She lifts her chin, black veil fluttering faintly in the dockside wind. Jewels glint. Bloodlines settle. “Always,” she says. “Let’s go ruin someone’s day.”
Together, we step onto the docks—back into the past, hand in hand, daring it to try and hurt us again.
The building swallows us whole the moment we step inside. Cold concrete, rusted steel beams, the low hum of generators somewhere beneath our feet. The docks always smell like rot andmoney—old salt, oil, and the quiet desperation of men who think land is worth more than lives.
The other family is already there. They stand in a loose half-circle near a long table dragged into the centre of the space—too casual, too relaxed. A performance. Their men linger behind them, hands visible but never empty, eyes sharp with the kind of hunger that mistakes itself for courage.
I feel Róisín straighten beside me. Not stiff, not defensive, but composed. Lady Malloy, Lady O’Callaghan—A woman carved from bone-deep pride and old blood.
I let my expression go flat as stone. The way it always does in rooms like this. No smiles. No warmth. Just inevitability. Men like these understand only one language, and I speak it fluently. Introductions are exchanged. Names said aloud that mean nothing and everything at once. Hands shaken. Lies layered politely over old threats.
I take my seat without ceremony. Róisín does the opposite.
She moves with quiet grace, smoothing her skirt as she sits, ankles crossing neatly beneath the table. Her posture is perfect—back straight, chin lifted just enough to signal breeding without arrogance. Her hands fold in her lap, rings catching the low light. The O’Callaghan emeralds rest heavy at her throat, impossible to miss.
She looks every inch what they expect her to be; A bride. A prize. A symbol of peace. They underestimate her immediately.Good.
One of the men—mid-forties, confident in the way men get when no one has cut them down yet—leans forward, smile slick. “Lady O’Callaghan,” he says, voice oiled with false respect. “A pleasure.”
She returns the smile. Small. Polite. Immaculate.
“The pleasure is mine,” she replies, tone smooth as silk. “I trust you’re enjoying Belfast’s hospitality.”
I watch their eyes flicker. They hear the message beneath the manners.This is my city, behave.
The discussion begins—maps unfurled, borders traced with fingers that shake just slightly. They talk about parcels of land like they weren’t soaked through with bodies and history. Malloy land. Her land. They dress it up as misunderstandings. Administrative errors. Old agreements that suddenly matter again. I let them speak. I always do.
Róisín listens with perfect attention, nodding in the right places, asking questions that sound harmless and cut straight to the bone. Her voice never wavers. Not once. She thanks them when they clarify. Smiles when they lie.
She plays the part beautifully. Too beautifully.
And as one of them leans a little too close—eyes lingering where they shouldn’t, voice dropping like he’s forgetting I exist—I feel it stir. That old, dangerous heat. The cathedral of my temper begins to rise stone by stone.
But for now—I stay still. Cold. Watching. Waiting.
The man to her left is the problem. I clock it the second his eyes linger too long, the second his smile shifts from polite to personal. He leans back in his chair like he owns the room—like he hasn’t just stepped into a den full of knives.
“Lady O’Callaghan,” he says, voice warm, lazy. “I have to say—this land dispute is almost worth it, if only to finally meet you.”
Róisín tilts her head. Just a touch. Enough to be charming. Enough to invite trouble.
“I’m glad our inconvenience could be of service,” she replies sweetly.
A few of the men chuckle. He takes it as encouragement.Idiot.
He taps the edge of the map. “This parcel here—your family’s held it a long time. But surely you understand… times change.”
She leans forward now, elbows resting lightly on the table. Lace sleeves glide back just enough to show her wrist, the emerald bracelet catching the light.
“Oh, I understand change very well,” she says softly. “It’s amazing how quickly things shift when people overestimate their position.”
His smile sharpens. “You always this dangerous, or is that just for your husband?”
She laughs. Actually laughs. Low. Warm. Disarming.
“I’m only dangerous to people who mistake manners for weakness.”
I feel it then—the slow, deliberate tightening in my chest. The urge to put my hand through his throat and introduce him to God. But I don’t move. I don’t blink. I sip my coffee like I’m bored.
