That one lands low and slow. I pull off the main road and onto the private lane without warning. Gravel crunches. Trees crowd in. The headlights carve a tunnel through the dark.
“Ye’re right,” I say calmly. “Not yet.”
She stills. I feel it more than see it.
The gates appear ahead—tall iron, crest cut deep into the metal. O’Callaghan. Old money. Older violence. The kind of place that doesn’t forgive and doesn’t forget. I slow just enough for the sensors to catch us. The gates begin to open, heavy and deliberate.
Her breath stutters. Just once. “This is kidnapping,” she says, voice hoarse.
I pull through as the gates swing wide, tyres crossing the threshold like a line being drawn in blood.
“This,” I correct, “is comin’ home.”
The estate rises out of the dark—stone and shadow, lights burning warm behind thick glass. Safe. Fortified. Mine. I park hard in the gravel drive, engine still running. Not gentle. Not kind. Possessive as hell.
I kill the engine and turn in my seat, finally giving her my full attention. And she looks at me like she’s already decided which knife she’ll use first. Good. I’m out of the motor before she can gather herself. She’s already moving when I open the door—trying to swing her legs out, refusing to meet my eye. Stubborn to the last breath. Same as she was at seventeen.
“I’m fine,” she snaps as I reach for her. “Get off me.”
“Don’t be thick,” I say, already hauling her upright.
She yelps as pain flashes across her face, but she shoves at my chest anyway, nails biting through my shirt. “I said I don’t need your help.”
“Aye,” I reply flatly. “And I said you’re comin’ in.”
She tries to stand on her own. Lasts half a second before her knees buckle. I catch her without thinking, arm locked around her waist, dragging her close whether she likes it or not.
“Feck off,” she growls, breath hot against my jaw.
“Behave,” I mutter, lifting her clean off the ground.
She goes rigid in my arms, fury thrumming through her like a live wire. “Put me down, Finnian.”
“No.”
Simple as that. The front doors are already open by the time I reach them. Of course they are. Word travels fast in a house like this. The air inside is warm, smells of polish and peat smoke and money old enough to be dangerous. A couple of the lads freeze when they see her—bloodied, breathing hard, very much alive.
“Get a doctor,” I snap. “Now.”
Someone moves. Quickly.
She twists in my grip, teeth bared. “You don’t get to parade me through your house like a trophy.”
“I’m not hidin’ you,” I say, carrying her straight through the hall. “They need to see you. They need to know you’re here.”
“And why’s that?” she spits.
“So they heal you properly.”
I dump her into a chair in the sitting room, not gently, not cruelly—just final. She winces, hand flying to her ribs again. Icrouch in front of her, grip her wrist before she can swat me away. Her pulse is fast. Too fast.
“Don’t,” she warns.
I ignore it, peeling her coat open enough to assess the damage. Blood soaked through, but the wound’s clean. Entry, not exit. Lucky.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter. “You nearly bled out on the floor.”
“Shame,” she says bitterly.
