“Don’t touch me,” she says softly to them. “Not today.”
I hold her gaze a beat longer than I should. Then I step out, closing the door behind me. The lock clicks. I don’t look back. I head for my wing, boots striking stone I’ve walked since I was a boy, halls dressed for celebration that feel more like a wake. Flowers everywhere. White and red. Valentine’s Day bullshit. Love and blood dressed up the same way they always are.
The door to my suite shuts behind me and I finally stop moving. I brace both hands on the dresser, bow my head once, breathing through my nose like it might keep the past from clawing up my throat.
She ran. Of course she did.
She always has—since we were young enough to think running meant freedom and not just another kind of cage. I’d hoped, like a fool, that the night before had cracked something open between us. That the blood, the way she’d shaken in my arms, the way she’d slept curled into me like muscle memory hadn’t forgotten—Christ.
I straighten and strip off my shirt, toss it aside, stare at my reflection like it might blink first. This isn’t about romance. Thisisn’t about love. This is about peace. Territory. Old debts paid in flesh and vows. Two families standing on a knife’s edge and choosing marriage instead of massacre.
And yet…
I open the cufflinks box. Gold. Heavy. O’Callaghan crest stamped deep enough to bruise skin if pressed hard enough. Everything in this house is meant to leave a mark. My hands still when I fasten them. A rare thing. She’ll hate me for today. She already does.
The suit goes on like armor—tailored, immaculate, designed to make men think twice before speaking out of turn. I check the mirror once more, jaw set, eyes cold. I can play the groom. I can play the politician. I can stand at an altar and swear promises I don’t believe in anymore. What I don’t know is whether she’ll forgive me for stopping her from running.
A knock at the door. “Church is ready, sir.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “Tell them I’m on my way.”
When I open them again, whatever softness I carried for her is locked down tight, buried where it can’t interfere. Because if Róisín Malloy walks down that aisle—I will not let her walk away again.
The church is already full when I arrive. Not just full—watching.
Saint Patrick’s bones-and-marble kind of grand. High vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow, stained glass bleeding red and gold onto polished stone, candles burning like prayers people don’t really believe in. The air smells of incense and old money and expectation.
The kind of place where sins echo.
I take my place at the front, back straight, hands clasped, every inch the groom they expect. The O’Callaghans fill the first rows—dark suits, sharper eyes, loyalty worn like a second skin. Across the aisle, the Malloys arrive in quiet formation, polite nods exchanged like ceasefire agreements.
The city has turned out for this. Press clustered at the back. Politicians whispering behind gloved hands. Old enemies pretending to be friends because today demands it. Cameras flash as guests arrive, the sound sharp and relentless, like gunfire dressed up as celebration.
A wedding for peace. A wedding to end wars no one will name out loud. They look at me like royalty. Like a king about to be crowned.If they only knew.
The organ begins to murmur—low, anticipatory—and the priest confers with altar boys who look far too young to understand the weight of what’s about to happen. Bells toll somewhere outside, deep and slow, marking time like a countdown.
I check my watch once. Too early. She should be here by now. I school my face into calm, but my jaw tightens as another minute slips past. My men are positioned discreetly along the side aisles, blends of black suits and vigilance. Everything accounted for. Everything controlled. Except her. I catch murmurs drifting through the pews.
Have you seen the bride?
They say she nearly didn’t agree.
After everything between the families—
Still, she’s beautiful. Dangerous, they say.
I don’t correct them. I glance toward the doors. Nothing. My chest tightens, slow and unwelcome. I signal subtly to one of my men. He nods and slips out a side door, already on it. I force myself to keep my posture relaxed, my expression bored, unimpressed—politics as usual.
Inside, though, something sharp coils tighter with every second. If she doesn’t show—The organ swells, louder now, expectant. I breathe in incense and steel my spine. She will come. She has to. Because this city is watching. And because if Róisín Malloy makes me wait at the altar, there will be hell to pay—and not just from me.
Five minutes past. Then ten. The organ loops a soft, patient phrase like it knows how this ends. Guests shift. Whispers ripple. Cameras hover, hungry. I turn just enough to catch my man’s eye near the side aisle and lift two fingers.
He’s on it. I step back toward the vestry, phone already in my hand, thumb pressing the call before I can talk myself out of it. One ring. Two.
“She’s resisting,” he says quietly, breath tight. “Hard.”
Of course she is.
