Page 35
Her sigh carries more weight than usual, a flicker of weariness crossing her face. “It’s no’ jus about stability, Triona. It’s about safety. Protection. Marcus could be that for ye.” Her insistence only fans the flames of my growing frustration.
“Why are you really pushing this on me? I’m not some helpless damsel, Ma. I don’t need Marcus—or any man—to protect me,” I snap, crossing my arms. The space between us feels insurmountable now. “And don’t I deserve the choice?”
“Of course, but that stubbornness wellin’ inside might keep ye from makin’ the right one.” Her brow furrows as she studies me, her mouth opening and closing as though she’s struggling to find the right words. “It’s not about control, Triona. Things are changin’ for this family. Ye’ll want someone like Marcus by yer side.”
“I want freedom!” The words tear from my throat like an escape. “That’s what I want, Ma. Not Marcus, not your notion of stability, not your safety—just my freedom! To go where I please, without eyes following me. To make my own choices without whispers in the hallway. To see the world, to chase something bigger than duty or tradition. To live a life that’s mine, far beyond the walls of this house.”
Her face tightens, shock flickering across her features. I press on, unwilling to stop now that the words are pouring out.
“You say you’re trying to protect me, but it feels as if you’re locking me away. And if that makes me petulant, so be it. I’ll not apologise for wanting more.”
“Triona, that’s enough,” my mother snaps, her voice trembling—equal parts anger and something far more fragile. “Ye speak as if this is all some foolish game—as if I enjoy seein’ ye this way, as if I take pleasure in bein’ cast the villain in yer tale.”
She shakes her head, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
“Everything I do—every choice I make—is to shield ye. To keep this family from failin’ into ruin. Ye think ye understand, but you’re still so young. Ye dinnae see the weight of the world beyond these walls—cannae understand the cost of choice.”
“I’m old enough to make decisions about my life,” I snap, “even if they’re the wrong ones. I’ve earned the right to choose my path, even if I stumble down it.”
“Ye dinnae see the bigger picture,” she retorts, her hands balling into fists. “There are forces—people—who would take everything from us if they could. Marryin’ Marcus could bring the kind o’ strength ye need. It could be the only way to keep our kin safe. To keep ye safe.”
“Safe?” I scoff, the word bitter on my tongue. “By selling me off like chattel? That’s not protection, Ma. That’s control. That’s a blood prison wrapped in lace.”
“Caitríona Sinclair.”
My father’s voice booms from the doorway, sharp enough to cut through the air and steal the breath from my lungs. I whirl toward him, startled.
His face is hard as granite, his eyes boring into mine with the weight of his authority. “Ye will not speak to yer mother that way.”
My frustration is too hot to hold.
“So now you’re defending her?” I demand. “Just the perfect wife, doing what needs to be done, aye? And I’m just the ungrateful daughter who understands nothing!”
“Enough!” he roars, stepping deeper into the room like a storm in human form. “Ye dinnae ken what ye’re sayin’, lass. She’s sacrificed more for this family than is fair. Show her the respect owed under this roof.”
My chest heaves, each breath feeling sharper than the last. The room feels smaller by the second; the walls pressing in. I can barely get the words out.
“Respect?” I choke. “Is that what you call it? Obedience, masked as respect?”
There’s a beat of silence—sharp, aching—before my mother steps forward. Her voice is quieter now, but no less firm.
“Triona… please. Ye dinnae understand. Not yet. But someday, you will.”
I stare at her. At both of them.
And then I break a little.
“Da… you’ve always made me believe I could live differently—be different. From the moment I was old enough to understand the world, you were the one who told me I didn’t have to follow the path laid out for me. You never put limits on me, never tried to clip my wings. You let me run wild through the woods, taught me to track and fight when others said I shouldn’t even lift a blade. You gave me a weapon and told me that my strength was something to wield, not fear.”
“And now?” My voice breaks. “Now it feels as if you’re trying to unmake all of that. As if everything you helped me become is suddenly… inconvenient. As if you’re asking me to shrink back into something I can’t be anymore.”
Neither of them says a word.
I turn and storm out of the room, my boots striking the floor with each step. My vision blurs as I make my way down the corridor, but I don’t stop. I need air, space—anything but the stifling confines of this house and the weight of their expectations.
Out in the corridor, I nearly collide with Casey. He stands there, frozen, his face etched with something between sympathy and dread. He heard everything.
“Triona—” he starts.
