Cillian spoils me rotten. And I let him.
It’s still strange sometimes… waking up in a life that finally feels like mine. A life I didn’t have to earn through perfection or pain or performance. A life I didn’t have to barter away piece by piece to survive. Here, in Dublin, in the bones of my childhood, I get to build something gentler. Something whole.
This is my happy ever after. The man I love. The city that raised me. The music that saved me. The future I get to shape with my own two hands.
Every morning I wake to birdsong and the distant hum of the river, and I swear the air tastes sweeter here. I spend my days teaching children whose names I’ve already memorized, whose little hands are stained with ink and hope, whose laughter fills the old halls like sunlight. I play until my fingers ache, and then play some more. The school—my school—already feels alive, humming with possibility.
And every night I come home to him. To our stable house with its warm lights glowing through frosted windows. To Cillian’s boots by the door and his coat draped over the banister. To thescent of peat fire and the piano that waits for me like a held breath.
I love him.God, I love him.I love the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. I love the way he softens when he steps through our door, shedding his Red Hand armor and becoming just… Cillian again. I love the way he pulls me into him and kisses my hair like he’s been starving all day.
This is the home I dreamed of. The music. The man. The city. The peace after all that blood and ruin. It’s all here, finally. And it’s mine.
Thepathuptothe O’Dwyer manor is soft beneath my boots, spring rain having turned the earth damp and fragrant. The air tastes like lilacs and old stone—like Dublin waking from a long sleep.
I clutch the folder of paperwork to my chest as I walk, heart thudding with that fizzy, breathless excitement that hasn’t left me in months. Not since Cillian. Not sinceus.
The manor rises in front of me, ancient and imposing, but different now—lighter somehow. Less haunted. Rouge has flowers in the front windows, the staff has scrubbed away Darragh’s shadows, and Cillian… well. Cillian is remaking theempire stone by stone, with a heavy hand when needed and a merciful one when possible.
I love him for that. God, I love him for all of it.
I take the steps two at a time, half-laughing at myself. I’ve never been this giddy in my life. I’m Siobhán Kelleher—trained by Parisian masters, performer of world stages, Darling Daughter of Dublin. And here I am practicallyskippingto tell my fiancé wedding news like some lovesick schoolgirl. But that’s what he makes me.
His office door is cracked open, warm light spilling through the seam. I can hear his voice—low, commanding, all Devil-of-Dublin authority—wrapping up whatever business he’s handling. Heavy footsteps. The scrape of a chair.
I smooth my skirt, inhale once, twice. I have news. Big news. Beautiful news. The kind that changes timelines and plans and entire futures. And I want him to hear it from my lips, in this place where everything ended… and began again. I lift my hand to knock.
“Cill?”I call softly, peeking my head inside.
His office smells like cedar, ink, and him — that dangerous, steady heat that settles low in my stomach. He’s standing behind his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his tie loosened like he’s been negotiating with half of Dublin.
When he looks up and sees me, the transformation is instant. The Devil flickers… then melts — softening in a way only I’ve ever had the power to command.
“Dove,” he says, voice sinking an octave. A warning. A welcome. A promise.
Before I can take a full step inside, he’s already crossing the room. His hands find my waist like they’re starved. His mouth brushes my jaw, slow, teasing, entirely improper for someone who just had three meetings with the heads of the Five Borough Families.
I giggle — an actual giggle — because he’s impossible and infuriating and mine. “Cillian,” I laugh, trying to push at his shoulders, “I have news—”
“Later,” he murmurs against my neck, lifting me with an ease that should be illegal. His hands slide lower, squeezing like he’s been waitinghoursfor this. “It’s been a long morning,a stór. Let me say hello.”
My back hits the door as he kisses me, slow but hungry, like he’s savoring something he almost lost. My fingers tangle in his hair. He groans — that deep, sinful, quiet sound I feel between my ribs.
I breathlessly try again, “Cill, I really— I mean it, I have something to—”
He pulls back just enough to look at me. Those eyes…God, they undo me every time.
“What is it,mo chroí?” he whispers, thumb brushing my lower lip.
“That tone is unfair,” I mutter, breathless.
He smirks — wicked, knowing, devastating. “That tone gets me everything I want.”
“And what is it you want?” I ask, narrowing my eyes, though my heart’s already sprinting.
“You,” he says simply, kissing the corner of my mouth. “Always you.”
I swallow hard, trying not to dissolve into him again. “I got an offer,” I say quietly. “A big one.”
