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“Hush now,” she whispers, her thumbs sweeping tears from my cheeks. “You may not understand it yet, but you will. I would walk through fire for you. And Deidre—she would too. You are worth all of it, every sacrifice. Never think otherwise.”

Her hands tighten, holding my face as if she can force her conviction into me through touch alone. Her eyes burn with a fierce, unyielding love. “You did not ask for this life. The life you live now—it was never a choice you made, but one of destiny’s making. Whatever guilt you carry, what blame you place on yourself, let it go. Not a single word is accurate. The world may take much from you—it may strip away comfort, joy, and even the ones you hold dearest—but it can never take this.”

“I don’t deserve that,” I choke out, shaking my head. “I don’t deserve you. Or her. Or them…”

Her grip never wavers. She leans closer, her voice dropping to a low, determined murmur. “Deserving has nothing to do with it. Love can never be won like some prize. Love—genuine love—is given freely. Fierce and unrelenting, not caring a whit for what you think you deserve. It simply is.”

She holds me close, her arms a fortress. “Not love like this. Love that burns eternal, brighter than the darkest night, hotter than the fiercest fire. It will not fade, it refuses to falter, no matter what storm rages against it.”

Her words settle deep into my chest, wrapping around the ache like a balm. They’re not just words—they’re a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge of despair.

Her voice dips lower, almost reverent. “This love, Triona—it’s unyielding. It’s the kind that anchors souls, that defies even death itself. It’s in the blood, the bone, the very air you breathe. And it is ours to give, so promise not to push it away.”

Her embrace never falters. I cling to her, letting the truth of her words seep into every broken part of me.

I nod again, my fingers brushing absently over the quilt beside me. “I’ll try,” I whisper.

Amelia smiles, the corners of her lips trembling slightly as she presses another kiss to my forehead. “That’s all anyone can ask of you.”

For the first time in what feels like ages, the crushing weight on my chest eases—just slightly, but enough to breathe.

“Now come, love,” she says, her tone lightening just enough to lift the heaviness in the room. “Let us work to get you cleaned up and fed. A beauty such as yerself ought not waste a day crying, aye?”

I give her a weak smile, slowly rising to my feet. My body feels shaky, legs unsteady, but I let Amelia guide me toward the basin. As she splashes cool water on my face, I catch my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are red, cheeks blotchy, but there’s something else there—an echo of resilience, faint but growing.

I follow Aunt Amelia out of my room, her steady presence grounding me. The weight of my earlier emotions still clings to me. We tread quietly through the hall, our steps soft against the worn wooden floor. The house feels heavy, almost suffocating in its stillness.

We halt as a door swings open ahead. My breath catches. From Bran’s room, the woman I saw with him last night emerges. Her gown hangs loose, hair in wild disarray. My cheeks burn as my gaze drifts past her to the open door, revealing Bran sprawled on the bed like some half-drunk Irish god.

Completely naked, cock rising with the dawn.

A sharp shriek escapes me, and I clap my hands over my eyes. “Bran!” I yelp, my voice a mix of outrage and embarrassment.

The commotion draws a low groan from the bed. “Please,” Bran groans, voice thick with sleep. “Heard enough of my name last night between cries of pleasure.”

Amelia mutters something under her breath—likely a prayer for patience—and steps in front of me, blocking my view. “Cover yourself, you daft lad,” she scolds, her tone low and firm.

Bran groans again. Sheets rustle, but I refuse to look to confirm.

Before the moment settles, another door creaks open. I peek between my fingers as Casey emerges, leaning against the frame. One hand rakes through his disheveled hair while the other shields his eyes. He carries the unmistakable air of someone deeply regretting last night’s choices.

“Who in the name of the blasted gods just screamed like that?” he demands, his voice rough with sleep and laced with irritation.

“It was me!” I snap, still flustered from the sight of Bran laid bare. “If you saw what I just did, you would have screamed, too.”

Casey raises an eyebrow, his gaze drifting toward Bran’s open door. A knowing look crosses his face, mingled with something sharper—annoyance, perhaps? Or a hint of disappointment?

“Ah,” he mutters, voice tight. “Try not to wake the dead next time, Triona.”

Casey looks away, and, without a word, slams the door behind him with enough force to make me flinch.

Amelia exhales sharply beside me, crossing her arms. “What’s got him in a tizzy?” she mutters. Then, turning to me, she asks, “What’s all this about?”

I hesitate, stealing a glance at Bran’s door before leaning closer. “He started a fight with Bran last night,” I whisper. “Over her.” I tilt my head toward the stairs, where the woman had disappeared moments earlier.

Amelia’s eyes widen briefly before narrowing in thought. “A fight? Those two? The fun bunch of the group.”

I nod, still keeping my voice low. “It was completely out of character. Casey caught Bran stealing a kiss with her at the party. Things got… heated.”