Chapter 4 Violence of Wanting Her #2
“You’ll manage,” I reply.
She blinks at me. Slowly. “I don’t believe I will.”
Her fingers slide together atop the table, posture immaculate now, all fury tucked away behind manners she hasn’t used since she was a girl. It’s a performance. A dangerous one.
“I’d hate to make a mess,” she continues lightly. “You seem very particular about appearances.”
I snort. Quiet. Unamused. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Play nice,” I say. “You’re bad at it.”
Her mouth tightens, then curves again—this time sharper. “Funny. I was thinking the same about you.” She glances pointedly at the knives stacked beside my plate. Then back to me. “Are you going to keep those all night, or are you just enjoying the view?”
The table goes still again. I lean back in my chair, eyes never leaving her face. “Careful.”
“Oh?” she murmurs. “Or what?”
Or I’ll forget where we are, I think. Or I’ll stop pretending I don’t want to put my hands on you.
“You’re testing me,” I say instead.
She tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And you already know how that ends.”
Her foot brushes mine under the table. Not accidental. Not subtle. “I might be willing to risk it,” she says quietly.
Heat curls low in my gut—slow, unwelcome, impossible to ignore.
I lean in just enough that only she can hear me. “You don’t want sweet, Róisín.”
Her breath stutters. Just once. “No,” she whispers back. “I don’t.”
I straighten again before I do something I can’t explain away later. The steak remains untouched between us. The knives stay by my plate. The tension coils tighter, darker, waiting. And we both know this is only the beginning.
I’ve had enough. The sniping. The performance.
The way she’s sitting there like she’s daring me to lose my grip in front of the whole table.
I reach for my knife. Metal slides against porcelain—clean, deliberate.
I cut her steak into neat, precise pieces like I’m doing it for myself.
Like this isn’t a line I’m crossing on purpose.
Across the table, my father exhales sharply.
“For God’s sake, Finn,” he mutters.
I ignore him. I spear a piece with my fork and lift it, turning toward Róisín slowly. Intentionally. Giving her every chance to stop this.
“Eat,” I say.
Her eyes flash. “No.” Not polite. Not playful. Back to herself. Furious. Proud. “I’m not a child,” she snaps. “Put that down.”
I don’t. I bring the fork closer, holding it just below her mouth. Not touching. Not forcing. Waiting.
“You want control,” I murmur, low enough that only she hears. “There it is. Take it.”
Her jaw tightens. The whole table is frozen now—every man pretending not to watch while watching anyway. “I said no,” she repeats.
I tilt my head. “You said you were hungry.”
“I said you were being clever.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth. Back to my eyes. Heat snaps between us like a live wire. I don’t move the fork. I don’t blink. Róisín leans forward and bites it. Clean. Deliberate. Teeth closing around the fork without breaking eye contact for a single second.
Something in my chest goes violently still. She pulls back, chewing slowly, eyes locked on mine the entire time. No shame. No submission. Just possession turned inside out.
My father huffs in disgust. “Christ.”
I don’t hear him. All I see is her mouth. All I feel is the way my grip tightens on the fork like it’s the only thing keeping me seated.
Róisín swallows. “Happy?” she asks softly.
No. I am ruined.
I draw the fork back, jaw clenched so tight it aches, and cut another piece before I remember where we are—or why we’re pretending this is still dinner.
She sits back in her chair like she hasn’t just detonated something inside me, lips still curved in that infuriating, knowing way.
I don’t look away. I can’t. Because I already know, this ends nowhere near a dining table.
My father clears his throat. Loud. Deliberate. Irritated in that way that means he’s already decided this has gone on long enough.
“This,” he says sharply, gesturing between us with his glass, “is a spectacle. You’re meant to be an olive branch, not a bloody performance.”
Róisín doesn’t even look at him at first. She swallows. Slowly. Then she turns her head and fixes him with a smile that is all teeth and absolutely no respect.
“You should relax,” she says lightly. “This isn’t the worst show your son and I have put on together.”
The table freezes. I feel it before I hear it—the collective inhale, the barely contained disbelief.
My father’s face darkens. “Mind your mouth.”
“Oh, I am,” Róisín replies, sweet as poison. “Finn’s always been very particular about that.”
Someone chokes. Someone else snorts before they can stop themselves. I close my eyes for a brief, blessed second.
My father pushes his chair back hard enough that it scrapes across the floor. “That is enough,” he snaps, standing. “Absolutely enough.”
Róisín tilts her head. Innocent. Deadly. “You brought me here. What did you expect?”
His gaze cuts to me, furious. “Get her under control.”
I exhale slowly through my nose. “She is under control.”
That does not help. My father mutters something sharp and unrepeatable under his breath, turns on his heel, and storms out of the dining room without another word. The doors slam hard enough to rattle the glassware.
Silence. Then—quiet, immediate, uncontrollable—A few of the lads snicker. Low. Disbelieving. Delighted. Róisín leans back in her chair like she’s just finished dessert, utterly unbothered, eyes flicking back to me with that wicked, knowing glint.
I sigh. Long. Tired. Resigned in the way of a man who knows he’s already lost the war and hasn’t even made it to the battlefield yet.
“You enjoy chaos far too much,” I mutter.
She smiles at me like a woman who knows exactly what she’s done. “And you,” she replies softly, “have always loved it when I misbehave.”
The lads laugh outright now. I pinch the bridge of my nose and shake my head once. Dinner is officially ruined. And somehow, she’s never looked more pleased.
The laughter fades. Chairs settle. The room is still buzzing with what she’s just detonated. Róisín turns to me slowly, folding her hands on the table like she’s being exceptionally well behaved.
“Well,” she says, voice smooth and pointed, “since I’ve apparently scandalised your household and sent your da into a fit—am I dismissed?” Her eyes flick to the door. Then back to me. Brows lift. “Or do I need written permission first?”
A few of the lads snort again before they can stop themselves. I drop my hand from my face and look at her properly. Calm. Level. Entirely done pretending this evening is anything other than foreplay with witnesses.
“You’re not dismissed,” I say.
Her mouth tightens. “Of course I’m not.”
I push my chair back and stand. The movement alone quiets the room. “I’ll walk you,” I add.
Her gaze snaps to mine, something hot and unreadable flashing there before she schools it away. “By all means,” she says, rising to her feet. “Wouldn’t want to get lost in your own house.”
I gesture toward the door, palm open, not touching her. “After you, a rós.”
She passes me, silk brushing close enough to be a warning. And every man at that table knows exactly where this is headed. I don’t take her far. Just off the corridor. A side room meant for nothing important—except that it locks. The door shuts harder than it needs to.
Róisín turns on me instantly, fire already lit. “You might want to get your house under control,” she snaps. “Your men are starting to think this is a show.”
I crowd her back a step without touching her. “Watch your mouth,” I say quietly.
Her laugh is sharp. Dangerous. “You’ve always been very interested in my mouth, Finn.”
That does it. I grab her wrist and haul her into me, slamming her back against the nearest wall. Not gentle. Not careful. My forearm cages her in, heat and fury crashing together in the narrow space between us.
“You don’t get to speak like that in my house,” I growl.
She tilts her chin up, eyes blazing. “Or what?”
God help me. My hand slides up—fingers closing around her throat. Not squeezing. Never squeezing. Just there. Just enough to remind her how easily I could. Her breath stutters. Not fear. Defiance.
“I hate you,” she says, voice low and vicious.
“Say it again,” I snap.
She bares her teeth. “I hate you.”
Something inside me breaks clean in half. I kiss her. Hard. Mean. All teeth and fury, mouths colliding like we’re trying to punish each other into submission. She gasps into it, nails digging into my hair, yanking me closer like she’s decided drowning is preferable to breathing.
I lift her without thinking. She wraps her legs around my waist on instinct, silk hitching, bodies locked together like this is muscle memory instead of madness. The wall bites into her back. My grip tightens reflexively, holding her there like she belongs exactly where she is.
Her mouth breaks from mine just long enough to spit, “You’re a bastard.”
“Aye,” I murmur against her jaw. “And you’re shaking.”
She is. With rage. With heat. With something neither of us has any business touching again. I press my forehead to hers, breathing hard, the room spinning just enough to be dangerous.
"I fucking despise this," I say against her lips, but I'm already yanking her silk dress up around her waist, my hands rough on her thighs. "I despise what you do to me."
She bites my lower lip hard enough to draw blood. "Then stop."
I answer by shoving her panties aside, testing her with my fingers. She's soaked. Ready. The knowledge sends a primal surge through me.
"You don't want me to stop," I growl, working her with my thumb as she writhes against the wall. "You never have."
Her head falls back, exposing the column of her throat. I attack it with my teeth, marking her where everyone will see. Mine. The thought is savage, possessive in a way I have no right to be anymore.