Chapter fourteen
In the Green and the Grave
Cillian
Gunfiresplitsthesilencelike lightning through glass.
“Go!” Rouge shouts from behind us, voice raw from smoke and shouting. “Get her out—I’ll meet you at the safe house!”
He’s firing over his shoulder, clean and precise, while the crowd dissolves into panic—heels snapping, glass breaking, people clawing for the exits.
“Rouge—”
“Don’t argue, you stubborn fuck! Move!”
I grab Siobhán’s hand, pulling her with me. Her pulse hammers against mine—steady, alive. There’s blood on her arm, a cut along her shoulder, and still she keeps pace, chin high like she refuses to let the world see her flinch.
Rouge fires again, covering our retreat, then waves us on. “Go! Go!”
The noise behind us fades as I shove open the service door that leads to the west wing—narrow, empty, echoing with the distant chaos above. I drag her down the corridor, each step pounding through the marble floor.
“Where?” she pants.
“The crypt,” I say.
Her eyes flick to me, understanding sparking there. She doesn’t argue. She knows what that means.
Only I have the key. Only I would take her there. We reach the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor, half-hidden by drapery and shadow. I fish the key from inside my jacket—it’s cold, iron, old as the estate itself. My hand’s slick with blood, but it turns in the lock with a satisfying click.
I push the door open, ushering her inside. The air shifts instantly—cool, ancient, still. The chaos from upstairs muffles to a dull, distant hum. Candles flicker along the walls, untouched by years. Their light dances over the marble pillars, the carvedangel above the doorway, and finally, the piano.My mother’s piano.
Siobhán steps forward, her breath catching. “It’s still here.”
“Always will be.”
I close the door behind us, locking it again. My shoulder aches; blood drips warm down my sleeve. She notices but says nothing. She knows this place. She knows what it means to me. To us. I lean against the stone wall, watching her move toward the instrument, every motion slow, reverent, like she’s walking into church.
Above us, the chaos continues—muffled gunfire, shouting, footsteps fading into the distance. But down here, it’s quiet. Down here, there’s only her. For the first time in what feels like hours, there’s silence. No shouting, no bullets, no chaos — just the low hum of candlelight and the uneven sound of our breathing.
She stands in the middle of the crypt, gown torn, streaks of red up her arms. Blood on her face, in her hair. Still beautiful. Still steady.Christ, I could lose my mind over her.
I cross the space between us, my shoulder throbbing with every step. “You hurt?”
She shakes her head. “Not badly. It’s not mine.”
That doesn’t help. The sight of her like this — marked, stained — hits me harder than the bullet ever could.
I cup her jaw, turning her face toward the light. Her skin is cool under my fingers, pulse fluttering just beneath. She doesn’t look away.
“Tell me,” I say softly. “Did anyone touch you?”
Her brow furrows. “No, Cill—”
“Don’t lie to me, dove.” My voice cracks lower, that dangerous thread I can’t always keep hidden. “Not about this.”
She exhales, slow. “No one touched me.”
Relief hits like a fist to the gut. My shoulders drop. My hand stays on her face anyway, thumb brushing her cheekbone.
