“No,” I say. “I think you’ll survive.”
I tighten my grip just enough to make the point land. “It’s a month,” I continue. “That’s all the deal needs. After that, your family and mine decide what comes next.”
Her breath stutters. Rage shakes her.
“Run again,” I say softly, “and I’ll tie you to the feckin’ chair.”
I release her and step back. “A month, Róisín,” I finish. “Survive it.”
She doesn’t answer. She explodes. She grabs the lamp and hurls it. It shatters. A chair goes next. Then a table. She rips at the bandage on her side, tearing the stitches clean out like she doesn’t even feel it. Blood spills fast.
The doctor rushes in, horrified. “Jesus Christ—stop—”
“Don’t touch me!” she screams, shoving him away. “Let me bleed!”
“She’s tearing herself open,” he snaps at me.
“Let her,” I say.
He stares like I’m mad. “She needs—”
“She needs to wear herself out.”
Reluctantly, he backs off.
She turns on me then, bloody, shaking, eyes bright with ruin. “This is on you.”
She punches me. Once. Twice. I laugh. Low. Unbothered. “That it?” I ask.
She swings again—and her body gives out. She collapses mid-motion, knees buckling, blood slicking her hands as she crumples. I catch her before she hits the floor.
She fights even then, weak and furious. “Let… go…”
I lift her anyway. Carry her. Up the stairs. Down the corridor. Into a room that’s already hers whether she likes it or not. I lay her on the bed—not gentle, not careless. Final. She’s unconscious before I straighten. I look down at her, blood on my shirt, her blood on my hands again.
“A month,” I murmur.
The door closes behind me.
Chapter three
Blood-Valentine Nocturne
Róisín
Iwakeupinsilk.That’s the first thing I notice—how smooth it feels against my skin. Cool. Expensive.Wrong. My lashes flutter open and I’m met with a ceiling that’s too high, too ornate, moulding curling along the edges like it belongs in a place that never apologises for its power.
Not my flat. Not my choice.
I inhale sharply and pain answers back—dull, tight, stitched. My hand flies to my side, fingers brushing fresh bandages beneath the fabric of the nightgown. Ivory silk. Thin straps. Soft as sin. The sort of thing someone chooses carefully. The sort of thing meant to calm.
My jaw tightens.
I push myself upright and the bed shifts beneath me—massive, carved dark wood, the mattress deep enough to swallow a body whole. Someone has tucked me in. Someone has cleaned the blood from my skin. My hair is braided. Neat. Careful. Like I was a child again, all sharp edges temporarily dulled. The rage hits slow and then all at once.
Finn. My family. My da.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, swaying just slightly before steadying myself. I pace the room barefoot, anger burning hot and bright now that I’m conscious enough to feel it properly. Everything here is deliberate—heavy drapes, thick rugs, furniture chosen to last generations.
