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Finn

I find myself alone; the silence pressing heavily against me. Her words echo painfully in my mind: ‘You both need to find other ways to occupy your time that doesn’t involve being completely and unabashedly unnecessary.’

The words strike in the worst way imaginable because of the truth that I desperately avoid at all costs.

I close my eyes, a bitter laugh escaping as I press a hand to my face. I’d lost control, let my frustration and protectiveness tear out of me without thinking. It didn’t matter that she pressed me. I hadn’t meant to hurt her, hadn’t meant to imply she was naïve or incapable of understanding reason, but in my anger, that’s exactly what I’d done. And like the fool I was, I backed her into a corner. Now I’m left wondering if I’ve shattered something between us I can’t mend.

I exhale slowly. “Eejit,” I mutter to myself.

I want to protect her, but I’d been too forceful, too… possessive. She didn’t need me trying to dictate her choices, even if I know—I know—Marcus isn’t what he seems.

I enter the stables, thoughts in a haze, to find Eamon sporting a wearisome face as he stands just outside the largest stall reserved for the sick, injured, or foaling mare.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Aisling,” Eamon says, his voice low with concern. “She got out somehow—probably someone feckin’ about. I found her before first light, grazin’ in the patches of rich grass.”

I move closer, my chest tightening at the sight of her. She looks worse for wear.

“I don’t know what we’re dealing with, Finn,” Eamon continues. “She’s in a bad way.”

I nod grimly. “We’re supposed to meet at the still today, aye?”

“Aye,” Eamon mimics. “But Callan says he’s stayin’ behind—said something about needin’ to be here for Triona?”

Thoughts of our recent spat come rushing back, and I get lost as I replay every glaring mistake.

“Finn.” Eamon says, pulling me from my thought spiral. “Did ya hear me?”

“Sorry, Eamon. I have a lot on my mind. What did you say?”

“I said, ye’ll have to take Shadow. Maybe ask Triona—”

“She’s busy, and we’re short on time. This needs to be handled before midday.”

“Why the rush?”

“Last night, they told me the last of the product was… compromised.”

Eamon’s brow furrows. “How do ya mean?”

I relay what was said to me in the study.

Eamon ponders for a moment, his features darkening as realisation strikes. Fear flashes in his eyes. “So someone…”

I nod. “Properly distilled whiskey burns with a golden flame. But when Callan lit the top of the glass, it burned a deep, intense blue. We’re lucky Callan had the sense to bring the 3-year-aged barrel. His quick thinkin’ saved this family from a lot of trouble. The other batch would’ve poisoned anyone who drank it.”

“What does this mean, then?” Eamon asks, brow furrowing.

I shake my head. “Someone tried very hard to ruin the Sinclair name—tried makin’ it look as if they made a big mistake. It was a calculated attack.”

“Why wait until now?” he presses, echoing the very question I’d first asked.

“I think they wanted to inspect things before causing panic,” I explain.

“I’ll have Saoirse watch over Aisling for the day. She needs monitorin’.”

I glance at where the mare is sprawled out on the ground and kneel to stroke her head.