Chapter five
Blood Red Prelude
Siobhán
Istepbackintothecrowd like I was never touched. Never pressed against the wall. Never told to play or beg. My hands still tremble. My throat still burns with the words I didn’t scream. But my smile? Perfect. Sharp. Composed. I let it curve slowly as someone calls my name, and I offer a tilt of my chin, a flick of my fingers—like royalty giving her blessing.
They eat it up.
Dublin’s darling daughter has returned, glittering and untouchable. The prodigy they raised like a saint, now polished and feral in heels custom-forged to hurt. The crowd closes in with praise and longing. Their words tangle around me—reverent, gushing, insincere. They call me a legend. A star. A symbol of the city’s greatness. They don’t know I nearly shattered ten minutes ago.
“Siobhán!”
“She’s even more stunning in person—”
“Can I get a photo with you—”
Their voices blur. Flashes go off. I offer them the version of me they want—charming, poised, untouchable. The siren of Dublin. The prodigy who left them breathless and bleeding for more. They don’t see the tremor in my spine. They don’t see the fingerprints Cillian left behind, pressed like bruises into the silk of my composure.
And then I feel it.
Power. Cold and ancient, moving through the crowd like a tide. Darragh O’Dwyer. The air sharpens the moment he enters my orbit. Suits part for him like scripture. The crowd quiets, a reverence built from fear and favor. He approaches with the weight of generations in his wake. I turn slowly. Smile like I don’t taste copper in the back of my throat.
“Siobhán Kelleher,” he says, lifting my hand in his. His grip is firm, practiced. Every move precise. “The darling daughter of Dublin returns.” His lips brush my knuckles with all the warmth of a guillotine. “You shine bright enough to make a man forget what’s his,” he murmurs, low and lethal. “Careful who you dazzle, girl. Not all kings appreciate distractions.”
It sounds like praise. The crowd will hear it as a compliment. But I know better. So does he. I hold his stare, let my smile cut sharper.
“Distractions don’t fill rooms like this,” I say softly. “They don’t get standing ovations. And they certainly don’t make strong kings nervous.”
His smile doesn’t crack, but I feel the shift. A flicker of something cold and warning behind his eyes. A reminder that his throne isn’t just ornamental—it’s built on blood and tradition.
I tilt my head and whisper, “You taught your son well, Darragh. Healmosthad me on my knees.”
He exhales a quiet chuckle that never touches his eyes. “Almost,” he repeats, and steps back with a nod, his presence still choking the air around me.
I don’t breathe until he’s gone. Not because I’m afraid. Because I’m planning. Because this city might belong to the O’Dwyers… But tonight? The spotlight belongs to me. I lift my glass. Champagne, cold and sharp. The taste of gold and war. Someone says my name — I don’t turn. Someone laughs too loud — I don’t hear them. Because across the room, I seehim.
Cillian. He moves through the crowd like a secret everyone already knows. Shoulders squared, gaze locked, suit blacker than sin. The world parts for him without asking. Even the music softens, like it’s holding its breath. He shouldn’t becoming toward me. Not after that threat, not after what he said backstage. But he is. And I can’t decide if I want to run or drop to my knees.
My lips curve before I can stop them. Instinct. Armor. A smirk that tastes like survival. He stops in front of me, so close I can smell the ghost of smoke and whiskey still clinging to him.
“Play again,” he says.
Not a question. A command. Low. Lethal. Private, even here in a room full of people.
The glass in my hand trembles once before I steady it. “You really don’t like not being the center of attention, do you?”
His jaw flexes. That muscle I used to bite when I wanted to make him swear. “Play again,Siobhán.”
The way he says my name —not like a plea, but a punishment— makes my spine go rigid. I set my glass down. Turn toward the piano. And smile.
“Fine.”
Each step back to the stage clicks like a countdown. He follows, silent, a shadow made of heat and hunger. When I sit, I don’t look at him. I don’t look at anyone. I just rest my hands on the keys — and smirk. A hush rolls through the ballroom, velvet and sharp, as he steps up to the mic.
“My apologies,” Cillian says smoothly, his voice a blade in a velvet scabbard. “But I’m afraid I’ve demanded one more performance from our guest.”
Soft laughter erupts throughout the room. The air shifts. Curious. Anticipating. Hungry.
