I push off the door and take one step forward. Not close enough to touch, close enough to matter. “I think you’re going to walk down those stairs beside me,” I say, voice low, rougher now. “And you’re going to let the house see you standing on your feet.”
Her jaw tightens. “I am not your wife.”
“Not tonight,” I agree. “But you’re still my problem.”
That lands. I see it in her eyes—the flare of anger, the spark of something hotter underneath. She smooths the skirt of her dress with deliberate care. Composes herself.Lady Malloy, armoured in silk.
“Where are we eating?” she asks.
“Downstairs,” I answer. “Like adults.” I open the door and step aside—not politely, not gently. Expectant. “Come on, Róisín,” I add. “Don’t make a show of it.”
She holds my gaze for a long beat. Then she walks past me, close enough that her shoulder brushes my chest. Róisín walks with purpose, the silk of her dress whispering as she walks. The hem skims her calves, longer than what she wore this afternoon, thecolour deep and wine-dark under the chandelier light. Proper. Expensive. Chosen to be seen.
She’s wearing heels. Not towering ones—nothing impractical—but elegant, sharp, the kind that click softly against stone and announce confidence without begging for attention. Shoes a lady wears when she expects to be watched and refuses to shrink under it.
The staff clock it immediately. Eyes lower. Spines straighten. The room adjusts around her.
Róisín doesn’t rush. She crosses the dining room like she owns the floor beneath her feet, silk fitted close through the waist and hips, neckline modest but unmistakably feminine. A Malloy woman, dressed for negotiation or war—same thing, really.
She reaches the far end of the table and pulls the chair back.
“Sit there,” I say.
The click of her heel stills. She turns, slow and deliberate, one brow lifting. “I don’t think so.”
I cross the room and stop at my chair, the head of the table where everyone expects me to be. I hook two fingers into the back of the chair beside mine and draw it out.
“You’ll sit here,” I say.
Her gaze drops to the chair, then lifts back to my face. Calculating. Measuring the cost of a scene. “This is ridiculous,” she says.
“It’s intentional.”
“This is about control.”
“Aye,” I reply evenly. “That’s the point.”
Her mouth tightens. For a moment, I think she’ll refuse just to spite me—force my hand in front of the house, make me prove I mean it. Instead, Róisín Malloy walks back across the room, heels clicking with sharp, contained fury, and sits beside me with deliberate care.
She crosses her ankles neatly beneath the table. Smooths the skirt of her dress. Chin lifted.Lady Malloy, seated exactly where she’s been told.The staff move again, quiet as ghosts. I take my seat beside her, close enough that the warmth of her thigh presses faintly against mine, close enough that every shift of her body will be noticed.
Dinner hasn’t been served yet. And already, the knives feel inadequate.
The chairs at the table begin to fill. My men take their places one by one, quiet and deliberate, spreading out along the length of the table like they’re instinctively forming a perimeter. No one speaks. No one reaches for anything. Every eye tracks Róisín without appearing to.
She doesn’t acknowledge them. Róisín keeps her gaze forward, ankles crossed, hands resting lightly on her lap like she’s at a charity gala instead of the heart of an enemy house. The silk of her dress catches the light when she shifts, dark and rich and entirely too composed for a woman who was bleeding on my floor twelve hours ago.
Then my father arrives. Cormac O’Callaghan takes the seat opposite me without ceremony, the head of the table claimed the way it always has been—by expectation, not force. He doesn’t look at me first.
He looks at her and I feel Róisín go still. Not frozen.Braced.
“You’ve recovered quickly,” my father says.
Róisín turns her head slowly and fixes him with a look sharpened by years of hatred she never bothered to soften. “Don’t speak to me like you care,” she replies flatly.
A few of the lads shift. Someone inhales sharply and thinks better of it.
My father studies her, unbothered. Curious. “You’re here as an olive branch.”
