I straighten, already done arguing. “You’re gettin’ stitched.”
“I don’t want—”
“Not a discussion.”
She glares at me, eyes bright with rage and pain. “You always like orderin’ women about, or am I just special?”
I snort. “You’re not nearly as special as you think.”
Her laugh is sharp. “Liar.”
Footsteps echo down the corridor. The house is moving now—efficient, quiet, loyal. A doctor. Towels. Supplies.
I glance back at her, then toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a cuppa.”
She looks up at me like she might actually bite. “Get that shite away from me.”
A corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.
“Still mouthy,” I say. “Good sign.”
She slumps back against the chair as hands reach for her, voices murmuring low and focused. I step back, folding my arms, watching as they start to work. She won’t look at me.
Fine. Let her bleed. Let her rage. She’s not goin’ anywhere. And Valentine’s Day is comin’ whether she likes it or not.
She snaps the second the door shuts. “What the fuck am I doin’ here?” she roars, voice cracking off the stone walls. “You drag me into your feckin’ house like some half-dead stray and think I won’t ask why?”
I don’t answer.
She laughs—wild, broken. “Go on then. Say it. Murder me. Please. I’d rather be six feet under than rottin’ in an O’Callaghan bed.”
She spits my name like poison. Calls me a bastard. A traitor. A smug, violent fuck. Each word sharper than the last. I let her burn.
“I already stabbed you once,” she snarls, pacing the room like a caged animal. “And I’d do it again. Don’t look so smug—you remember it. Blood all over your hands, your shirt. Should’ve finished the job.”
“Aye,” I say quietly. “You should’ve.”
That stops her. Just for a second.
“Then why?” she demands. “Why am I here?”
I push off the wall and face her fully. “Yer da agreed.”
Her face empties. “Agreed to what?”
“You,” I say. “And me.”
She stares at me like I’ve finally lost my mind.
“You’re marryin’ me on Valentine’s Day.”
The silence that follows is violent. Then she moves. She lunges for the side table—fast, feral, running on muscle memory and hate—fingers closing around the handle of a knife she didn’t clock before. I’m on her in a blink. I slam her back against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame, my body pinning hers, myhand closing around her throat—not squeezing. Not yet. Just there. Just enough to promise exactly how easily I could.
Her eyes go incandescent. “You don’t get to sell me,” she spits. “He doesn’t get to sell me.”
“He didn’t sell you,” I murmur, leaning in. “He chose survival.”
She struggles, nails digging into my wrist. “You think I’ll play wife for you?”
