Her hands slide up my chest, slow and sure, palms warm through my shirt. She looks up at me through her lashes, steady as stone.
“I want you,” she says. No fear. No edge. Just truth.
That’s when it shifts. Not hunger—gravity. I lift her then, easy as breath, and carry her to the bed like it’s ceremony instead of instinct. Like a coronation instead of a claiming. I set her down carefully, as if the world might crack if I don’t.
I strip my shirt away and toss it aside. She watches me without flinching. Without pretending not to know what she does to me. I crawl over her slowly, bracing my weight on my hands, giving her space even as I box her in. Letting her feel the choice in every inch of it. Her fingers hook in my belt. Not pulling. Just resting there. Mine slide into her hair, not gripping—anchoring.
“This isn’t about blood,” I tell her softly. “Or debt. Or ghosts.”
Her breath hitches. “Then what is it?”
I lower my mouth to hers, stopping just shy. Close enough that she can feel the promise in it.
“It’s about what comes after,” I say. “And who we choose to be when no one’s watching.”
She closes the distance. Her kiss is slow. Certain. A vow spoken without words. I follow her down into the sheets, firelight catching on skin and scars and silk, my hand resting at her throat—not holding, justthere. A reminder. A truth.
“My queen,” I murmur against her mouth. Not title. Not possession.
Recognition.And this time, when she pulls me closer—It’s not war. It’s home.
Her nails scrape down my spine—not frantic, just claiming—and I break the kiss to breathe against her jaw, her throat, the hollow where her pulse hammers wild beneath silk-soft skin. We've done this before. But tonight it's different. Tonight there are no ghosts between us.
"Finn," she whispers, and it's not a plea. It's a reckoning.
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. "Tell me what you need."
Her hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones like she's memorizing the shape of me. "I need you to stop being careful with me. I need you to take what's yours."
Something feral and grateful tears through my chest. I kiss her hard—claiming, branding—and she meets me measure for measure, teeth catching my bottom lip, drawing blood. I groan into her mouth, tasting copper and want, and she smiles against my lips like the devil herself.
"There you are," she murmurs. "My Finn. Not the diplomat. Not the peacekeeper. Mine."
I drag my mouth down her throat, biting the tendon there—not gentle, not soft—marking her the way she's marked me a dozen times before. She gasps, back arching, and I feel her pulse jump beneath my tongue. "You want it rough, wee Rose? Want me to remind you exactly what you do to me?"
"Aye," she breathes, fingers threading through my hair and pulling. "Show me."
I catch her wrists in one hand, pin them above her head against the pillow. We've played this game before—power shifting between us like a knife passing hands—but tonight there's no performance in it. Just raw need. She watches me with those dark, fearless eyes while I map every inch of her with my free hand—ribs, waist, the curve of her hip where bruises bloom like violets.
"Does it hurt?" I ask, pressing my thumb into the mark.
"Yes."
"Good." I lean down, kiss it. "Every mark on you tonight is mine. Not from your enemies. Not from a fight. From me. From choosing this."
"Possessive bastard," she gasps, but she's smiling—wicked and wanting—and when I bite down on the soft flesh of her inner thigh she keens.
"Your possessive bastard," I remind her, working my way back up her body with teeth and tongue. "The one you married. The one who's been half-mad for you since before we knew what that meant."
Her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer. "Then take what's yours, Finnian. Stop making me wait."
Christ, the way she says my full name—like a prayer and a curse all at once—it nearly destroys me. I release her wrists and she immediately grabs my belt, working it open with the same steady hands that held a gun earlier tonight. The parallel isn't lost on either of us.
"You washed blood off these hands an hour ago," I say, voice dark, watching her fingers work the leather free.
She looks up at me through her lashes, defiant. "Aye. And now they're touching you. Does that bother you?"
"Fuck no." I catch her hand, press it flat against my chest where my heart thunders. "You're Belfast's queen. Violence and beauty. That's what I fell for. That's what I'm claiming."
