering another round for him and his teenage girlfriend.

He lands back into his chair with a thud, his body relaxing. “He’s a good man, Ciaran.”

There’s a lightness to the words. A glimmer of pride peeking through the messy façade that is the Irishman.

“He is,” I agree.

Cain’s hazel eyes remain on mine for a beat and then another. His mouth opens like he wants to say something when I feel a presence at my shoulder.

“Come and see him,” Cormac says. Seamus nods too, treating me like one of the group.

“You want to go?” Blonde Bombshell asks Cain, getting up to follow.

Cain places a hand on her knee, smiling softly. “I’ll speak to him later.”

As I trail after Cormac, I wonder when later might be.

Not many people like Cain Murray. Even before I started looking into my father’s associates, I could tell by the way Yelena said his name. Not that it takes much for her to act cold toward a person.

But Ciaran never talks about his dad. Since he explained some of his family dynamics, he’s mentioned Nora more times than his own father.

Cain might be a proud father, but he can’t claim to have helped his son in any way. Not when he let Nora and Cormac raise Ciaran in Dublin while living in America.

Cormac strides through the gym, almost regal in the way he refuses to talk to people. Seamus, meanwhile, keeps stopping to shake hands with people, clapping them on the shoulder, still riding the high of his cousin’s win.

We find him in a backroom, the lights much brighter. He’s sitting on an exam table, but his laugh rattles the room when he spots his family.

Cormac pats his cheek, the first sign of warmth exuding from the man. He leans in low, whispering something to his nephew. Ciaran laughs again, and then Seamus is there.

But as he talks, his head whips around, stilling when he spots me.

I smile, staying where I am to give them space. Except Seamus claps his shoulder, peeling off. Then Cormac steps away.

“Hi,” I say softly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His eyes roam my skintight dress. At least the one eye he can open.

I step closer, my heels giving me an advantage, but only because he’s still seated.

“You came,” he says.

“You watched me place it on my calendar.” I delicately cup his cheek, my heart fluttering at the way his smile grows in response. “They beat your face.”

A laugh bursts from him.

“Ciaran,” I admonish.

He pulls my hand to his lips. “That’s how these things work.”

“I don’t like it.”