Chapter sixteen
Green of the Unholy Crown
Cillian
Morningcomesslow.Thekind of soft, grey Dublin light that never quite commits to being sunshine—just hangs in the air like a held breath. Rouge moves around the flat with heavy steps and heavier sighs, checking weapons, packing extra mags, muttering to himself about entrances and exits and “just in case, Cillian.”
Siobhán stands at the mirror, and Christ, she’s a dream I don’t deserve.
Her gown isdaytime beautiful—ivory silk that skims her body, pleated softly at the waist, the neckline modest enough for a children’s hall but still sinful on her. Her hair is half pinned, soft curls brushing her shoulders. A little ribbon of emerald at her wrist, matching the green in her eyes. My color. My curse. My anchor.
She’s quiet. Too quiet. Not the focused-pre-performance quiet. Not the trying-not-to-panic quiet. Not even the I’m-ignoring-you-on-purpose quiet. This is the kind of silence that scares men like me.
I watch her from the doorway—Rouge adjusting the straps of her piano case, me pretending like my arm doesn’t ache from the stitches, like last night’s blood isn’t drying beneath my shirt. She smooths the skirt of her gown once. Twice. She’s doing it just to do something with her hands.
“Dove?” I murmur.
She doesn’t look up. She’s somewhere far away inside her head. And I don’t like where she’s gone. I step toward her. Slow. Careful. Like she’s a wild thing that might bolt—or break. My fingers slip beneath her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
Christ… tears.Clinging to her lashes. Threatening to spill. My Siobhán never cries. Not unless the world’s cracking open under her feet.
“Mo chroí,” I whisper, voice low, rough.
Her breath catches. A tiny, shaking sound. Then a wet little laugh, small and pathetic and somehow still the bravest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I love you,” she whispers, the words tumbling out like she’s been holding them in her mouth for years. “I finally got you back—I can’t lose you again, Cillian. I can’t go back to New York, I can’t stay here, the manor is ruined and everything is—”
I kiss her. Hard. Fast. Just to stop the spiral before it eats her alive. She exhales against my mouth, her hands fisting in my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“We’ll figure it all out after the holidays,” I murmur against her lips. “All of it. I promise.”
I kiss her again, slower this time. Rouge clears his throat loudly enough to rattle the hinges on the door.
“Well,” he says, clapping his hands like a man desperate to avoid witnessing whatever comes next, “hate to break up the heartfelt masterpiece, but we’re on a bloody schedule, lovebirds.”
Siobhán huffs a tiny laugh. I press one last kiss to her forehead, then guide her out of the room with my hand low on her back.
The city slips by in blurred strokes of gray and gold, the winter morning softening every sharp edge. A light snow has started—barely-there flakes drifting lazily past the windows like misplaced notes falling from a half-finished symphony.
She sits beside me in the back seat, wrapped in a faux fur coat the color of moonlight. Luxurious. Soft. A little old-Hollywood, a little fallen-angel. Perfect on her. She gazes out the window, watching Dublin wake under a thin veil of white. And I… watch her.
Always her.
Her reflection in the glass is the kind of thing men carve into stone. Her profile, serene and aching, could silence a full orchestra mid-crescendo.
God help me, she looks like music— like a crescendo pulled taut over a heartbeat, like a violin string trembling right before it snaps, like a hymn sung by someone who’s forgotten how to pray.
The snow gathers in flurries around the car as we glide down the street, and I swear the world goes quiet for her, as if even the weather knows Dublin’s darling is passing through.
Rouge mutters something to himself up front, but I barely hear it. All I can think is if she asked me to stop the car right now, I’d kneel in the snow at her feet, kiss the frost from her lashes, and swear my loyalty all over again.
Because Siobhán Kelleher is my favorite melody— and I’ll spend the rest of my life learning how to play her right.
The car barely stops before Rouge is out, scanning the street, the rooftops, the windows—every shadow an enemy until proven otherwise. I step out first and offer my hand to Siobhán. She takes it. And just like that, the world rearranges itself around her.
Inside the children’s music hall, warmth hits us like a held breath released. The space is decorated in soft winter colors—silvers, pale greens, paper snowflakes made by little hands. But all of it pales when she walks through the door.
Every head turns. Every voice hushes. Every tiny body vibrates with excitement. I guide her forward with a hand at her back, presenting her the way she deserves—like the prize she is. The duchess. The darling of Dublin. My best friend. My first love. The siren who stole my heart at seven years old and never gave it back.
