She’s unraveling just like I knew she would. And fuck me, it’s going to be a battle. She’s about to explode. So I just sit. Glass in hand. Elbows on the table. And wait for the storm I built.
“Siobhán, darling. Let’s just get that behind us and enjoy a meal together.”
The bedroom door rips open and she stands in the frame. “Go dtachtfadh an diabhal thú.”1
“Now, now, Dove. Such a filthy little mouth on such a pretty girl. But let’s get one thing straight. If there’s any devil doing the choking in this house, it’s me. And we both know which one of us begs for it.”
My jaw tightens, but I don’t flinch. Not when she speaks to me in that tongue. Not when she spits venom and stands there like a goddamn specter draped in silk and shadows. And then I really look at her.
She changed. That robe's loose, barely hanging on, like even the fabric knows it doesn’t deserve to touch her. Dark green silk clings to every curve—draped like temptation itself across her body, slipping over her hips, barely brushing the tops of her thighs. No shoes. No armor. Just bare skin, long legs, and eyes that promise war.
She walks toward me slow. Controlled. Her steps are quiet, but her rage echoes in the room.
My gaze drags down her frame, slow and unapologetic. That nightgown wasn’t made for modesty. It was made to be peeled off. And fuck if I don’t want to be the one to do it—with my teeth.
But there’s fire in her tonight. Not just fury. No, this is the kind of heat that warns you right before you burn. And I let it. I let her come closer. Because if this is hell, then I’ll go up in flames smiling.
She doesn’t stop walking. Just keeps coming, slow and sinfully silent, until she’s standing over me. Then she leans in. One handon the armrest. The other on the opposite side of my chair. Her body cages me in—bare legs brushing my knee, silk brushing her thighs, robe falling open just enough to make me lose all coherent thought.
She bends low, closer, until her lips are at my ear. And I can’t fucking move. Not because I’m afraid. Because I’m hard as a goddamn rock and trying not to grab her by the waist and drag her into my lap like an animal.
The scent of her—vanilla and fury and something I always fucking crave—wraps around me like a noose. I swallow hard. Every inch of her is a weapon. And I’m about one second away from surrendering.
She leans in until her lips nearly brush the shell of my ear. Voice low. Sultry. Lethal. “Funny how men like you always mistake cages for castles, Cillian.” Her breath is warm against my skin. “You build a home out of ash and ruin, fill it with silk and stolen memories… and you think that’ll make me kneel?” A pause. She’s smiling. I feel it. Then she whispers it, sweet as a curse, in perfect, haunting Irish.“Is ceann de na h-óinseacha diabhail thú.”2
And then she pulls back, slow and deliberate, and saunters away like she didn’t just carve my pride open and light it on fire.
I don’t move. Just watch the sway of her hips as she disappears down the hall. Bare feet. Dark green silk. Venom still dripping from her lips. And I swear,I’ve never wanted war more than I do now. Especially when she looks like that.
Let it come, then, dove.Let it fucking come.
1.Go dtachtfadh an diabhal thú" is an Irish curse meaning "May the devil choke you".
2.Is ceann de na h-ónseacha diabhal thúis an Irish curse meaning “You are one of the devil’s chosen.”
