Chapter 5 Velvet Vows & Bleeding Strings
Chapter five
Velvet Vows I refuse to give it the satisfaction of showing. I walk past him and reach into the wardrobe myself.
“I’ll wear what I choose.”
I pull out something darker. Cleaner. Mine. He watches me with narrowed eyes as I lay it out on the bed, hands steady. A small victory. I take it.
“Fine,” he says after a beat. “That.”
I don’t thank him. He turns away again, this time to the dresser.
When he faces me, he’s holding something else entirely.
The necklace. Cold gold catches the light, heavy and unmistakable.
Rubies set deep, dark as drying blood. At the centre, the O’Callaghan crest—old, deliberate, meant to be seen and recognised. My stomach tightens.
“No,” I say flatly.
Finn steps closer. “You’ll wear it.”
“It’s a collar,” I snap.
“It’s a mark.”
He lifts it, letting it dangle between us, metal whispering softly. The sound is wrong in this room. Too intimate.
“You’ll wear my mark,” he says, voice low and even, “or I’ll make a new one on your skin.”
The threat isn’t shouted. It doesn’t need to be.
I hold his gaze, hate burning hot and familiar—but my body betrays me, a shiver running through my spine at the promise layered beneath the words.
I despise it. I despise that he notices.
I despise that he smiles. And I hate most of all that I don’t step back.
His gaze drops, not to the necklace, to my neck. There’s a pause—small, deliberate—and then his mouth curves faintly, like he’s cataloguing something that belongs to him.
“You missed a few,” he says quietly.
My fingers curl into a fist. He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat of him without touching, his eyes tracing the line of my throat, the faint bruising I didn’t bother to check for this morning.
“Still there,” he continues. “From last night.”
I lift my chin. “You sound proud.”
“I am,” he replies.
That’s enough. I shove past him, shoulder clipping his chest hard enough to be a warning, and cross the room to where my shoes sit by the chair. Sensible heels. Dark leather. Something I can stand in. Something I chose. My hands shake as I slide my feet into them. Not fear. Fury.
I hate that my body remembers before my mind catches up. Hate that my pulse jumps when I think about his hand at my throat, claiming. Hate that I didn’t sleep because part of me was still there, pinned between wall and want, burning.
I straighten slowly, grounding myself in the feel of leather, the weight of my body over my heels.
A woman on her feet again. A woman who refuses to be reduced to marks and metal.
He watches me the whole time. I don’t look at him.
If I do, I might do something reckless. I smooth my dress.
Square my shoulders. Lady Malloy, rebuilt by spite alone.
Behind me, his voice is calm. Certain. “Don’t bother hiding them,” he says. “The necklace will sit right over it.”
He stands behind me as he fastens the necklace. The O’Callaghan crest sits just below my throat—too close to last night’s marks, too deliberate to be anything but a claim. I don’t look at him. I look at myself.
The mirror gives me back a stranger—composed, dark-eyed, silk smoothed flat, an old family mark resting where my pulse jumps hardest. I look expensive. I look owned.
Finn’s reflection watches me like a starving man. His hand settles at my hip, fingers curving with slow certainty, thumb pressing just enough to remind me how easily he could pull me back into him. He leans in, mouth close to my ear, voice low.
“Christ,” he murmurs. “Look at us.”
My jaw tightens.
“You wear it well,” he continues softly. “Like you were made to stand there with me.”
I feel it—the heat, the pull, the way my body wants to betray me again.
“No,” I say, stepping forward and out of his reach. “We’re late.”
I turn before he can say anything else.
“Let’s go.”
We walk downstairs together. Side by side this time.
No distance. No pretence. His hand rests at my lower back as we move through the house—not gripping, not guiding, just there.
Possessive. Seen. The staff pause as we pass, eyes lowering respectfully, the rhythm of the house adjusting around us like this is already familiar.
Finn speaks as we walk, voice low and casual, as if we’re not hurtling toward something irreversible. “The priest’s waiting in the green sitting room,” he says. “Tea’s been set. He likes things orderly.”
“Of course he does,” I reply lightly.
“You’ll behave,” he adds, not a question.
I smile without warmth. “I always do.”
The priest is already on his feet when we enter. He’s older than I expected, kindly-eyed, a little flustered by the speed of all this. He chuckles as we sit.
“Normally,” he says, smiling between us, “we begin these meetings at least a year before the wedding.”
Finn hums. “Circumstances change.”
The priest laughs again, clearly assuming this is romantic rather than ominous. “Well. God works in mysterious ways.”
I lower my gaze demurely. He launches into it then—the familiar Catholic script. Commitment. Sacrament. The seriousness of marriage. The importance of unity and patience and prayer. Finn answers smoothly when prompted. I nod when appropriate. When tea is brought in, I rise immediately.
“Allow me,” I say, reaching for the pot.
The priest looks pleased. Finn watches me with that unreadable intensity again.
I pour carefully, hands steady, passing each cup in turn like this is my house and this is my role and nothing inside me is screaming.
My movements are precise, graceful, learned young and perfected over years of expectation.
“Thank you, Lady Malloy,” the priest says warmly.
I smile, soft and proper. “Of course, Father.”
I sit back down, hands folded neatly in my lap, necklace cool and inescapable against my skin. Lady Malloy, at your service. The priest finishes his final notes with a satisfied nod, clearly pleased with himself.
“Well,” he says, standing, “I think we’re off to a strong start. A great deal of passion here. That’s a blessing, when properly guided with obedience from the woman.”
Finn rises first. Polite, respectful, the man he knows how to be when it matters.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Father,” he says.