He slides the ring onto my finger. Heavy. Cold. Ancient. O’Callaghan gold. A crown disguised as a circle.
My turn. My hands are steady when I lift his. My voice isn’t.
“Glacaim leat, a Fhinn, mar mo fhear céile, agus geallaim duit dílseacht agus fírinne, i ngach dorchadas agus i ngach solas, go dtí go scarfaidh an bás sinn.”
I take you, Finn, as my husband, and I promise you loyalty and truth, in all darkness and all light, until death separates us.
The ring goes on his finger. A seal. A sentence.
The priest begins the final blessing, Latin folding over Irish, incense thick as fog. Finn leans in, just enough that only I can hear him, breath warm against my cheek.
“Is tú mo phian,” he murmurs. “Mo pheaca. Mo bhean.”
My pain. My sin. My wife.
My hands shake then. Not from fear. From the terrible, undeniable truth that some vows don’t need love to be binding— only blood, history, and the kind of devotion that ruins everything it touches.
The priest finishes the blessing. Latin fades into silence. Incense hangs heavy in the air. Somewhere, the city exhales like it’s been holding its breath for centuries.
“I now pronounce you—” The words land. Final. Unavoidable. “—husband and wife.”
There’s a beat. A heartbeat too long. Then Finn turns to me. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t soften it for the saints or the cameras or God Himself. His hands come to my waist, firm, claiming, and he kisses me like this is not a celebration but a conquest—controlled, deliberate, enough to make the pews erupt anyway.
Applause thunders. Bells ring. Cameras flash. He doesn’t pull far away. His mouth brushes my ear, voice low, rough with satisfaction.
“You’ve never looked more beautiful,” he murmurs, “than standing here taking my name.”
His thumb lifts, grazing the cold gold at my throat—the O’Callaghan necklace resting against my skin, heavy with rubies and legacy.
“My claim,” he says softly. Then his hand shifts, curling around my fingers, the ring catching the light as he lifts it between us. “Here too.”
His breath warms my cheek as his gaze flicks—brief, appreciative—to the dark smear of blood still marking my bodice. “And the blood,” he adds, quiet and unapologetic. “Christ. That’s the best part.”
My pulse stutters. The crowd surges to its feet. Flowers fall. Music swells again, triumphant now instead of mournful. And Finnian O’Callaghan smiles like a man who has won something priceless—while holding something sharp enough to cut him back.
The applause doesn’t stop. It crashes over us in waves—cheers, bells, organ swelling into something triumphant and obscene. White petals rain down the aisle like absolution no one here has earned. Cameras flash so bright it hurts.
Finn’s hand never leaves mine. We turn together, practiced now, choreographed by centuries of weddings that looked nothing like this. I catch glimpses as we walk back down the aisle—my father’s satisfied smile, old enemies clapping like they’ve just witnessed a miracle, tourists crying over a love story they’ll never understand.
The blood on my dress is still there. No one dares mention it.
Outside, the bells ring again, louder, victorious. The doors open and the city rushes in—cold air, noise, life. Cheers rise as we step into the light, husband and wife, peace sealed in lace and gold.
Finn leans close as confetti falls around us, his voice meant only for me. “Breathe,” he murmurs. “You survived.”
I lift my chin, eyes forward, smile sharp enough to draw blood. “So did you.”
We pause at the top of the steps, the city stretching out before us, every street watching, every secret held just beneath the surface. His name is mine now. His mark sits heavy on my throat and hand. And whatever this marriage is—war, alliance, ruin—it’s done.
As the car door opens and we’re ushered forward, I let myself glance at him once more. Not in surrender. In promise. Because peace never lasts in Belfast. And neither, I suspect, will this silence.
Chapter ten
Consecrated Ruin
Finnian
Thecountrysideswallowsuswhole.
