“I’ll come get her myself.”
The room freezes. So do I. Becausethat—that would be the final humiliation.
I turn slowly, breath heaving, lace tugged loose at my wrists, veil half-slipping from its pins. My hands are shaking with rage, my pulse screaming in my ears, but my spine straightens anyway.
“No,” I say hoarsely. “You won’t.”
Donny hesitates. “Róisín—”
I step back. Smooth my skirt. Fix my veil with fingers that still want to draw blood. “I’ll walk,” I say. “Touch me again and I swear to God I’ll make this church a massacre.”
They believe me.They escort me after that—distance kept, eyes sharp, hands nowhere near me as I’m shoved into the back of the car. The door slams harder than necessary. Locks click. The engine growls to life.
I lean back, chest rising and falling, the scent of leather and fury thick in the air. I may not want this wedding. I may hate the chains waiting at the altar. But I will not—will not—let Finnian O’Callaghan see me dragged, disheveled, conquered. Not in this dress. Not before the aisle.
I wipe blood from my knuckle on my skirt and lift my chin. I am Róisín Malloy. And if I’m walking into hell, I’ll do it like a bride made of knives.
I sit now with my hands clenched in my lap, blood drying beneath my nails, breath still too sharp. The city blurs past the tinted windows. Sirens. Escorts. Motorcycles flanking us like hounds. The whole world aware that something holy and terrible is about to happen.
The car slows, tops, the door opens, and noise crashes over me like a wave. Cameras. Shouting. My name screamed by strangers who think this is romance. Flashbulbs popping like gunfire. Cheers rising as I step out onto the stone.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and step into history.
The dress weighs a small fortune and a thousand years. The bodice is tight and sculpted, corseted with pearl chains draped like offerings across my chest—delicate, reverent, obscene. Lacesleeves cling to my arms, sheer and intricate, every stitch deliberate, every pattern sharp enough to cut.
The skirt explodes from my waist in layers of ivory and bone, fuller than tradition, heavier than expectation. Not a gown meant for softness. A gown meant toendure.
And the veil—Christ.
It trails behind me like a ghost’s spine, impossibly long, lace crawling across it in Celtic knots and claddagh hands, hearts bound and crowned. Near the end, stitched in careful Irish script, a promise that feels more like a curse than a vow.
Mo chroí faoi ghlas.
My heart under lock.
It catches the light as I move, rippling, alive. Front and center, impossible to miss—The blood.
A dark swipe across the bodice, smeared through the pearls, staining the lace like a signature.Mine. I didn’t bother hiding it. Didn’t wipe it away. Let them see. Let them whisper.
The men flanking me stiffen, unsure whether to apologize or fear me. I don’t look at them. I don’t look at the crowd. I look up at the cathedral. Stone and shadow. Gothic arches reaching like ribs toward heaven. Bells waiting to ring for a marriage that feels more like a binding spell.
Somewhere inside, Finn is waiting. The city holds its breath. And I smile. Not because I’m happy. Because I’ve never felt more dangerous in my life.
The bells begin to ring. Not joyful. Not gentle. They toll low and heavy, each note vibrating through stone and bone, a warning dressed up as celebration. The organ follows—deep, thunderous—then the strings slip in beneath it, sharp and aching.
Mozart’s Lacrimosa.
The doors open. Cold air rushes in behind me, carrying the city with it—tourists scrambling, cameras already raised, whispers rippling outward like spilled wine. Flashbulbs ignite as I step forward, white lace and blood and shadow framed by the cathedral’s yawning mouth.
Every eye turns. Some stare in awe. Some in horror. Some in calculation. I walk anyway.
The aisle stretches long and red beneath my feet, carpet worn thin by centuries of vows and lies. My veil trails behind me like a comet tail, lace whispering secrets to the stone. I don’t rush. I don’t falter.Whispers follow me.
Did you see—
Is that blood—
Jesus Christ—
