Chapter 2
Chapter two
A Vow of Violence
Finnian
She’s quiet in the back seat. Not calm. Not settled. Quiet like a blade laid flat on a table, waiting for a hand to slip.
The SUV eats the road as we cut through the outskirts of Belfast, tyres hissing over wet tarmac. I don’t slow. I don’t look back again after the second mile. I know she’s alive. I know she’s furious. I know she’s bleeding through my jacket and hating me for it. Good.
Her breath’s shallow. Controlled. She’s biting down on the pain because she refuses to give me the satisfaction of hearing it. Same as she always did. I flick my eyes to the rear-view mirror.
She’s slumped against the door, coat dark with blood at the ribs, one hand pressed hard to the wound. Her other hand’s empty now. Dagger’s gone—confiscated the second she blinked wrong. She knows it too. I can see it in her jaw, clenched so tight it could crack.
“You’re goin’ to open it up if you keep sittin’ like that,” I say.
“Fuck you,” she mutters, thick with accent and venom.
There she is. I grin to myself and take the next turn harder than necessary. She slides an inch across the leather and hisses, hand tightening against her side.
“Watch the language,” I say mildly. “You’re a lady again.”
She laughs—short, humourless. “You dragged me out of a bloodbath and threw me into a motor like stolen stock.”
“Aye,” I say. “Efficient.”
Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, wild and bright. “You think you can just take me?”
I don’t answer straight away. I let the silence stretch, let the road speak for me. Streetlights blur past. Belfast gives way to dark hedgerows and stone walls.
“I don’t think,” I say eventually. “I know.”
She shifts, testing her strength. Always checking exits. Always calculating. It used to make me proud. Now it just makes me tighten my grip on the wheel.
“You should’ve let me bleed,” she says. “Would’ve been cleaner.”
I glance back at her again. “Don’t talk shite.”
Her lips curl. “You don’t own me, Finn.”
That one lands low and slow. I pull off the main road and onto the private lane without warning. Gravel crunches. Trees crowd in. The headlights carve a tunnel through the dark.
“Ye’re right,” I say calmly. “Not yet.”
She stills. I feel it more than see it.
The gates appear ahead—tall iron, crest cut deep into the metal. O’Callaghan. Old money. Older violence. The kind of place that doesn’t forgive and doesn’t forget. I slow just enough for the sensors to catch us. The gates begin to open, heavy and deliberate.
Her breath stutters. Just once. “This is kidnapping,” she says, voice hoarse.
I pull through as the gates swing wide, tyres crossing the threshold like a line being drawn in blood.
“This,” I correct, “is comin’ home.”
The estate rises out of the dark—stone and shadow, lights burning warm behind thick glass. Safe. Fortified. Mine. I park hard in the gravel drive, engine still running. Not gentle. Not kind. Possessive as hell.
I kill the engine and turn in my seat, finally giving her my full attention.
And she looks at me like she’s already decided which knife she’ll use first. Good.
I’m out of the motor before she can gather herself.
She’s already moving when I open the door—trying to swing her legs out, refusing to meet my eye.
Stubborn to the last breath. Same as she was at seventeen.
“I’m fine,” she snaps as I reach for her. “Get off me.”
“Don’t be thick,” I say, already hauling her upright.
She yelps as pain flashes across her face, but she shoves at my chest anyway, nails biting through my shirt. “I said I don’t need your help.”
“Aye,” I reply flatly. “And I said you’re comin’ in.”
She tries to stand on her own. Lasts half a second before her knees buckle. I catch her without thinking, arm locked around her waist, dragging her close whether she likes it or not.
“Feck off,” she growls, breath hot against my jaw.
“Behave,” I mutter, lifting her clean off the ground.
She goes rigid in my arms, fury thrumming through her like a live wire. “Put me down, Finnian.”
“No.”
Simple as that. The front doors are already open by the time I reach them.
Of course they are. Word travels fast in a house like this.
The air inside is warm, smells of polish and peat smoke and money old enough to be dangerous.
A couple of the lads freeze when they see her—bloodied, breathing hard, very much alive.
“Get a doctor,” I snap. “Now.”
Someone moves. Quickly.
She twists in my grip, teeth bared. “You don’t get to parade me through your house like a trophy.”
“I’m not hidin’ you,” I say, carrying her straight through the hall. “They need to see you. They need to know you’re here.”
“And why’s that?” she spits.
“So they heal you properly.”
I dump her into a chair in the sitting room, not gently, not cruelly—just final. She winces, hand flying to her ribs again. I crouch in front of her, grip her wrist before she can swat me away. Her pulse is fast. Too fast.
“Don’t,” she warns.
I ignore it, peeling her coat open enough to assess the damage. Blood soaked through, but the wound’s clean. Entry, not exit. Lucky.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter. “You nearly bled out on the floor.”
“Shame,” she says bitterly.
I straighten, already done arguing. “You’re gettin’ stitched.”
“I don’t want—”
“Not a discussion.”
She glares at me, eyes bright with rage and pain. “You always like orderin’ women about, or am I just special?”
I snort. “You’re not nearly as special as you think.”
Her laugh is sharp. “Liar.”
Footsteps echo down the corridor. The house is moving now—efficient, quiet, loyal. A doctor. Towels. Supplies.
I glance back at her, then toward the kitchen. “I’ll get you a cuppa.”
She looks up at me like she might actually bite. “Get that shite away from me.”
A corner of my mouth twitches despite myself.
“Still mouthy,” I say. “Good sign.”
She slumps back against the chair as hands reach for her, voices murmuring low and focused. I step back, folding my arms, watching as they start to work. She won’t look at me.
Fine. Let her bleed. Let her rage. She’s not goin’ anywhere. And Valentine’s Day is comin’ whether she likes it or not.
She snaps the second the door shuts. “What the fuck am I doin’ here?” she roars, voice cracking off the stone walls. “You drag me into your feckin’ house like some half-dead stray and think I won’t ask why?”
I don’t answer.
She laughs—wild, broken. “Go on then. Say it. Murder me. Please. I’d rather be six feet under than rottin’ in an O’Callaghan bed.”
She spits my name like poison. Calls me a bastard. A traitor. A smug, violent fuck. Each word sharper than the last. I let her burn.
“I already stabbed you once,” she snarls, pacing the room like a caged animal. “And I’d do it again. Don’t look so smug—you remember it. Blood all over your hands, your shirt. Should’ve finished the job.”
“Aye,” I say quietly. “You should’ve.”
That stops her. Just for a second.
“Then why?” she demands. “Why am I here?”
I push off the wall and face her fully. “Yer da agreed.”
Her face empties. “Agreed to what?”
“You,” I say. “And me.”
She stares at me like I’ve finally lost my mind.
“You’re marryin’ me on Valentine’s Day.”
The silence that follows is violent. Then she moves.
She lunges for the side table—fast, feral, running on muscle memory and hate—fingers closing around the handle of a knife she didn’t clock before.
I’m on her in a blink. I slam her back against the wall hard enough to rattle the frame, my body pinning hers, my hand closing around her throat—not squeezing.
Not yet. Just there. Just enough to promise exactly how easily I could.
Her eyes go incandescent. “You don’t get to sell me,” she spits. “He doesn’t get to sell me.”
“He didn’t sell you,” I murmur, leaning in. “He chose survival.”
She struggles, nails digging into my wrist. “You think I’ll play wife for you?”
“No,” I say. “I think you’ll survive.”
I tighten my grip just enough to make the point land. “It’s a month,” I continue. “That’s all the deal needs. After that, your family and mine decide what comes next.”
Her breath stutters. Rage shakes her.
“Run again,” I say softly, “and I’ll tie you to the feckin’ chair.”
I release her and step back. “A month, Róisín,” I finish. “Survive it.”
She doesn’t answer. She explodes. She grabs the lamp and hurls it. It shatters. A chair goes next. Then a table. She rips at the bandage on her side, tearing the stitches clean out like she doesn’t even feel it. Blood spills fast.
The doctor rushes in, horrified. “Jesus Christ—stop—”
“Don’t touch me!” she screams, shoving him away. “Let me bleed!”
“She’s tearing herself open,” he snaps at me.
“Let her,” I say.
He stares like I’m mad. “She needs—”
“She needs to wear herself out.”
Reluctantly, he backs off.
She turns on me then, bloody, shaking, eyes bright with ruin. “This is on you.”
She punches me. Once. Twice. I laugh. Low. Unbothered. “That it?” I ask.
She swings again—and her body gives out. She collapses mid-motion, knees buckling, blood slicking her hands as she crumples. I catch her before she hits the floor.
She fights even then, weak and furious. “Let… go…”
I lift her anyway. Carry her. Up the stairs. Down the corridor. Into a room that’s already hers whether she likes it or not. I lay her on the bed—not gentle, not careless. Final. She’s unconscious before I straighten. I look down at her, blood on my shirt, her blood on my hands again.
“A month,” I murmur.
The door closes behind me.