My eyes burn, but I don’t trust myself to speak. He stays until my breathing evens out. I know because even as sleep drags me under, I can still feel him there—solid, watchful, unwilling to leave.
For the first time in years, I let myself truly rest.
The pounding on the door drags me out of sleep like a blade across stone. I sit up, heart already racing, the ache in my body a dull reminder of last night. The bed beside me is empty—but I can hear him moving downstairs, boots on wood, already halfway there.
Of course he is.
I don’t rush. That’s the thing about power—you don’t scramble for it. I slide from the bed and pull on the long silk nightgown laid out at the foot, ivory and heavy, cool against my skin. The matching robe follows, cinched tight at my waist. I step into my house shoes—structured, elegant, absurdly expensive. Armor, dressed as comfort.
By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, Finn is at the door.
His men stand on the other side when he opens it—dark coats, hard eyes, the familiar weight of violence barely leashed. The room shifts the second they see me. Spines straighten. Gazes dip. Respect, not fear.Good. I don’t look at Finn. I don’t need to.
“I’ll make tea,” I say calmly, already turning toward the kitchen. “Go on—bring them in.”
And I don’t wait for an answer. I move through the kitchen on muscle memory, assembling the tray the way I’ve done a hundred times before—china warmed, kettle steady, cups placed just so. The ritual settles me. Steam curls upward, carrying the faint bite of bergamot. Control, poured neatly into porcelain.
When I carry the tray back in, the room stills. They thank me as I set it down—soft murmurs, respectful. Eyes stay lowered. Finn’s hand comes to my back, warm and possessive, anchoring me at his side. Not a cage. A statement.
I don’t look at him. I look at the men. The men don’t sit until Finn nods. Even then, they perch on the edges of the chairs like they’re braced for impact.
One of them—Declan, I think, dark suit, knuckles still rough despite the tailoring—clears his throat. “It’s the Keane lot.”
Finn’s jaw tightens. “They’re three generations too small to be brave.”
“Aye,” another man says. “Which is why it’s quiet. Not guns. Not yet. Paperwork. Surveyors. Blocking access roads on the east boundary.”
I set the tray down and pour, slow and deliberate. The kettle doesn’t shake. Neither do my hands.
“Which east boundary,” I ask calmly, already knowing the answer.
Declan hesitates. Looks at Finn. Then at me.
“Malloy land,” he says.
The room goes very still.
Finn’s hand presses more firmly at my waist. Protective. Instinctive. I feel it—but I don’t lean into it.
“How much?” Finn asks, voice flat. Dangerous in its restraint.
“Two acres marked ‘disputed,’” another man says. “They’re claiming historical access. Old grazing rights. Saying your da signed something years back.”
My mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper.
“My da,” I say evenly, “signed away nothing he didn’t mean to sell.”
Finn glances down at me then, brief but loaded. “They pushing hard?”
“Hard enough to test you,” Declan says. “Harder now that the wedding’s public. They think there’s… distraction.”
I finally look up and meet his eyes. “Of course they do.”
Finn lets out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “They think marriage makes ye soft.”
I take a cup of tea, lift it, don’t drink. “They think I’m ornamental.”
That gets their attention.
