His gaze flicks up. Catches. Holds.
“They’ll be watching every inch of you,” he says quietly. “Looking for cracks. Weakness. Regret.”
“And you?” I ask.
He exhales through his nose, the sound almost a laugh. Almost. “I already know where yours are.”
The words land heavier than they should. Because he does. Because I know his too. Because once, long ago, we learned them with bare hands and no witnesses. He steps closer then. Not enough to touch. Enough that I feel the heat of him, the memory of him, the echo of nights that weren’t bargains.
“It doesn’t matter what the dress looks like,” he says, lower now. “Tomorrow isn’t about love. It’s about survival.”
My throat tightens. “Funny,” I murmur. “That used to be your excuse for everything.”
Something flickers in his eyes. Fast. Gone.
“Finish your water,” he says, turning away like this conversation never happened. Like it didn’t carve something open. “We’ll be moving soon.”
I watch his back as he leaves. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Tomorrow is the wedding. Tomorrow, we seal a peace written in blood—and pretend we never learned how badly it still hurts to stand this close without choosing each other.
Chapter eight
Chains Before the Altar
Finnian
Iwakebeforethehousedoes. That alone tells me something’s wrong. The O’Callaghan estate knows how to breathe on a wedding morning—staff moving soft and reverent, guards rotating with ceremony-level precision, the weight of tradition settling into the walls like incense. Today should hum with inevitability.
Instead, it’s quiet.Too quiet.
I’m already dressed in black trousers and a white shirt when I step into the corridor, cufflinks still on the dresser, jacket untouched. The cold stone under my bare feet grounds me as I move, every instinct sharp and awake.
“Róisín?” I ask the first man I see.
He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her since the two of you arrived last night.”
That unease in my gut tightens. She didn’t sleep in my wing, that was deliberate. I gave her space—too much, maybe—but I told myself it was strategy, less fire, fewer sparks before the altar.
I take the stairs two at a time. Her rooms are untouched. Bed made, curtains open, no sign of her anywhere but the faintest trace of her scent still clinging to the air—soap, metal, something sharp underneath.
“She wouldn’t,” I mutter to myself.
But she would.Of course she would.It’s Valentine’s Day. It’s our wedding day. And Róisín Malloy has never once walked willingly into a cage.
I stop at the window overlooking the south gardens, scanning the grounds, my jaw tight enough to ache. If she’s gone— No. Notgone. She wouldn’t get far. She knows better.
Still.I rake a hand through my hair and turn sharply, already calling for my men, already calculating exits, blind spots, timelines. I haven’t seen her since the safehouse. And that scares me more than I’m willing to admit.
I check the south hall, the garden doors, the servants’ stairwell. Each empty space tightens something in my chest. Men start to appear at the edges of my vision—alert, waiting for orders I haven’t given yet.
“She hasn’t left the grounds,” one says carefully.
I don’t slow. “She won’t.”
The garage door is already lifting by the time the thought finishes forming. Cold air. Concrete. Oil and metal and money. Rows of cars gleaming under security lights—keys locked away, engines dormant, everything exactly where it should be. Except her.
She’s already moving when I see her—bare feet slapping concrete, hair loose and wild down her back, one hand clutching something she’s yanked from the workbench drawer that won’t save her. She clocks me in the reflection of a car door and bolts.
“Róisín—”
