“You don’t flirt with me,” she says quietly. “You negotiate, or you bleed. You chose poorly.”
He whimpers. Tries to pull back. Can’t. She twists the knife just a fraction. Not enough to kill. Enough to teach.
“I am not softened by marriage,” she continues, breath warm against his skin. “I’m sharpened by it. And if you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll leave what’s left of you nailed to this dock as a warning.”
She releases him abruptly, shoving his head forward so his forehead hits the table with a dull crack. Steps back. Blood drips. Men freeze. No one breathes. And me? Christ. I don’t move. Don’t speak. I just watch her—standing there in black, jewels catching the low light, blade red in her hand like a crown she was born wearing.
My wife. Malloy violence. O’Callaghan resolve. A queen, finally done pretending. And I’m so fucking hard it’s a miracle I don’t kill someone just to calm down.
Then she sits. Just—sits. Pulls a linen napkin from the table like she’s at afternoon tea instead of the centre of a blood-soaked negotiation. She wipes her hands carefully, methodically, dabbing at the red along her fingers and knuckles until there’s nothing left but pale skin and control.
The man is still screaming. His hand is still pinned to the table, trembling around the blade. Róisín smiles at him. Not cruel. Not kind. Finished.
“Well,” she says lightly, folding the napkin and setting it beside her plate, “now that introductions are properly done.”
Every man in the room goes still. She looks down the table, eyes flicking to the papers, the maps, the highlighted borders like this is a business meeting she’s mildly bored by.
“That land you’ve been helping yourself to?” she continues. “Malloy land. My land. You didn’t ask. You didn’t negotiate. You didn’t even have the decency to lie well about it.” She tiltsher head, considering. “I think that answers the question of ownership.”
The man sobs. Tries to pull his hand free again. Fails. She sighs, almost fond.
“This is resolved,” she says, final. “You’ll withdraw. You’ll return what you took. You’ll pay restitution for the insult.” A glance at me. “And you’ll thank us for the mercy.”
She reaches out. Grips the knife. The man barely has time to scream before she rips it free. Blood sprays. He howls, collapsing forward, clutching his ruined hand. Róisín stands smoothly, already turning away as if the sound doesn’t exist. At the door, she pauses. Looks back over her shoulder, veil-dark hair framing her face.
“Oh,” she adds pleasantly, “if you ever confuse my silence for softness again—there won’t be a table to pin you to next time.”
Then she walks out. And I sit there, pulse roaring in my ears, watching the door swing shut behind my wife—absolutely certain of two things: The land is ours. And God help anyone who forgets who she was before she ever became an O’Callaghan.
I don’t follow her right away. I stay. The room is still frozen in the moment she left it—knife gone, blood soaking into the table, the man on his knees clutching his hand like it might forgive him if he begs hard enough. Slowly, I roll my sleeves.
“You should’ve stopped when she smiled,” I tell him calmly. “That was your only warning.”
He shakes his head, sobbing now. “I didn’t—she’s married now—I thought—”
I cross the distance in two steps and grab him by the throat, hauling him upright like he weighs nothing. Slam him back against the table so hard the wood groans.
“Youthoughtmarriage made her small?” I snarl, low and lethal. “You thought putting my name on her meant she neededyouto remind her how to behave?”
I take his injured hand. Grip it. He screams before I even move. I press it flat to the table where her knife pinned it, lean down until my mouth is right at his ear.
“That land you took,” I murmur, voice almost kind, “belongs to the woman you just disrespected.”
Then I break his fingers.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each crack slow. Deliberate. Punishment measured in bone and breath. He’s howling now, body sagging, tears soaking the floor. I don’t stop.
I grab his hair, wrench his head back so he’s forced to look at me. “You will give it back,” I say. “Every inch. With interest.” I release him just long enough to reach into my coat. The knife is already warm when I press it to his cheek. “And if you ever look at her again,” I add quietly, dragging the blade just enough to draw a thin, weeping line of blood, “I’ll carve her name into places you’ll never forget.”
I shove him down. Step back and fix my cuffs. When I open the door, the cold rushes in, clean and sharp. I don’t look back as I leave. The moment I catch up to her, she turns, eyes dark and bright all at once—blood still drying beneath her nails, spine straight, chin high. Belfast royalty in black silk and vengeance.
“Problem solved?” she asks coolly.
