The night air hits us as he kicks the door open. Sirens wail somewhere distant. Too late. Always too late. He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t ask. He throws me into the back of a black SUV like I’m a sack of stolen goods, climbs in after me, and slams the door shut.
I scramble, fury roaring through the pain. “You arrogant, smug—who the fuck do you think you are?”
He leans back, one arm draped casually over the seat, eyes dragging over me—blood, rage, all of it—with blatant satisfaction. “Still mouthy,” he says. “I missed that.”
“I didn’t miss you.”
He grins. Sharp. Possessive. Infuriating. “Liar.”
The engine roars to life. The SUV peels away from the warehouse as gunfire echoes uselessly behind us, Belfast swallowing the noise whole.
Finn glances at me again, eyes gleaming, entirely too pleased with himself. “Relax, a rós,” he says lightly. “You’re safe now.”
I bare my teeth at him. “I swear to God, Finnian O’Callaghan, when I’m back on my feet—”
He chuckles, slow and dangerous. “That’s the spirit.”
And just like that, the devil has me exactly where he wants me.
Chapter two
A Vow of Violence
Finnian
She’squietintheback seat. Not calm. Not settled. Quiet like a blade laid flat on a table, waiting for a hand to slip.
The SUV eats the road as we cut through the outskirts of Belfast, tyres hissing over wet tarmac. I don’t slow. I don’t look back again after the second mile. I know she’s alive. I know she’s furious. I know she’s bleeding through my jacket and hating me for it. Good.
Her breath’s shallow. Controlled. She’s biting down on the pain because she refuses to give me the satisfaction of hearing it. Same as she always did. I flick my eyes to the rear-view mirror.
She’s slumped against the door, coat dark with blood at the ribs, one hand pressed hard to the wound. Her other hand’s emptynow. Dagger’s gone—confiscated the second she blinked wrong. She knows it too. I can see it in her jaw, clenched so tight it could crack.
“You’re goin’ to open it up if you keep sittin’ like that,” I say.
“Fuck you,” she mutters, thick with accent and venom.
There she is. I grin to myself and take the next turn harder than necessary. She slides an inch across the leather and hisses, hand tightening against her side.
“Watch the language,” I say mildly. “You’re a lady again.”
She laughs—short, humourless. “You dragged me out of a bloodbath and threw me into a motor like stolen stock.”
“Aye,” I say. “Efficient.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, wild and bright. “You think you can just take me?”
I don’t answer straight away. I let the silence stretch, let the road speak for me. Streetlights blur past. Belfast gives way to dark hedgerows and stone walls.
“I don’t think,” I say eventually. “I know.”
She shifts, testing her strength. Always checking exits. Always calculating. It used to make me proud. Now it just makes me tighten my grip on the wheel.
“You should’ve let me bleed,” she says. “Would’ve been cleaner.”
I glance back at her again. “Don’t talk shite.”
Her lips curl. “You don’t own me, Finn.”
