Recognition sharpens his gaze. Not fear. Calculation. Good. I stop in front of them, folding my hands lightly at my waist. A lady at court. A bride at peace. A queen admiring stained glass.
My voice is barely more than breath. “You knew.”
Neither answers. That’s answer enough.
“I was meant to die in that chapel,” I murmur. “So was he.”
Still nothing. The one on the left—silver hair, clean suit, bloodless fingers—tightens his jaw. Not denial. Confirmation.
Behind me, Finn speaks again. Low. Deadly. “Last chance.”
The lad laughs, high and broken. “You can’t touch me, O’Callaghan. Not without—”
Finn doesn’t let him finish. He doesn’t reach for a gun. Doesn’t shout. Doesn’t posture. He simply steps in and snaps the man’s neck with a brutal twist, clean and final.
The sound is awful. Wet. Permanent. The body crumples to the floor at Finn’s feet like a dropped coat. No one screams. No one moves. The room holds its breath around the corpse.
Slowly, I turn back to the two men behind me. They are very, very still now. I smile.
“Thank you,” I say softly, “for confirming what I already suspected.”
Their eyes flick to Finn, then back to me. They finally understand. They are trapped between the Devil and the Black Rose. And neither of us is merciful.
Finn doesn’t look at me. He looks at them.
“Take them.”
Declan is already moving. He doesn’t ask where. He never does. Two of Finn’s men step forward, gripping the two men by the arms. There’s resistance—stupid, panicked—but it dies fast. Chairs scrape. One of them starts to speak, maybe to bargain, maybe to pray.
Finn cuts him off without raising his voice.
“Below,” he says. “Bind them. No talking.”
Declan nods once. Sharp. Final. “They’ll stay breathing,” he adds, glancing at Finn, “until you say otherwise.”
Finn’s jaw tightens. “Good.”
The men are hauled toward the corridor that leads beneath the manor—stone steps, iron doors, the kind of place screams don’t travel far from. One of them looks back over his shoulder, eyes wild. I meet his gaze. Smile. The door slams. Bolts slide home.
Finn turns to the rest of the room. “Out.”
No hesitation this time. The remaining men file out quickly, eyes down, the air thick with the understanding that something ancient has just been reawakened inside these walls. The doors shut. Silence. Heavy. Expectant.
Finn exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since Belfast burned. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening tension that could crack stone. Only then does he turn to me. And the pause? It’s not peace. It’s pure hunger.
He crosses the room without a word. Not fast. Not slow. Like a man who knows the space bends toward him.
I don’t move. I don’t need to. I’m already where I belong—behind his desk, spine relaxed, blade idly turning between my fingers. Watching him the way I once watched shadows move along chapel walls. Waiting to see what kind of monster he’ll be now.
He stops between my knees. Up close, the scent of him is wrong for violence—soap and smoke and something iron-deep that only comes out after blood is spilled. His hand settles at my ankle first, warm and grounding, thumb pressing lightly into skin like he’s checking that I’m real.
Alive. Chosen.
His gaze lifts to mine, and something shifts. The hunger is still there—but it’s quieter now. Focused. Reverent in a way that makes my breath hitch.
“You stayed,” he says.
Not a question. A reckoning.
