I keep my gaze forward until I don’t. Until I find him.
Finnian O’Callaghan stands at the altar in black, broad-shouldered and immovable, a dark counterpoint to all this white. Power coils off him in waves—controlled, restrained, barely leashed. He looks carved from the same stone as the church itself.
His eyes lock onto mine. They track me as I walk, slow and unblinking, taking me in inch by inch. The lace. The pearls. The veil. Then—The blood.
I see the exact moment he notices it. His jaw tightens. His pupils flare. Something dangerous and feral flickers behind his composure—recognition, possession, memory. He doesn’t look away. Heneverdoes.
I lift my chin slightly as I reach the midpoint of the aisle, letting the light catch the stain, letting it gleam dark and undeniable against the ivory silk. And I smile at him to remind him exactly who he’s marrying. The music swells. The city watches. And the aisle keeps stretching forward, one deliberate step at a time.
My father’s hand closes around my arm—not gentle, not rough. Proprietary. Like he’s delivering goods instead of a daughter. The doors boom shut behind us. Mozart mourns. Bells fade. The aisle stretches long and red and merciless. I keep my chin lifted. Smile fixed. A saint carved in marble and rage.
He leans in as we walk, breath warm at my ear, voice pitched perfectly for intimacy instead of threat. “Straighten your shoulders,” he murmurs. “You look like a queen today. Act like one.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t look at him.
“This is history, Róisín,” he continues softly, for my ears only. “This marriage ends bloodshed. It stabilizes Belfast. Two houses bound instead of burning.”
I smile wider for the cameras lining the pews. Tourists. Politicians. Men who’ve ordered deaths with a handshake.
“And strengthens our family,” he adds. “Finnian O’Callaghan is power. You’ll give him heirs. You’ll be a good and dutiful wife.”
Something inside me snaps clean. “You sold me,” I whisper back, lips barely moving. “Don’t dress it up like diplomacy.”
His fingers tighten—just enough to bruise later. “I secured your future.”
“You traded me,” I correct sweetly, eyes forward. “Like territory.”
He chuckles under his breath, as if I’ve told a private joke. “You were never meant to marry soft. You’re Malloy blood. Violence suits you.”
I finally glance at him then, smile still perfect, eyes dead. “I will kill you one day,” I murmur. “Not today. Not here. But you should start sleeping lighter.”
He doesn’t miss a step. “Smile,” he says calmly. “The whole city is watching.”
We walk. Flashbulbs pop like gunfire. Whispers ripple through the church. I feel them staring—at the lace, the veil, the dark smear of blood across my bodice like a sacrament gone wrong. At the altar, Finn waits. I feel my father slow, preparing to hand me over. To complete the transaction.
“Remember,” he says quietly, final warning wrapped in silk, “this union makes kings. Do not embarrass me.”
I lean closer as we reach the end of the aisle, voice soft enough to pass for reverence. “You’re already dead to me.”
Then I let go of his arm myself. Because I will not be given. I will be taken.
Finn takes my hands. No flourish. No reassurance. Just his grip—warm, steady, unyielding—closing around mine like he’s anchoring something volatile before it can detonate. The moment my father releases me, Finn steps in, seamless, inevitable, as if this was always how it would end.
Or begin.
We step up together. Not a word is exchanged between us. Not a glance spared for the watching city, the cameras, the saints carved into stone. My veil still hangs heavy down my back, untouched. The blood on my bodice darkens as the light shifts, front and center, unrepentant.
The priest clears his throat. “Dearly beloved—”
The words echo up into the vaulted ceiling, ancient and practiced, meant to sanctify what everyone here knows is political, violent, necessary. He speaks of love as duty. Of marriage as covenant. Of peace as something earned through sacrifice.
I barely hear him. Finn’s thumb presses once into my palm. A subtle pressure. A reminder. Or a warning. The organ breathes. Incense curls through the air. Somewhere behind us, the city holds its breath. And we stand there—hand in hand, silent as a drawn blade—while God is asked to bless what men have already decided.
The priest nods to us. Finn doesn’t look away when he speaks. His Irish is low, northern, roughened by Belfast and history.
“Glacaim leat, a Róisín, mar mo bhean chéile, agus geallaim duit a bheith dílis duit, i laethanta maithe agus i laethanta dona, i sláinte agus i dtinneas, go dtí go scarfaidh an bás sinn.”
I take you, Róisín, as my wife, and I promise to be faithful to you, in good days and bad, in sickness and in health, until death separates us.
