We don’t speak. We never do, not in places like this.
His mouth brushes my temple first, slow and reverent, then my cheek. His thumb lifts my chin, giving me time to pull away. I don’t. Our mouths meet gently—nothing like the hunger in his office, nothing like the fury downstairs. This kiss is unhurried. Familiar. Heavy with memory.
My fingers slide beneath his coat, pressing flat to his chest. He inhales sharply when I step closer, when my knee slips between his legs and I feel the tension coil there.
“Christ,” he murmurs against my mouth. “You do that on purpose.”
I smile. Small. Dangerous. “Aye.”
His hands move—one settling on my hip, the other tracing the length of my spine, stopping just shy of skin. Not touching. Promising. He walks me backward until stone meets my hips, cold and solid, and I gasp into his mouth.
He swallows the sound like it belongs to him.
“You look like you belong here,” he says quietly, his breath warm at my throat. “Like this place was built to watch you sin.”
“It already has,” I whisper.
His fingers slide into my hair, not pulling—just holding. Anchoring. His mouth presses to my pulse, and for a moment the chapel disappears. There is only breath and heat and the echo of ghosts leaning in close.
Then—slowly—he pulls back. Not because he wants to. Because this matters. I open my eyes. My lips feel swollen. My pulse thunders. For a heartbeat, I’m wrecked. Then I reach past him. My fingers close around the violin case resting near the altar. The shift is immediate. The heat doesn’t vanish—it sharpens. Turns ceremonial.
I step away, opening the case with steady hands. I feel him watching me, feel the way my spine straightens, the way my shoulders settle.
I am not the girl who once played to soothe. I am the woman who plays to summon. I lift the violin. Tuck it beneath my chin. Raise the bow. Finn goes still behind me.
The first note is low and aching and deliberate, and the chapel holds its breath. Sound blooms outward, curling through stone and rot and candle smoke, settling into the bones of this place like it’s always been waiting for me. Finn is behind me—close enough that I can feel his heat, the steady rise and fall of hischest. His hands come to my waist, not to guide, not to claim. Just there. An anchor. A promise.
I draw the bow again. The melody is soft at first. Careful. Almost reverent. My eyes close.
Three years ago, the chapel was full of bodies and whispers. I stood at the front with my violin tucked beneath my chin, silk dress brushing my knees, heart thundering so loud I was certain everyone could hear it.
Finn watched me from the doorway, too tall, too sharp, already carrying violence in his bones. He smiled at me like the world hadn’t taught him better yet.
Another note trembles free, stronger now. Finn’s hands slide up, resting over my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts—warm, grounding, not demanding. His mouth hovers near my ear. I can feel his breath change as the music deepens.
“Play,” he’d murmured that night. Like it was a prayer. Like it was a dare.
I played for him.
The melody shifts. It darkens. I let it.
I remember the way the candles flickered when the doors slammed open. The way the air changed—sharp, metallic, wrong.
I remember the first gunshot. The scream that followed.
I remember Ciaran stepping in front of me without thinking. Always my brother. Always choosing me.
My fingers don’t falter. Finn’s hands tighten at my waist, not to stop me—never that—but to hold me through it. His forehead presses briefly to my shoulder, like he knows exactly where I am now.
Blood on stone.
Incense choking the air.
Someone shouting Finn’s name like a curse.
The bow digs in harder. The sound swells, filling the chapel until it feels like the walls themselves are vibrating. This isn’t mourning. This isn’t grief. This is a summoning. Finn’s hands slide lower, fingers lacing with mine at my hips, steadying me as the music climbs. His presence is everywhere—behind me, around me, with me—but the sound is mine.
I remember dropping to my knees.
