Her breath catches, but she barely misses a beat in her conversation with the Donovan patriarch across the table. "As I was saying, Mr. Donovan, the Paganini requires a certain emotional depth that—"
I curl my fingers inside her, pressing against that spot that makes her voice falter for just a heartbeat.
"—that many performers overlook," she recovers smoothly, crossing her legs to trap my hand more firmly against her. A warning, not an invitation. But I'm already too far gone to heed it.
"You played beautifully tonight," the silver-haired man says, raising his glass to her. "Your father must be proud."
"He is," she agrees, voice steady despite my relentless rhythm beneath the table. "Though I suspect he values the political advantages more than my musical talents."
I chuckle at that, drawing attention to myself. "My future wife is too modest," I say, thumb finding her clit as I speak. "She's extraordinary in every way."
Her thighs clench around my hand, but her smile falters just enough that I notice. The slight tremble of her lower lip. Thedarkening of her eyes. She's close. So close I can feel it in the way her body tightens around my fingers.
"Extraordinary indeed," says MacTavish from his place at the table, raising his glass. "To new alliances."
The table joins in the toast. I remove my hand just as Róisín reaches for her glass, leaving her teetering on the edge. Her eyes snap to mine, murderous.
"To new alliances," I echo, never breaking eye contact.
She drinks deeply, throat working, rage and frustration battling for dominance in her expression. When she sets her glass down, her composure is perfect once more, but I can see the flush creeping up her neck, the slight tremor in her hands.
"If you'll excuse me," she says, voice honey-smooth. "I need to freshen up before dessert."
She rises gracefully, and I stand with her, the gentleman I'm supposed to be. But as she turns to leave, I catch her wrist, pulling her close enough that I can whisper in her ear, "I'll finish what I started later."
Her smile never wavers, but her eyes promise violence. "I look forward to it," she says, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Then, for my ears alone: "I'll make you beg for mercy."
I let her go, watching as she glides between tables, a vision in red silk that draws every eye in the room. Mine included. The sway of her hips is deliberate, a reminder of what waits beneath that dress. What belongs to me.
MacTavish leans toward me once she's gone. "You've done well for yourself, O’Callaghan. She'll make a fine addition to your... enterprise."
I take my seat, schooling my expression into something appropriately pleased yet businesslike. "The alliance benefits us both."
"Does it?" His eyebrows lift. "Her father seems to think he's getting the better end of the bargain."
My smile hardens. "Her father can think whatever he likes."
Donovan chuckles, swirling amber liquid in his glass. "The real question is whether she's as... cooperative as she appears."
Something dangerous stirs in my chest. A need to claim what's mine. To remind these men that whatever business arrangements we've made, whatever politics are at play, Róisín is not part of the negotiation.
"She's exactly where she needs to be," I say, voice level but cold enough that the temperature around us seems to drop. "As am I."
MacTavish raises his glass in acknowledgment, but his eyes glitter with something calculating. "Just remember," he says, "peace treaties can be... fragile things."
The threat isn't subtle. I lean forward, elbows on the table, and meet his gaze directly. "So are kneecaps, John. And I'd hate for you to learn that lesson firsthand."
The table falls silent. Donovan's face pales slightly. Even MacTavish has the good sense to look away first.
"Just an observation," he murmurs, retreating.
I sit back, adjusting my cufflinks. "Noted."
When Róisín returns, the room shifts toward her like flowers to the sun. She's fixed her lipstick, smoothed her hair. The only sign of our earlier encounter is a slight darkness in her eyes as she reclaims her seat beside me. I notice the small silver dessert knife she picks up, turning it slowly between her fingers as she rejoins the conversation.
"Gentlemen," she says, voice like velvet over steel, "I couldn't help but overhear your concerns about our arrangement as I was returning."
MacTavish shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Just business talk, Lady Malloy. Nothing to trouble yourself with."
