Her skin is warm. Still marked, stillmine.
She swallows. I watch her throat work as I fasten the strap, my thumb lingering just a beat too long against the inside of her ankle, where her pulse jumps like it knows me. When I look up, she’s staring down at me like she hates me for this, like she wants me on my knees forever.
I take the second shoe and repeat the motion, just as careful, just as unhurried. When I’m done, I stay there—hands resting lightly on her calves, grounding her whether she wants it or not.
“You walk out of this room,” I murmur, low enough that it’s only for her, “looking like you belong beside me.”
I rise slowly to my feet, towering over her again, the air between us thick and dangerous and unfinished.
She hasn’t forgiven me, neither have I, and fuck me if that doesn’t feel exactly right.
The car waits at the bottom of the steps—black, long, polished to a mirror shine that reflects the house back at itself like a warning. Engine idling low, patient. Expensive. Quietly lethal.
I open the door for her. She doesn’t look at me when she slides in, skirts arranged with deliberate care, chin high, spine straight. Every inch of her screamscontrol, even now. Especially now. The necklace catches the low light as she moves, gold and blood-red stone resting at her throat like a vow she never spoke.
I shut the door and round the car, getting in beside her. The driver pulls away smoothly, Belfast blurring past the windows—brick and iron and history giving way to something brighter. Louder. Dangerous in a different way.
The gala is already alive before we reach it. I can hear it in the distance—the hum of music, the swell of voices, the soft threat of too many powerful people in one place pretending they want peace. Every year, a lie wrapped in silk and champagne.
She sits beside me without touching, hands folded in her lap like the lady they all expect her to be tonight. Like she hasn’tthreatened me with a blade not hours ago. Like she isn’t wearing my ring and my name and my future on her body.
I glance at her anyway. She’s looking straight ahead, jaw set, eyes sharp. Ready for war in a room full of smiles.Good. I lean closer, just enough that only she can hear me over the quiet rush of the road.
“Smile for them,” I murmur. “Let them think this is easy.”
Her lips curve—slow, dangerous, practiced. “I always do,” she says softly. “That’s how they never see it coming.”
The car slows. Cameras flash ahead. Voices rise.Showtime.
“Finn! Finnian! Over here!”
“Róisín—look this way! Smile for us!”
Cameras surge forward as the doors swing open, flashes popping so fast it turns the foyer white-hot. Voices stack on top of each other—press, old allies, enemies pretending to be neither.
“Is this a reconciliation?”
“Wedding rumours—any truth to them?”
“Lady Malloy, how does it feel to be back at Finnian O’Callaghan’s side?”
I don’t slow. I angle my body just enough to shield her without blocking the view. My hand settles at her lower back, firm, guiding.
She murmurs without moving her lips. “If you squeeze any harder, they’ll think you’re afraid I’ll run.”
“I am,” I murmur back. “Smile.”
She does. Sweet, lethal, the kind that once ruined me.
“Finnian!” someone shouts. “Is peace finally back on the table?”
“Aye,” I say smoothly, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles for the cameras. “That’s the idea.”
Her fingers tense in mine. She leans closer, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Careful. You’re laying it on thick.”
“You’re enjoying it,” I reply. “Look at them. They’re eating it up.”
A woman near the barricade gasps. “They look just like they used to.”
