Chapter 6 A Possession Performed #2
Her lips curve—slow, dangerous, practiced. “I always do,” she says softly. “That’s how they never see it coming.”
The car slows. Cameras flash ahead. Voices rise. Showtime.
“Finn! Finnian! Over here!”
“Róisín—look this way! Smile for us!”
Cameras surge forward as the doors swing open, flashes popping so fast it turns the foyer white-hot. Voices stack on top of each other—press, old allies, enemies pretending to be neither.
“Is this a reconciliation?”
“Wedding rumours—any truth to them?”
“Lady Malloy, how does it feel to be back at Finnian O’Callaghan’s side?”
I don’t slow. I angle my body just enough to shield her without blocking the view. My hand settles at her lower back, firm, guiding.
She murmurs without moving her lips. “If you squeeze any harder, they’ll think you’re afraid I’ll run.”
“I am,” I murmur back. “Smile.”
She does. Sweet, lethal, the kind that once ruined me.
“Finnian!” someone shouts. “Is peace finally back on the table?”
“Aye,” I say smoothly, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles for the cameras. “That’s the idea.”
Her fingers tense in mine. She leans closer, voice like a blade wrapped in velvet. “Careful. You’re laying it on thick.”
“You’re enjoying it,” I reply. “Look at them. They’re eating it up.”
A woman near the barricade gasps. “They look just like they used to.”
“True love never dies,” someone else calls.
Róisín lets out a soft laugh, perfectly pitched for the microphones. Only I hear the truth beneath it. “Say that again and I’ll stab you in front of God and everyone.”
I grin for the cameras. “That’d ruin the evening, wee rose.”
We start up the steps together, flashes chasing us. My thumb strokes once, slow, just above the curve of her hip. She inhales sharply but doesn’t pull away.
“Behave,” she whispers.
“You first,” I answer.
Behind us, the doors close. Ahead, the music swells, chandeliers blazing, the lie fully formed now—beautiful and dangerous. And we walk in like we own the bloody world. I spot him before she does.
Standing just off to the side of the main floor, drink in hand, posture loose and satisfied like a man admiring work already done. Her da looks exactly as he always has—untouched by consequence, smug in the knowledge that the world keeps bending to accommodate him.
My hand tightens at her back. Too late. She sees him.
I feel it immediately—the change in her body, the way her spine goes rigid, the way something old and violent wakes up behind her eyes. Her smile doesn’t falter for the room, but I know that look. I’ve known it since we were young and reckless and thought knives solved everything.
Her hand starts to drift toward the slit of her dress. I intercept her without slowing, fingers closing around her wrist like it’s nothing more than an affectionate gesture for the cameras. I keep my voice low, calm, almost bored.
“Don’t.”
She tilts her head toward me, smile still in place. “It’s Valentine’s,” she murmurs. “Thought I’d give him my heart.”
I slide my other hand down smoothly, retrieving the blade from her thigh with practiced ease. The metal is warm from her skin. “This is a gala for peace,” I say under my breath.
Her eyes flick to mine. Bright. Lethal. “Aye,” she says sweetly. “Peace. Like how I want to gut my da to pieces.”
I tuck the knife into my jacket, fingers lingering just long enough to remind her I have it now. She exhales through her nose, controlled, furious—and lets me guide her forward. Her father steps into our path as if summoned.
“Róisín,” he says warmly. “You’ve grown even more beautiful.”
She doesn’t bother hiding her disgust. “That’s what time does when it doesn’t kill you.”
His smile twitches but holds. He turns to me next. “Finnian. You clean up well.”
“So do lies,” I reply.
He chuckles, unbothered, and gestures to an attendant hovering nearby. The woman steps forward and places something into his hands. A violin. My chest tightens before I can stop it. He offers it to her like a benediction. Like a command dressed up as nostalgia.
“You’re here to play,” he says smoothly. “It’s tradition. Valentine’s Eve deserves a bit of beauty.”
Róisín stares at the violin. For a moment, the room fades—the music, the voices, the cameras, all of it swallowed by the weight of that instrument in her hands. She takes it slowly, fingers reverent, careful, like it might break her if she’s not gentle enough.
I watch her face change. And I know—absolutely know—that whatever peace this night was meant to sell… It’s already bleeding out.
She lifts her chin and turns to her father. Her smile is soft. Dutiful. Perfect. “Of course,” she says lightly. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you. You’ve already taken such care arranging my future.”
The words land sweet. The meaning is anything but.
She doesn’t wait for his response. She turns and walks toward the stage, spine straight, violin cradled against her like a relic.
The room parts for her without being asked.
Eyes follow. Whispers ripple. Her da watches her go, pleased, and steps forward to claim the attention he’s always believed was his by right.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he announces, voice booming warmly through the hall, “thank you for joining us tonight in the spirit of peace and reconciliation.”
A murmur of approval.
“This year’s gala is especially meaningful,” he continues. “As we celebrate not only unity among the families—but the upcoming marriage of my daughter, Róisín Malloy, to Finnian O’Callaghan. Two days from now.”
Applause swells. I don’t move. I watch her take her place beneath the lights, the applause washing over her like rain she refuses to acknowledge. She doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t look at me either. She raises the violin. Silence falls.
The first note cuts through the room like a blade drawn slow. Paganini. Caprice No. 24. Of course it is.
The piece is vicious—technically brutal, merciless in its demand. It leaves no room for softness, no place to hide. Her bow moves with surgical precision, fingers flying, commanding the instrument like it was forged for her hands alone.
The room is spellbound. Every conversation dies. Every breath holds. She plays like she’s bleeding out everything she’s not allowed to say—rage, grief, love twisted into something sharp and unrecognisable. The melody snarls and seduces, rises and fractures, daring anyone listening to look away.
I can’t look away. I’ve seen her play before. In chapels. In shadows. For me. But never like this. This isn’t beauty offered. This is violence performed.
When the final note snaps into silence, the room stays frozen—caught between awe and fear, unsure whether it’s allowed to breathe again. And I know, with bone-deep certainty, that whatever peace this night was meant to sell… She’s just torn it apart in front of all of them.
The applause crashes down like a wave. It’s loud, earned, relentless.
People rise to their feet without even realising they’ve done it, hands stinging, faces lit with awe.
They cheer her name. They cheer the performance.
They cheer the illusion that what they just witnessed was beauty and not a blade drawn slow across the room, and she deserves every second of it.
The bell rings—clear, authoritative—calling everyone back to their seats as staff begin to move with practiced efficiency.
Chairs scrape, conversations burst back into life, buzzing and breathless.
Someone presses a glass of champagne into her hand as she steps down from the stage.
She takes it absently, still riding whatever edge she carved into herself up there.
Her cheeks are faintly flushed, eyes bright and distant, alive in a way that hurts to look at.
She moves toward me through the crowd. Every step she takes is deliberate, controlled.
Like she’s still playing something only she can hear.
I watch the way people turn as she passes.
The way men stare, women lean in, hungry for proximity to that kind of power.
They don’t touch her, they don’t dare. Good.
She stops in front of me, champagne held loose in her fingers, the violin already gone from her hands like it was never real at all.
I can still hear the echo of the music in my bones.
I think about her fingers—how they moved, how precise they were, how easily they could ruin a man who underestimated them.
I think about the way she held herself under those lights, unbowed, unapologetic, utterly hers.
I want her pressed against me somewhere quiet and dark.
I want her furious and breathing hard. I want her whispering threats she doesn’t mean and promises she doesn’t know she’s making.
I want to remind her she’s alive. I take the glass from her hand before she can lift it, set it aside, and lean in just enough that my mouth is close to her ear.
“Sit,” I murmur. “Before I forget where we are.”
Her lips twitch, not quite a smile. We turn together and take our seats as dinner is announced, the performance ending and the next act beginning, but my attention never leaves her, not for a second.
Because now that I’ve seen her like that— now that I know exactly how she can command a room—I’m not sure how I’m meant to survive the rest of the night without touching her.
We sit among them—donors, lieutenants, old enemies smiling into crystal glasses—while dinner is served in careful courses and she becomes exactly what they expect her to be. Laughing at the right moments, leaning in, bright-eyed, effortless.
She’s dazzling. She talks with her hands. Tilts her head when she listens. The diamond on her finger throws light every time she moves, and I hate every bastard who notices.