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I buck my hips in a last-ditch effort to dislodge him—to escape the direction my mind is going—but it only pulls us closer.
He groans, low and strained. His grip tightens, his body tenses, and his expression darkens.
His eyes drink me in as if I’m something sacred and dangerous all at once. Like he’s been starving for me—holding this craving back for far too long.
And for a single, suspended heartbeat, I can feel he’s going to kiss me.
Then he blinks, and the spell breaks.
He releases me like I’ve burned him. He rolls off of me, and the loss is sudden and cold.
He sits beside me, his back half-turned, jaw clenched, breath uneven.
A beat passes. Then another.
He clears his throat. His voice is rough, scraping low. “Despite what society says,” he murmurs, “and despite my jest… ye’re a natural leader. You always have been.”
I sit up slowly, heart still thundering against my ribs. Despite the lingering tension, his words settle warmly in my chest.
Finn turns to me, unflinching.
“Listen to me, Triona. You dinnae wait for permission. You never bend for comfort or tradition. Do what’s right for you, and you hold it. And the ones who matter? They’ll follow.”
It feels like the kindest, fiercest thing anyone’s ever said to me. Not flattery. Not comfort. But truth. A truth he’s handed me like a weapon I forgot I already held.
“Thanks,” I manage, unsure what I’m thanking him for—the reassurance, his steadiness, his presence when I need it most, or for stopping when I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.
“When things matter—well, you’ve always been good at this,” I say. “This sort of thing.”
He offers me a reassuring smile. “It’s always been easy with you.”
The quiet confession lands between us, heavy with meaning.
Silence lingers, taut with words neither of us can say. It feels as if we’re teetering on the edge of something fragile—one step forward could change everything.
But neither of us moves.
Eventually, the silence softens, unravelling into quiet conversation. We speak of the day, of old memories and new ones waiting to be made, and of nothing in particular. His quiet presence grounds me in a way so few others can. And when I pause, he doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He simply waits—constant, unwavering, like the stars above.
13
Night of Many Changes
Triona
Thursday, 1 May 1823
Day of the Ceilidh: Triona’s Nineteenth Year
Peering out from the overlook above the courtyard, I watch as my father directs preparations for tonight’s festivities. I’ve been ordered to rest for the day—a task easier said than done. I take pride in helping when I can.
Anticipation stirs as I imagine the lively music and rhythmic dancing that will fill the air at the first ceilidh my parents have hosted in years. The details of the evening have been kept a mystery, no small feat in a house brimming with chatterers.
Sensing my presence, and in true James Sinclair fashion, he blows me a kiss, and I pretend to catch it and place it upon my cheek. We both chuckle, and he waves, returning to the work at hand.
My gaze drifts out to the ocean. I watch as the waves crash, sending whitewater curls onward. Sunlight catches the foam, transforming it into an ethereal visage. The scene is both chaotic and graceful. There’s something so hypnotic about watching this endless ebb and flow of the ocean; where great power meets grace in the most enchanting way possible.
Behind me, the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the spell. Turning, I see my mother standing in the doorway, cradling a thick bundle wrapped in linen and tied with twine. She looks tired, as though sleep has evaded her for days.
