“From MY care,” he hisses. “And she repays it by ruining my name in the press, running off to New York to disgrace herself with married men, and now—NOW—coming back here to fracture the Red Hand from the inside.”
“She didn’t fracture anything.Youdid.”
He slams a fist onto the piano lid so hard the sound ricochets through my bones. “She will destroy you!”
“No,” I say, stepping forward, voice low, lethal. “You’re the only one who ever tried.”
Darragh’s eyes flare, black and murderous. “If you stay with her, you throw away everything. Your future. Your legacy. Your family.”
“My family,” I say, “is out in that hallway.”
A full beat. A silence sharp enough to bleed on. Then I lift my chin and give the signal. “Eitilt mo chol.”
Rouge doesn’t move. But behind us—Footsteps. Soft. Familiar. I turn just as Siobhán steps into the room, framed by the doorway, chin high, eyes blazing. Darragh goes still. Like he’s just seen the ghost he thought he’d buried. Siobhán steps into the room like she owns it. Like the girl he tried to break has resurrected herself into something terrifying and divine.
Darragh’s jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t be here.”
She tilts her head, all soft innocence. Coy. Deadly. “No?” she asks gently. “Why not, Darragh?”
Her voice is sweet. But her eyes are razors.
He scoffs. “You’ve caused enough destruction without barging into matters you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand plenty,” she says, gliding closer. “More than you want me to.”
I move to stand between them, but she brushes her fingers along my arm—a silentlet me handle him.
Fine. I’ll let her speak. But I’m ready to slit this man’s throat if he steps wrong.
Darragh narrows his eyes. “Still the same little siren. Think charming words will save you?”
“No,” she murmurs. “Truth will.”
He laughs in her face, and something inside me fractures. But she doesn’t flinch. She looks at the broken piano. The scratches in the wood. The bloodstain long hidden beneath a fresh coat of polish. Then she lifts her chin.
“I used to think you hated me because I distracted your son,” she says softly. “But that wasn’t it, was it?”
Darragh stiffens.
“You hated mymotherfirst.”
His eyes flash—a flicker of something feral. Good. Let him show his teeth. Siobhán keeps going, voice steady as a metronome.
“She turned you down. Didn’t she? When you… pursued her. Years ago.”
“Watch yourself,” he growls.
Rouge’s hand goes to his gun. I match him.
Siobhán steps closer. “Would you like to know how I figured it out?”
“No one cares what you think you figured out,” Darragh snaps. “You’re delirious. Dramatic. Just like her.”
“There it is,” she whispers. “Just likeher.”
Darragh freezes. Siobhán inhales shakily—but her voice remains calm. Controlled. Deadly.
“I never told you this,” she says, “but I did go back to The Velvet Knife. Recently.”
