I don’t answer. I grab her wrist and pull her into the nearest office—slam the door shut behind us, lock it, crowd her back against the desk. Paper scatters. Dust rises. The city hums outside like it has no idea what just happened.
“You let him look at you,” I growl, finally letting it crack through. “You let him speak to you like that.”
She smiles. Slow. Sharp. Dangerous. “And you liked watching me remind him who I am.”
My hands are already on her—throat, waist, hip—claiming without asking. My mouth finds hers hard, punishing, hungry. This isn’t tenderness. This is territory. “If ye ever think I’ll tolerate another man touching what’s mine,” I murmur against her lips, “you’re wrong.”
Her breath stutters—but she doesn’t pull away. “Then don’t,” she whispers back. “Stop me.”
I press my forehead to hers, breath heavy, rage and lust tangled so tight I can’t tell them apart. “You’re my wife,” I say. “And I’ll burn this city down before I let anyone forget it.”
Her fingers curl in my coat. “Good,” she says softly. “Because I’m done being gentle.”
Outside, the docks fall quiet. Inside, the war between us is only just beginning.
Chapter thirteen
Nocturne for a Married Knife
Róisín
Theestateisalreadyawake when we arrive. Lights glow behind tall windows. Doors open before we reach them. The house knows its master has come home angry—and that he hasn’t come alone. The drive crunches beneath the tyres like bones.
Finn doesn’t touch me as we walk inside, but I feel him everywhere. At my back. At my side. In the way the men straighten the second they see us. Not just him.Us.His office waits at the heart of the manor, all dark wood and old power, the kind of room where men have been ruined politely for generations. The door stands open. The fire is lit. His men are already there.
Every one of them turns when we enter. Their eyes flick to Finn out of habit. Then they settle on me. Not curiosity. Not appraisal. Recognition.
Finn doesn’t sit. He never does when something’s about to bleed. He takes his place behind the desk, hands resting on the edge, posture loose, dangerous. Watching. Letting me have the floor.
I move without looking at him. I take the chair opposite the desk. Smooth my skirt. Cross my legs. Fold my hands neatly in my lap, rings flashing once in the firelight.
A lady’s composure. A killer’s patience.
“Now,” I say, voice soft, precise, unmistakably Belfast. “Tell me which brave little fools thought they could carve up Malloy land without asking.”
Silence answers first. It always does—right before the truth starts to scream. One of them clears his throat. Young enough to still believe in diplomacy. Old enough to know better.
“We thought it best to keep the peace,” he says carefully. “With the alliance and all, some people—”
“Some people don’t think,” I cut in softly. “Like yourself.”
The room tightens. Finn doesn’t move. Doesn’t stop me.
I tilt my head, studying the man like a violin string drawn too tight. “Tell me something.”
He swallows. “Aye, Lady O’Callaghan.”
I smile. It doesn’t reach my eyes. “Are you Thorns of Belfast,” I ask calmly, “or are you a Malloy?”
Silence stretches. He hesitates. That’s his mistake.
He straightens, a touch defensive now. “Neither,” he says. “I’m Morrígan Ring. Loyal to the O’Callaghan family.”
That earns him a slow smile from me. “Ah,” I say lightly. “Aye.” I lean back in the chair, crossing my ankles, the fire catching on the gold at my throat. “And that loyalty… that includesmenow, does it?”
My gaze flicks—not to Finn, not for permission—but back to the man in front of me.
“Because last I checked,” I continue, voice still soft, still pleasant, “the O’Callaghan name is the one on my finger.”
