Róisín swallows. “Happy?” she asks softly.
No. I am ruined.
I draw the fork back, jaw clenched so tight it aches, and cut another piece before I remember where we are—or why we’re pretending this is still dinner. She sits back in her chair like she hasn’t just detonated something inside me, lips still curved in that infuriating, knowing way. I don’t look away. I can’t. Because I already know, this ends nowhere near a dining table.
My father clears his throat. Loud. Deliberate. Irritated in that way that means he’s already decided this has gone on long enough.
“This,” he says sharply, gesturing between us with his glass, “is a spectacle. You’re meant to be an olive branch, not a bloody performance.”
Róisín doesn’t even look at him at first. She swallows. Slowly. Then she turns her head and fixes him with a smile that is all teeth and absolutely no respect.
“You should relax,” she says lightly. “This isn’t the worst show your son and I have put on together.”
The table freezes. I feel it before I hear it—the collective inhale, the barely contained disbelief.
My father’s face darkens. “Mind your mouth.”
“Oh, I am,” Róisín replies, sweet as poison. “Finn’s always beenveryparticular about that.”
Someone chokes. Someone else snorts before they can stop themselves. I close my eyes for a brief, blessed second.
My father pushes his chair back hard enough that it scrapes across the floor. “That is enough,” he snaps, standing. “Absolutely enough.”
Róisín tilts her head. Innocent. Deadly. “You brought me here. What did you expect?”
His gaze cuts to me, furious. “Get her under control.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “She is under control.”
That does not help.My father mutters something sharp and unrepeatable under his breath, turns on his heel, and storms out of the dining room without another word. The doors slam hard enough to rattle the glassware.
Silence. Then—quiet, immediate, uncontrollable—A few of the lads snicker. Low. Disbelieving. Delighted. Róisín leans back in her chair like she’s just finished dessert, utterly unbothered, eyes flicking back to me with that wicked, knowing glint.
I sigh. Long. Tired. Resigned in the way of a man who knows he’s already lost the war and hasn’t even made it to the battlefield yet.
“You enjoy chaos far too much,” I mutter.
She smiles at me like a woman who knows exactly what she’s done. “And you,” she replies softly, “have always loved it when I misbehave.”
The lads laugh outright now. I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head once. Dinner is officially ruined. And somehow, she’s never looked more pleased.
The laughter fades. Chairs settle. The room is still buzzing with what she’s just detonated. Róisín turns to me slowly, folding her hands on the table like she’s being exceptionally well behaved.
“Well,” she says, voice smooth and pointed, “since I’ve apparently scandalised your household and sent your da into a fit—am I dismissed?” Her eyes flick to the door. Then back to me. Brows lift. “Or do I need written permission first?”
A few of the lads snort again before they can stop themselves. I drop my hand from my face and look at her properly. Calm. Level. Entirely done pretending this evening is anything other than foreplay with witnesses.
“You’re not dismissed,” I say.
Her mouth tightens. “Of course I’m not.”
I push my chair back and stand. The movement alone quiets the room. “I’ll walk you,” I add.
Her gaze snaps to mine, something hot and unreadable flashing there before she schools it away. “By all means,” she says, rising to her feet. “Wouldn’t want to get lost in your own house.”
I gesture toward the door, palm open, not touching her. “After you,a rós.”
She passes me, silk brushing close enough to be a warning. And every man at that table knows exactly where this is headed. I don’t take her far. Just off the corridor. A side room meant for nothing important—except that it locks. The door shuts harder than it needs to.
