“Aye,” she says. Steady. Certain. “I am.”
I swallow. The bath water shifts softly, as if breathing. I reach for her sleeve, fingers brushing fabric slick with red, and for the first time since the chapel, something in me slows. Not the hunger. Not the need. The fear. Not of her. Of how completely I am hers now.
“Let me take that,” I murmur.
She doesn’t move yet. Just watches me. Measuring. Choosing. And when she finally steps forward, into the warmth, into what waits for her, I know this isn’t an ending. It’s a coronation.
I help her out of the dress without rushing it. The fabric slips from her shoulders, heavy with dried blood and chapel dust, pooling at her feet like a shed skin. She steps out of it without looking down. Without flinching. I don’t comment on the marks. I don’t ask if she’s sure. I just keep my hands steady.
Her rings come next. I slide them from her fingers one by one—wedding band, engagement ring, the weight of the O’Callaghan gold—and set them carefully on the stone ledge beside the bath. They catch the light. Quiet. Waiting.
I guide her down into the water. She exhales as the heat closes around her body, steam rising to soften the edges of everything. The water darkens faintly at first, blooming with red where it touches her skin. I watch it without reacting. This isn’t something to recoil from. It’s something to be washed away.
I kneel beside the tub. Scoop water into my hands. Pour it gently over her shoulders. Again. Again. Until the streaks on her collarbone fade, until her skin returns to itself. She leans back against the porcelain, eyes closed.
I work the soap into her hair slowly, careful of the tangles, careful of the places I know still ache. My fingers move like they’ve done this before—like they remember something olderthan violence. I rinse the suds away, guiding the water down the length of her back, over her arms, her wrists, her palms.
I turn her hands over in mine. There’s blood beneath her nails. Dried. Stubborn. I take my time with it. When it finally clears, I don’t let go right away. I hold her hands under the water until they’re clean and warm and steady again. Until they look like hands that play music. Hands that rule. Hands that chose.
I wash her shoulders. Her spine. The back of her neck where tension always lives. Each movement deliberate. Gentle. Like I’m making a promise without speaking it. She doesn’t say a word. Neither do I.
The bathwater stills. The steam thickens. Outside the suite, the estate remains silent, respectful, aware that something holy is happening behind closed doors. I rinse the last of the blood from her skin. And for the first time tonight, there is nothing left to take from her.
I help her out of the bath slowly, one hand steady at her elbow, the other at her waist. The water sheets off her skin, clear now. Clean. I wrap a towel around her first, blotting instead of rubbing, careful where I know she’s sore. Careful everywhere. I dry her hair last, pressing the fabric to her scalp, letting her lean into my chest while I do it. Only then do I speak.
“Come here, love,” I murmur—quiet enough that it’s just for her, just for us.
She follows without hesitation. I slide the silk robe around her shoulders, smooth it closed, tie it at her waist. My knuckles brush her hip and I feel the smallest hitch in her breath—not fear. Recognition. Trust. I tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear. My forehead rests briefly against hers.
“You’re safe,” I say softly. Not as a promise. As a fact.
She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. I guide her toward the bed, one hand warm at the small of her back, the estate hushed around us, the night finally still.
She exhales, forehead resting against my chest, and finally speaks.
“So… it’s quiet now,” she murmurs. Just for me. Like a secret she’s testing the shape of. “I don’t know what to do with that yet.”
My hands come up automatically, framing her face, thumbs warm against her cheeks. There’s still a faint bruise near her jaw. I don’t avoid it. I never will.
“We’ll learn,” I say softly. “Together.”
Her eyes lift to mine. No fire. No defiance. Just her. The woman who survived the worst parts of Belfast and came out standing beside me.
I lean in and kiss her—slow, careful, nothing taken. Just the press of my mouth to hers, steady and sure, like a vow spoken without witnesses. She sighs into it, fingers curling into my shirt. I stay there, forehead to forehead when we part, breathing her in.
I don’t rush her. There’s no need to. The war is over. The house knows it—thick stone holding the quiet like a breath finally released. Somewhere far below, doors close. Orders are given. Belfast turns its face away and lets us have this..
The fire is lit. Low. Steady. Gold against the walls. She looks smaller wrapped in silk, hair still damp, skin bare beneath the robe. Not fragile—never that—butopen. Tired in a way only the victorious get to be. I reach and loosen the knot at her waist. Slow. Deliberate. Watching her face the whole time.
She doesn’t look away. The robe parts. Marks bloom across her skin—bruises from hands that loved her hard, shadows from a life that tried to break her and failed. I trace one at her hip with my thumb, reverent as prayer.
“You’re still standing,” I murmur. Not a question. A truth.
She nods once. Swallows. “So are you.”
That does something to my chest I don’t have words for. I press my forehead to hers. Breathe her in. Soap. Smoke. Something sharp beneath it all that’s always beenRóisín.
“I won’t touch you unless you want me to,” I say quietly. Not because she doubts it—but because saying it matters.
