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The hum of guests’ arrival sweeps through the air, creating a contagious excitement that permeates the grounds of our home.
Laughter and chatter ripple through the crowd like wildfire, hinting at an unforgettable evening yet to unfold. Any lingering unease fades as I catch sight of the joy lighting up every face.
Each new arrival brightens the festive ambiance, filling me with pride in my family. Fragments of conversation float my way—promises of first dances, whispered desires for stolen moments beneath the stars. It stirs something deep within me, a growing yearning.
I long for stolen glances, a secret rendezvous, hushed words carrying the weight of longing. The idea of stepping away from the crowd, of finding warmth in another’s presence, calls to me despite my best efforts to ignore it.
These exchanges paint a vivid picture of the life my parents have built—a world full of allies, joy, and celebration. As I take it all in, a sense of belonging washes over me. Amid the discord of life, there are always moments of magic waiting to be embraced.
Finn
I watch Triona’s retreating figure, filled with a mix of satisfaction and unease. I hadn’t initially intended to interfere in her interactions with Marcus, the blethering clot. Not outwardly anyway.
I resigned myself to a life of misery, knowing the day she’d find a husband was inevitable. I long to see her happy, so I wear a mask of calm around her. But the shadow that looms around my heart twisted my actions in ways I know will bear no favour, but I couldn’t stop myself from interfering. I was drawn to conflict at that moment.
She wore apprehension like a cloak, and I felt her hesitation as I watched her. Seeing Marcus attempt to summon Triona—my Triona, whose presence has become the anchor to my happiness, made me react in a way that felt as mindless as taking a breath. The powerful pull to guard her, despite knowing she’s more than capable of handling herself, is a grievous burden I’d bear for a lifetime.
Callan’s shifting form breaks my line of vision, and I move to join his side.
The two of them differ notably in size and strength. Marcus carries a much leaner tone, lacking the brute force present in Callan. He may stand in even height, but Callan is a mountain of muscle that speaks of both natural strength and hard-earned skill.
His physicality matches mine, so the glance Marcus casts between Callan and me establishes he understands how an altercation between the three of us would end for him; bloody, bruised, and broken.
“I dinnae trust ye,” Callan says, voice low and full of the surety I never question. “Not with her. Yer intentions aren’t pure”. He may appear sullen more times than not, which can be mistaken for casting judgement when it isn’t due, but something Callan is notably efficient at is reading people. None of us can explain it, but it’s as if he possesses a sixth sense of sorts that is unique to him and him alone.
“Regardless of this mistrust, Triona’s choices are her own to make,” Marcus says.
“Aye, that they are,” Callan confirms, “But they’re also clouded from yer lies and schemin’. Catchin’ ye with yer tongue down my sister’s throat, practically ruttin’ into her like a beast in heat, more than affirmed that to me.”
The inferno of protectiveness blazing through me shows plainly on my face, and in the way my body tenses without thought.
My fists clench, knuckles popping audibly. Marcus notices, and he gives me a contemplative once over. I see as recognition takes hold of him just before he glances back to Callan.
“I’ll not stop until ye’re out of her life.”
Marcus smirks as Callan’s statement rolls off. He grins pompously as he reiterates his earlier point. “As I stated before, that decision is not one that you can make. You are mistaken if you think I would ever do anything to harm Triona, mate,” he asserts, clipping out the last word.
“For all your posturing, you failed to see that she was more than pleased to give herself over to me. The way she was writhing against me as I ran my tongue down her neck—”
That sentence alone seals his fate.
Callan’s fist flies—swift and merciless—cutting him off mid-sentence. It connects with a sickening thud, the sound of bone meeting bone sharp in the stillness. Marcus staggers back into the stone wall, curses spilling from his lips as the crowd gasps in collective shock.
Silence falls over the courtyard, the tension thick enough to cut.
Triona bursts through the crowd, her eyes wide with shock. Her hands crash against Callan’s chest, halting him before he can throw another punch.
“Callan!” she whisper shouts. “What have you done?” It’s not really a question—more an accusatory reeling.
Callan opens his mouth to justify himself, anger etched in each harsh word he utters. “His actions make him more than deservin’ of—”
“No!” Triona cuts him off sharply. “You’ve just turned this into a spectacle. On a night meant for celebration, you’ve made it about violence.” Her voice trembles with disappointment. Callan’s defiance falters, and his shoulders slump.
The weight of her glare shifts at me. The implied why did you allow this to happen lands like a blow. Guilt twists in my gut, not because I feel bad for Marcus, or regret stepping in, but for handling it publicly.
The crowd parts as James and Ellen approach. Ellen’s expression is a mix of disapproval and concern, and reflects Triona’s mortification. It appears she’s unsure whether to console Marcus or chastise Callan.
James remains composed. His eyes scan over Marcus, still being doted on by Triona, then to his oldest son. A flicker of emotion dances in his eyes. It almost appears to be pride, though he says nothing outright.
