“I raised my daughter,” he says, voice steady as stone, “to hear lies the way other people hear music. To know when a man’s mouth is running faster than his courage. To cut clean when it matters.”
Padraig’s breath stutters. “She—she’s just—”
“Careful,” my father warns softly. “You’re speaking about a woman who survived your best attempt at erasing her.” He takes a step closer. “I didn’t raise her to be gentle,” he goeson. “I raised her to beprecise. To know that monsters always underestimate girls who learned violence before they learned fear.” His eyes harden. “And I raised her to finish what men like you start.”
Silence crashes down around us. Padraig is shaking now. And I tighten the string. My father exhales slowly. Not relief. Not fear.Acceptance.
“This is on me,” he says, voice carrying through the chapel like a verdict. “The marriage. The timing. Selling you into it like a bargaining chip.” His jaw tightens. “I raised you for violence and then pretended I was shocked when you became good at it.”
Padraig wheezes beneath the string, forgotten now.
“I taught you how to survive,” my father continues, eyes never leaving mine. “But I didn’t teach you how to be a daughter. That’s my failing.”
My grip tightens reflexively.
“I knew,” he says quietly. “Knew that night wasn’t Finn’s doing. Knew the lies were moving faster than truth. And I let it stand.” His voice roughens, just barely. “Because chaos made room for power.”
Finn stiffens beside me.
“And because,” my father adds, “I thought if I bound you to him, it might keep you alive.”
The words land wrong. Too late. Too sharp.
“I don’t get to rule anymore,” he says. “Not after this. Not after what I turned you into.” He nods once—decisive. Final. “It’s your turn now. You and him. Together.”
My breath catches. He looks at me fully then—not as an asset, not as a weapon. As his daughter.
“If anyone deserves to end this,” he says softly, “it’s you.”
The chapel tilts. My hands tremble around the string. For the first time since we walked in, I don’t know where to stand inside my own body. Anger, grief, loyalty, hatred—everything collides at once. A tear slips free before I can stop it.
I hate it.I don’t wipe it away. And the silence that follows is heavier than any gunshot.
Padraig can’t help himself. Even choking, even bleeding, he finds one last shard of cruelty and spits it between gasps. “Look at her,” he rasps. “Tears at last. Took a wedding and a leash to break the Malloy girl.”
The wordleashlands. Everything snaps. One of his men lunges, gun coming up too fast—aimed not at me, but at Finn. The shot cracks. My father fires in the same breath. Clean. Efficient.The Keane man drops before his finger finishes the pull. Finn answers the second threat without a sound. One shot. Center mass. The other man collapses against the chapel wall, sliding down stone that’s already memorized blood.
Silence roars back in. Smoke hangs low. Brass rolls and settles. I still have Padraig. The string is tight at his throat, his breath sawing thin and frantic. He jerks once, then stills, eyes wild, finally understanding that the numbers are gone. That the noise is over.
Finn lowers his gun, steps closer—close enough that I feel him at my back again. Solid. Present. My father doesn’t move. And I don’t let go.
I tilt my head, breath steady, hands calm despite the tremor still living somewhere deep in my bones.
“Any last words?” I ask him.
Padraig’s eyes are bloodshot now, bulging, rage burning brighter than fear. He spits at my cheek. Misses.
“Rot in hell,” he chokes. “You’re nothing but a bastard girl in borrowed power.”
I laugh. It surprises even me—soft at first, then sharp and bright, echoing off the stone like a note struck true. I lean close, my mouth brushing his ear as the violin string bites deeper into skin.
“Is mise iníon na nDealg,” I whisper.I am the daughter of the thorns.
His breath stutters.
“Malloy by blood,” I continue, voice low and reverent. “O’Callaghan by choice.” I tighten my grip, the wire humming faintly. “And queen by right.”
I draw the string back. Slow. Deliberate. The E string sings as it cuts—thin, merciless, made for precision. It sinks into flesh with a sound that makes my stomach twist and my spine straighten all at once. Padraig claws at my wrists, boots scraping uselessly against the stone as the wire saws deeper.
