“Defineresisting,” I reply, voice level, groom-perfect.
“A lot of words. Some furniture. We’re—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Leave a mark and I’ll break your hands myself.”
A pause. Then, faintly, her voice in the background—sharp, furious, unmistakable. Good. She’s alive.
“I’ll come,” I say, already moving. “Stand down.”
“No need,” another voice cuts in, confident to the point of stupid. “We’ve got it, Finn. She’s just—”
“Do not,” I repeat, colder now, “touch her.”
Silence on the line. Then a rush of muffled sound—footsteps, a door, her laughter like broken glass.
“We’ve got it,” he insists. “Promise. No marks.”
I stop at the edge of the aisle, stained glass bleeding color over my cuffs, and breathe once through my nose.
“You’ve got three minutes,” I say. “If she isn’t in the car by then, I’m coming—and if I have to choose between peace and her wrists, I won’t hesitate.”
I end the call. Turn back to the altar. The priest gives me a questioning look. I give him a nod that saysall is well. Politics. Performance. The organ holds. The doors remain closed. And somewhere across the city, the woman who taught me how to want is fighting like hell to remind me why I married her in the first place.
The phone buzzes once.On our way.That single line loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize I’d locked down so tight it hurt to breathe. I pocket the phone and turn to the priest. Lean in just enough to keep it private, respectful, controlled.
“She’s coming,” I say. “Minor delay.”
He nods like he’s heard that sentence all his life. “Of course. We’ll begin shortly.”
A murmur moves through the church as if on cue—ushers whispering, staff gliding down aisles, quiet reassurance passed pew to pew. Cameras are lowered, then raised again. Guests settle. The organist adjusts his sheet music, fingers hovering, ready.
The city exhales. I take my place once more, shoulders squared, hands steady. This is the part I’m good at. Standing still while the world watches. Pretending my pulse isn’t loud enough to shake marble.
I don’t askhowthey got her into the car. I don’t need to. She’ll arrive furious. Wild-eyed. Beautifully unbroken. She always does.
The bells outside begin to toll—slow, ceremonial, inevitable. Any second now, the doors will open. Any second, Róisín Malloy will walk toward me again. And whether she comes willingly or not, the chains we forged together are about to be sanctified in front of God, family, enemies—and an entire city holding its breath.
Chapter nine
Requiem for a Valentine Bride
Róisín
Thehallwayisawreck. A chair lies on its side, one leg cracked clean through. A console table is shoved half into the wall, marble top spider-webbed where I slammed my fist into it. One of Finn’s men has blood on his lip. Another is missing a button.
I screamed. Not once. Not pretty. I screamed until my throat burned and my chest hurt and the walls learned my name.
“GET YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF ME.”
I threw anything within reach—vase, lamp, a framed oil painting that cost more than most people’s houses. It shattered beautifully. I hope someone cries about it later.
They tried calm first. Always do.
“Lady Malloy—”
Wrong. I drove my knee up hard enough to make him swear in Irish and bent another man backward by his collar, nails digging in until he let go. I don’t care that they’re trained. I don’t care that they’re careful. I’ve been fighting men my whole life.
The chaos only stopped when Donny answered his phone. Finn’s voice comes through the speaker like a blade sliding free.
