Chapter 6 A Possession Performed #3
I can’t help myself. My hand slides beneath the table, slow and deliberate, settling between her thighs like it belongs there. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She stiffens for half a breath—then keeps smiling, keeps talking, keeps the lie alive. Good girl.
I lean closer, mouth near her ear, my voice pitched low and fond for anyone watching. “Aye,” I murmur, thumb pressing just enough to make the point. “Keep smiling, wee rose. Let them all hear ye’re mine.”
Her laugh doesn’t falter, but her eyes do.
She turns her head a fraction, teeth bared in a smile that could pass for charming if you didn’t know her. “Move your hand,” she says sweetly, “or I’ll stab you with the dessert fork.”
My grip tightens. Heat coils low and dangerous.
“Later,” I whisper. “We’re entertaining.”
Her knee bumps mine under the table—sharp, warning. “I mean it, Finn.”
I meet her smile with one of my own, calm and pleased, the kind that makes men uneasy without knowing why. “So do I.”
The clink of glasses rises. Conversation swells. The band strikes up again. And I’m hard with the knowledge that she’s furious, beautiful, and sitting right here—playing her part while every nerve in her body screams my name.
I slide my hand higher beneath the table, the silk of her dress whispering against my fingers. Her skin burns hot beneath my touch as I trace lazy circles up her inner thigh. She keeps her composure perfectly intact—chin lifted, smile fixed—but I can feel the tension coiled within her.
"You're playing a dangerous game," she murmurs through her teeth, never dropping that perfect smile.
"I'm not playing," I reply, finding the edge of her underwear. I trace the delicate lace with my fingertips before pushing it aside.
She inhales sharply but doesn't move, doesn't flinch, doesn't give a single thing away to our audience. I slip one finger inside her, finding her slick and ready despite her protests. Her knuckles go white around her wine glass.
"Problem?" I ask innocently as I begin a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"You're a monster," she breathes, the words barely audible as she nods pleasantly at something the banker's wife is saying across the table.
I add a second finger, curling them just so, finding that spot that makes her thighs tense beneath my hand. "And yet you're soaking wet for me." I keep my voice low, for her ears only, while adding a third finger to stretch her.
Her breath catches, but she barely misses a beat in her conversation with the Donovan patriarch across the table. "As I was saying, Mr. Donovan, the Paganini requires a certain emotional depth that—"
I curl my fingers inside her, pressing against that spot that makes her voice falter for just a heartbeat.
"—that many performers overlook," she recovers smoothly, crossing her legs to trap my hand more firmly against her. A warning, not an invitation. But I'm already too far gone to heed it.
"You played beautifully tonight," the silver-haired man says, raising his glass to her. "Your father must be proud."
"He is," she agrees, voice steady despite my relentless rhythm beneath the table. "Though I suspect he values the political advantages more than my musical talents."
I chuckle at that, drawing attention to myself. "My future wife is too modest," I say, thumb finding her clit as I speak. "She's extraordinary in every way."
Her thighs clench around my hand, but her smile falters just enough that I notice. The slight tremble of her lower lip. The darkening of her eyes. She's close. So close I can feel it in the way her body tightens around my fingers.
"Extraordinary indeed," says MacTavish from his place at the table, raising his glass. "To new alliances."
The table joins in the toast. I remove my hand just as Róisín reaches for her glass, leaving her teetering on the edge. Her eyes snap to mine, murderous.
"To new alliances," I echo, never breaking eye contact.
She drinks deeply, throat working, rage and frustration battling for dominance in her expression. When she sets her glass down, her composure is perfect once more, but I can see the flush creeping up her neck, the slight tremor in her hands.
"If you'll excuse me," she says, voice honey-smooth. "I need to freshen up before dessert."
She rises gracefully, and I stand with her, the gentleman I'm supposed to be. But as she turns to leave, I catch her wrist, pulling her close enough that I can whisper in her ear, "I'll finish what I started later."
Her smile never wavers, but her eyes promise violence. "I look forward to it," she says, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Then, for my ears alone: "I'll make you beg for mercy."
I let her go, watching as she glides between tables, a vision in red silk that draws every eye in the room. Mine included. The sway of her hips is deliberate, a reminder of what waits beneath that dress. What belongs to me.
MacTavish leans toward me once she's gone. "You've done well for yourself, O’Callaghan. She'll make a fine addition to your... enterprise."
I take my seat, schooling my expression into something appropriately pleased yet businesslike. "The alliance benefits us both."
"Does it?" His eyebrows lift. "Her father seems to think he's getting the better end of the bargain."
My smile hardens. "Her father can think whatever he likes."
Donovan chuckles, swirling amber liquid in his glass. "The real question is whether she's as... cooperative as she appears."
Something dangerous stirs in my chest. A need to claim what's mine. To remind these men that whatever business arrangements we've made, whatever politics are at play, Róisín is not part of the negotiation.
"She's exactly where she needs to be," I say, voice level but cold enough that the temperature around us seems to drop. "As am I."
MacTavish raises his glass in acknowledgment, but his eyes glitter with something calculating. "Just remember," he says, "peace treaties can be... fragile things."
The threat isn't subtle. I lean forward, elbows on the table, and meet his gaze directly. "So are kneecaps, John. And I'd hate for you to learn that lesson firsthand."
The table falls silent. Donovan's face pales slightly. Even MacTavish has the good sense to look away first.
"Just an observation," he murmurs, retreating.
I sit back, adjusting my cufflinks. "Noted."
When Róisín returns, the room shifts toward her like flowers to the sun.
She's fixed her lipstick, smoothed her hair.
The only sign of our earlier encounter is a slight darkness in her eyes as she reclaims her seat beside me.
I notice the small silver dessert knife she picks up, turning it slowly between her fingers as she rejoins the conversation.
"Gentlemen," she says, voice like velvet over steel, "I couldn't help but overhear your concerns about our arrangement as I was returning."
MacTavish shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "Just business talk, Lady Malloy. Nothing to trouble yourself with."
She smiles, the expression never reaching her eyes as she balances the knife point on her fingertip.
"I find it interesting that men like you still believe the women in our world are merely decorative.
" The knife spins, catching the light. "When my Da had Killian Brady executed for questioning our family's resolve, do you know who held the blade? "
The table falls silent. Even I feel the shift in the air as she transforms before them—the charming, talented bride-to-be melting away to reveal something far more dangerous.
"I was fourteen," she continues, voice conversational as she tests the edge of the knife with her thumb. "Brady thought the same thing you do—that I was just my Da’s pretty little bargaining chip."
Her words hang in the air like smoke. I watch the men's faces shift—from dismissal to discomfort to the dawning realization that they've severely miscalculated. My chest tightens with something like pride, something like fear. She's magnificent in her danger.
"Brady begged," she continues, still toying with the knife. "Not at first. At first, he laughed. Called me a little girl playing dress-up." Her smile is razor-thin. "He wasn't laughing by the end."
I slide my hand to her lower back, possessive. A warning or a claim—I'm not sure even I know which.
"What my fiancée means," I say smoothly, "is that underestimating either of our families would be unwise."
She leans into my touch, just slightly. Just enough to make it look like unity instead of the battlefield it is.
"Precisely," she agrees, setting the knife down. "Now, shall we discuss the Derry shipments, or would you prefer to hear more about my childhood hobbies?"
MacTavish clears his throat, reaching for his whiskey. "Derry seems the safer topic."
The conversation drifts back to business, but the room never fully recovers.
It can’t. Róisín sits beside me like a coiled wire—polite, composed, lethal beneath the silk.
They all feel it. Every man at this table knows now that she isn’t decoration, isn’t leverage, isn’t a pretty peace offering wrapped in red.
She’s a warning.
Dinner stretches on. Deals are implied, not inked.
Smiles are careful. No one underestimates us again, not tonight.
When the final course is cleared and the bell rings for dispersal, I rise first. I offer my arm and she takes it.
For the cameras, for the crowd, for the lie we sell so well it almost feels like truth.
We walk out together under crystal lights and murmured approval, Belfast’s most dangerous fairytale restored—old lovers, future spouses, violence neatly buttoned into tailored suits and evening gowns.
Outside, the night air is cold and sharp.
She exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours.
I lean close, my mouth near her ear. “Ye played that room like a blade,” I murmur. “I’m proud of you.”
Her smile never reaches her eyes. “Don’t be,” she says softly. “This is me being kind.”
The car door opens. I guide her in, my hand firm at her back. Possessive. Protective. Damned. As the door shuts and the city lights blur past, I know two things with absolute certainty: The peace will not last. And neither of us wants it to.