Róisín laughs. Short. Vicious. “I’m here because you and my da decided my body was cheaper than war.”
Silence drops hard across the table.
“You ruined my family,” she continues, voice steady as a blade. “You gutted us, took our ground, and called it necessity. And now you sit there pretending this”—she gestures between us without looking at me—“is peace.”
My father doesn’t deny it. He never does. “History is written by those who survive,” he says calmly.
Róisín’s fingers twitch. I move before the twitch becomes a throw. Quietly, without breaking eye contact with my father, I reach across the table and slide the knives from Róisín’s place setting. One. Two. Three. Smooth. Unhurried. Metal whispers against linen.
Her head snaps toward me. “Are you serious?” she hisses.
“You throw blades,” I murmur. “And you’re angry.”
“I was raised angry,” she snaps. “And I don’t miss.”
“I know,” I say evenly.
I stack the knives beside my own plate, well out of her reach. A courtesy. A precaution. The house pretends not to notice, but every man here understands exactly why I did it. Róisín leans back in her chair, silk stretching across her ribs, eyes bright with the kind of violence that doesn’t burn out quickly.
“So this is the plan,” she says to my father. “I sit here like a good little truce while you pat yourselves on the back.”
“A month,” my father replies. “Then your family and ours decide next steps.”
She smiles then and it is not pleasant.
“You’d better hope I decide to stay seated,” Róisín says. “Because I grew up with the Thorns of Belfast. And we weren’t taught mercy.”
I feel it then—the coil of inevitability tightening in my chest. I rest my forearm on the table, close enough that my elbow brushes hers, grounding without soothing.
The moment snaps. Not because anyone speaks. Because the doors open. Plates arrive quietly, carried by staff who have learned how to move through danger without acknowledging it. Linen brushes skin. China settles. The careful choreography of dinner slides between us like a blade sheathed at the last second.
Róisín doesn’t move. Doesn’t thank anyone. Doesn’t look down. She keeps her eyes on my father, jaw tight, fury leashed by force alone. If the food smells good, she gives no sign. If the moment has passed, it hasn’t for her. My father inclines his head once, satisfied the storm has been contained—for now.
“Shall we,” he says.
No one answers him. I pick up my fork and knife deliberately, giving the room permission to breathe again. Chairs shift. A few of the lads follow suit, metal touching porcelain in cautious unison. Róisín finally looks down at her plate. Then back upat me. Her expression is sharp, accusing, incandescent with everything she hasn’t said yet. She hasn’t forgiven. She hasn’t forgotten. She’s simply been interrupted. I lean back in my chair just enough to meet her eyes.
“Eat,” I murmur, low enough that only she hears. “You’ll need the strength.”
Her mouth curves into something dangerous. “For what?” she asks.
I glance at the knives stacked beside my plate. At the way her fingers flex, empty. “For later,” I reply.
Róisín looks at the plate again. Then she sighs. Soft. Deliberate. Entirely put on. She straightens in her chair and turns to me with a look so sweet it’s offensive. Lashes lowered. Voice gentled just enough to be insulting.
“Finn,” she says pleasantly, like she’s asking for the salt. “Would you mind terribly explaining how you expect me to eat this?”
A few heads lift. Just a fraction. I don’t bite.
“You’ll manage,” I reply.
She blinks at me. Slowly. “I don’t believe I will.”
Her fingers slide together atop the table, posture immaculate now, all fury tucked away behind manners she hasn’t used since she was a girl. It’s a performance. A dangerous one.
“I’d hate to make a mess,” she continues lightly. “You seem very particular about appearances.”
I snort. Quiet. Unamused. “Don’t do that.”
