Her voice is breaking. Her shoulders are shaking. And I swear to God, the man I used to be—the angry prince, the weapon Darragh forged—is kneeling inside me, hands to the floor, undone by the woman who’s loved him since they were children.
I close my eyes. And for the first time since I put a bullet in my father, I feel like I’m allowed to hope. I kiss her like I’m drowning. Like she’s the first breath after a lifetime underwater. Like every version of me that ever existed has been waiting for this one impossible moment. She clings to me, fingers buried in my coat, mouth trembling under mine.
When we break for air, she whispers against my lips, voice raw: “Stay forever?”
I rest my forehead to hers. “Forever,a rúin.”
Her breath stutters. I can feel the hope fighting the terror inside her, the way it always has.
And that’s when I know— I’m not waiting another second. I drop to my knees. Her gasp cuts the cold air. Frost swirls around us,tiny flurries catching in her curls, on her lashes, as if the whole goddamn world stopped to bow with me.
“Cillian—”
“Mo ghrá,” I say, voice breaking on the words. “My love. My heart. My fucking reason for living.” I take her shaking hands in mine. “I’ve spent my whole life fighting ghosts, fighting my father, fighting myself. But loving you… loving you was the only thing that ever made sense.”
Her tears fall hot onto my cheeks as I kiss her knuckles.
“I don’t want a throne,” I whisper. “I don’t want a legacy soaked in blood. I don’t want a future that doesn’t have your music in it, your laughter in it, your fire in it.” I look up at her fully, letting her see all of me—every broken, desperate, hopeful part of me. “I wantyou. I want a home with you. I want Christmas mornings and your terrible tea and your tiny fucking socks in my dresser. I want four kids running wild through the halls and you yelling at me for letting them climb the rafters.”
She laughs—an aching, shattered sound—and drops to her knees in front of me. “Cillian—”
I pull the ring from my pocket. It gleams even in the weak winter light—a massive emerald cut diamond with a halo of tiny stones, set in old white-gold filigree. My mother’s. The only thing I ever kept from her. Siobhán’s hand flies to her mouth.
“Marry me,” I say. My voice shakes. My soul shakes. “Marry me,a chroí. Let me spend the rest of my life loving you the way you deserve.”
Her sob breaks open somewhere inside my ribs. “Yes,” she whispers, then louder, desperate, laughing and crying all at once. “Yes, Cillian,yes—God, yes—”
I slide the ring onto her finger, and it fits like it always belonged there. She launches into me, kissing me so hard I fall backward into the snow, her hair a golden halo around us as she straddles my waist, laughing, crying, kissing me again and again until I can’t breathe for how much I love her.
“Is leatsa mé go deo, a ghrá geal1,” she murmurs against my mouth.
And I swear the world tilts. I pull her tight against my chest. “Agus táim leatsa go deo, a cholm.2”
Snow falls around us, soft and glowing in the morning light. And for the first time in my entire fucking life, I believe in forever.
We stand there for a moment, just breathing each other in—the cold air turning our breath into little clouds, her tears still glistening on her cheeks, my heart pounding like a war drum finally at peace. Then, hand in hand, we walk back toward the stable house—our home now—and push open the door.
Rouge is sprawled on the couch, one eyebrow raised, looking all too pleased with himself. “Took you two long enough,” hedrawls. “I’m starving, and I’m pretty sure true love isn’t on the menu.”
Siobhán laughs, bright and free, and we step inside together.
Thewholehousesmellslike butter and curry and something sweet she refuses to tell us until dessert. Siobhán moves around the kitchen like she was born there—bare feet on the old stone floor, my ring glittering on her hand every time she reaches for a bowl or the oven door.
Christ, the sight of it is enough to undo me all over again.
Rouge sits at the table with a pint, boots up, pretending he isn’t watching her like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen. “You two gonna sit down at any point?” he grumbles. “Or am I meant to celebrate Christmas alone like some Dickensian orphan?”
I shove his boots off the table. “It’s December, not the 1800s.”
He grins. “Wouldn’t know. You two acted out half ofWuthering Heightson the lawn a bit ago.”
Siobhán snorts as she brings plates over—roast goose, champ, roasted carrots with honey, brown bread stuffing, gravy thickand rich. A proper Irish Christmas, the kind neither of us has had since we were kids.
She sets the last dish down. “Sit. Both of you. Before the food goes cold.”
“Yes,a stór,” I say, leaning down to kiss her cheek. She blushes, which I savor like a prize.
Rouge makes kissy noises. I threaten to throw him out into the frost. We eat until we’re full—Rouge going back for seconds, then thirds—while Siobhán tells stories about her mother burning the pudding every year, and I tell them how Ma used to make me stir the Christmas cake for luck. Rouge claims he’s the only one here with actual skill since he can make toast without setting off alarms. There’s laughter. Real laughter. The kind that fills a room and warms the bones.
