“They knew what we were,” Finn says.
I look up at him then.
“And they thought that made us weak,” I say softly.
Something sharp and pleased flickers in his eyes.
I lean back in the chair, crossing my ankles, the gold at my throat warm against my skin. “So,” I say calmly, “we give them what they expect.”
Finn’s mouth curves—not a smile. A promise.
“The chapel,” he says.
I nod.
“I’ll play,” I say. “Not for mourning. For memory.”
“For bait,” he corrects.
“For revenge,” I reply.
Our gazes lock. No argument. No hesitation. Only alignment. I rise to my feet, already reaching for the violin case resting against the wall.
“Let them come,” I say. “I’m done being hunted.”
Finn steps closer, voice low and lethal. “Aye, love. This time—we finish it.
One hand cups the back of my neck, thumb pressing lightly beneath my ear—grounding, steady. Not possession. Not demand. Choice.
He lowers his mouth to mine and kisses me like a vow. Slow. Certain. No hunger in it—just promise. The kind that saysI am with you in this, notI will save you from it. I kiss him back just as deliberately, my fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket, anchoring myself to the weight of him. When we part, our foreheads rest together.
“They’ll come,” he murmurs.
“I know,” I say.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and resolved. Then he turns, already reaching for his phone.
“Declan,” he says when the line connects. No preamble. No softness. “I need something carried through the house.” He listens, jaw tight. “Aye. Let it slip that Róisín and I will be at the old chapel tonight. Together.” A pause. “No,” he adds calmly. “Not an order. A whisper.”
I move to the desk, leaning against it, watching Finn as he speaks. The man who rules with silence. With timing. With inevitability.
“Let the men talk,” he continues. “Let it sound like a mistake. Like pride. Like grief making us reckless.” Another pause. “And make sure it spreads,” he finishes. “Every corridor. Every pub. Every bastard who still thinks the past is unfinished.” He ends the call without ceremony and turns back to me. “They’ll think it’s their last chance,” he says.
I smile—small, sharp, certain. “Good,” I reply. “I don’t want them careful.”
Finn crosses the room again, his hand settling at my lower back, steady and sure.
“Tonight,” he says quietly, “they come for ghosts.”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “And find the living.”
Silence settles between us—thick, expectant, loaded with consequence. The trap is set. Finn’s hand stays at my back as if it belongs there. As if it always has.
“Well,” he says lightly, eyes flicking over me with unmistakable appreciation, “if we’re going to be bait, we should at least look tempting.”
I lift a brow. “Is that your professional assessment?”
“Aye,” he replies. “Deadly. Distracting. Impossible to ignore.”
