Chapter four
Green as Sin
Cillian
Theballroomdoorsopen—andthe world fucking stops. No music. No footsteps. No chatter or clinking glasses. Just the sharp, echoing silence of every man and woman turning to look. At her. Not a soul breathes as she steps inside. And neither do I.
My spine locks. Jaw clenches. The stem of my glass might shatter beneath the pressure of my grip, but I don’t look down. I don’t blink. I don’t dare. Because there she is.
Siobhán Kelleher. In red. Ofcourseit’s red. The color I once told her she wore like a threat. And Jesus Christ—she does.
That dress is war. Silk and sin and vengeance stitched into every curve. It clings to her like flame. Like she walked through Hell and let it crown her. That slit high up her thigh, the smoothline of her back, the flash of red lips curled like she already knows she’s winning. The goddamn woman is a blade wrapped in desire.
And I fucking hate her for it. I hate how my pulse trips. Hate how memory claws through me like fire through dry brush. I remember that mouth. That scent. That laugh in my ear while her nails dug into my skin and she whispered lies between gasps of pleasure.
I should’ve let her burn. But no.She walked away.And I bled for it. And now? Now she walks back in like she owns the room. Like Dublin never swallowed her name like a curse. Like I’m not standing here, drowning in every goddamn moment I spent trying to erase her.
Rogue mutters something low beside me. I don’t catch it. Don’t care. Because she’s looking up now. Through the crowd. Past the chandeliers and the men who would beg to touch her. Her eyes find me. And I’m thirteen kinds of fucked.
She walks like she owns the building. Head high, shoulders back, that slit in her dress teasing every poor bastard’s sanity with each step. The crowd parts like she’s royalty—and she fucking is, isn’t she?
My queen. Even when I hate her. Especially when I hate her. Her eyes flick away from mine as she ascends the small set of stairs to the stage—like she didn’t just rip a hole through the chest of every man in this room and carve my heart out for dessert.
Then she sits.At the grand piano. Of course she does. Because it’s not enough to look like sin. No—she has to sound like it, too.
The room hushes as my father steps up to the mic. Grey suit. Gleaming cufflinks. Smile like he’s never tasted blood. But there’s pride in his voice when he speaks, the rare kind that isn’t manufactured for cameras or contracts.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, spreading his arms like a benevolent emperor. “It’s an honor to welcome someone I’ve known since she was a brilliant little girl playing Chopin better than most grown men could dream. A prodigy, a performer, a household name in concert halls from Paris to Tokyo—and tonight, right here in Dublin... Please welcome the world-renowned Siobhán Kelleher.”
Applause breaks out. Polite, restrained—because no one wants to clap too loud when they’re busy trying not to drool. She stands just long enough to wave. Slow. Regal. That wicked fucking smile curling the corners of her mouth like she knowsexactlywhat she’s doing to me. To all of us.
The queen of red silk and goddamn thunder. And I need to be inside her. Now. My fingers twitch. My jaw flexes. Somewhere deep in my bones, the part of me I try to keep buried starts clawing its way up.
She sits again. Hands poised above the keys like they were made for it—like they were made to pull music from the bones of the dead. My heartbeat falls into rhythm with the silence before she plays.
And then— She does.
The first notes ofChopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G Minorwhisper out of her like a memory—fragile, tentative, trembling with restraint. A lie. Because Siobhán Kelleher doesn’t tremble. She ignites.
She’s seated at the grand piano like she was born there, the stage lights gilding her in gold, casting shadows that make her look mythic. Her fingers—those fucking fingers—hover like they’re coaxing the keys to submit before they even make contact. And when they do—She burns the world down.
The notes twist and writhe like smoke and silk, the melody blooming into something darker, deeper. Romantic. Gothic. Every crescendo a kiss made of knives. It’s not just music—it’s vengeance in velvet gloves. A scream in a cathedral. A fucking séance.
Time slows. My breath stops. My father, glowing beside me, doesn’t matter. The crowd? Gone. The room? Dust. All I see is her. She’s always had the power to undo me, but this is something else. This is war played in 6/4 time.
I don’t just want her. I need to crawl inside her and find the part of her that still remembers what we were. My fists clench as the piece builds—the notes galloping now, rapid-fire like bullets ricocheting in an empty church. She’s smiling. Just a little. One corner of her mouth tipped up like a dare. SheknowsI’m watching. She always did.
The last movement hits—a violent, breathtaking, impossible surge of sound. Her body arcs with it, head tipping back, hair falling like a curtain of fire. I don’t realize I’ve risen to my feet until it ends. Silence. The crowd explodes. A standing ovation. Thunderous.
She rises, all calm grace and weaponized elegance, and dips a polite little bow. Then that fucking wave—like she’s royalty. Like she’s mine. Because she is.
She leaves the stage like she’s floating, disappearing into the side corridor as applause rains down behind her. I follow. No hesitation. No thought. Just the need crawling up my spine like hunger.
I find her in the green room. Alone. Music still clinging to the air like perfume. She’s standing with her back to me, one hand flexing like it’s still chasing those final notes.
“You always did like making a scene,” I say, voice a low rasp.
She turns slow. No surprise. No fear. Just that same little smile—half-saint, half-sin. “Cillian.”
