She runs. Not toward the doors like a fool. No—she veers sharp, slips between two vehicles, ducks under the half-lifted garage door before I can grab her coat. The cold hits me a heartbeat later as I follow, boots pounding, pulse roaring in my ears.
The grounds open up in front of her—dark lawn, frost-kissed hedges, the long drive stretching toward the gates she knows she’ll never reach. She’s fast. Always has been.
I take the steps two at a time, breath steady, tracking her the way I’ve tracked men across worse terrain. She cuts left, skirts the fountain, skirts the rose garden like she remembers every inch of this place even now. Her robe flares behind her, flashes of bare thigh, the muscle in her legs burning as she pushes harder.
She glances back once. Just once. And fuck—it nearly stops me cold. Not fear in her eyes. Not panic. Just that sharp, defiant fire. The same look she wore at seventeen when she used to outrun me down the cliffs just to prove she could.
I gain ground. She darts for the trees at the edge of the property, branches clawing at her hair, the earth slick beneath her feet. She stumbles—recovers—keeps going, teeth clenched, breath tearing out of her in short, furious gasps.
“Don’t,” I call, not a warning. A plea I hate myself for.
She ignores it. I close the distance in three strides. Catch her wrist just as she tries to twist away, momentum spinning her back into me. She fights like she always does—knee snapping up, elbow driving back, nails scraping for skin as she snarls something vicious and Gaelic I don’t bother translating.
I absorb it. Twist. Lock her in place. Her back hits the side of a blacked-out sedan parked near the drive, breath punching out of her as I cage her there, forearm braced beside her head, my body blocking every possible escape. Her chest heaves. Mine doesn’t.
“Let me go,” she spits, eyes blazing, defiance crackling between us like live wire.
I lean in, mouth near her ear, voice low, controlled, deadly calm. “One more time,” I tell her, tightening my grip just enough that she understands exactly what I mean, “and I’ll cuff ye to the feckin’ bed.”
She glares up at me—wild, furious, alive— Like she might actually enjoy testing that threat. She laughs—short, breathless, ugly with it.
“Cuff me if it helps ye sleep at night, Finn,” she says, chin lifting in challenge. “Wouldn’t be the first time you needed iron to keep me.”
I bare my teeth. “Careful.”
“Or what?” she fires back. “Ye’ll drag me to the altar in chains like a proper bastard?”
The words land because they’re true. Because we both know it.
“That’s enough,” I say, and there’s no heat in it now. Just decision.
I scoop her up before she can twist away again—one arm under her knees, the other across her back. She curses, fists pounding once against my chest before she stills, breath hard, eyes locked on mine with pure, incandescent hatred.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
I carry her through the doors like she weighs nothing. The house is awake now—staff flattening themselves to the walls, heads bowed, eyes averted as we pass. No one says a word. They knowbetter. They always have. Her nails dig into my shoulder. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to promise she could.
“Yer making a spectacle,” she mutters.
“Aye,” I say quietly. “So are you.”
I take the stairs without slowing, boots echoing, her body rigid in my arms. She stops fighting somewhere near the landing, not because she’s given up—but because she’s thinking. That’s always been more dangerous. I shoulder open her door and set her on her feet inside, hands still firm on her arms.
“This is over,” I tell her. “For today.”
Her eyes flick to the windows. The door. The corners of the room. I see the calculation. Kill it. I step back and gesture once. Two of my men appear instantly, positioning themselves outside her door—solid, immovable, final.
“They don’t leave,” I say without looking away from her. “Not for anyone.”
She swallows. Just once. Then I turn to the women waiting in the hall—trusted, long-serving, loyal enough to die quiet deaths if needed.
“Help Lady Malloy prepare,” I say. “She’ll be treated with respect.”
One of them nods. “Of course.”
Róisín doesn’t look at them. She looks at me. This close, I can see it—the fear she’ll never admit to, buried under rage and pride and history.
