Chapter 8 Chains Before the Altar
Chapter eight
Chains Before the Altar
Finnian
Iwake before the house does. That alone tells me something’s wrong.
The O’Callaghan estate knows how to breathe on a wedding morning—staff moving soft and reverent, guards rotating with ceremony-level precision, the weight of tradition settling into the walls like incense. Today should hum with inevitability.
Instead, it’s quiet. Too quiet.
I’m already dressed in black trousers and a white shirt when I step into the corridor, cufflinks still on the dresser, jacket untouched. The cold stone under my bare feet grounds me as I move, every instinct sharp and awake.
“Róisín?” I ask the first man I see.
He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her since the two of you arrived last night.”
That unease in my gut tightens. She didn’t sleep in my wing, that was deliberate. I gave her space—too much, maybe—but I told myself it was strategy, less fire, fewer sparks before the altar.
I take the stairs two at a time. Her rooms are untouched. Bed made, curtains open, no sign of her anywhere but the faintest trace of her scent still clinging to the air—soap, metal, something sharp underneath.
“She wouldn’t,” I mutter to myself.
But she would. Of course she would. It’s Valentine’s Day. It’s our wedding day. And Róisín Malloy has never once walked willingly into a cage.
I stop at the window overlooking the south gardens, scanning the grounds, my jaw tight enough to ache. If she’s gone— No. Not gone. She wouldn’t get far. She knows better.
Still. I rake a hand through my hair and turn sharply, already calling for my men, already calculating exits, blind spots, timelines. I haven’t seen her since the safehouse. And that scares me more than I’m willing to admit.
I check the south hall, the garden doors, the servants’ stairwell. Each empty space tightens something in my chest. Men start to appear at the edges of my vision—alert, waiting for orders I haven’t given yet.
“She hasn’t left the grounds,” one says carefully.
I don’t slow. “She won’t.”
The garage door is already lifting by the time the thought finishes forming. Cold air. Concrete. Oil and metal and money. Rows of cars gleaming under security lights—keys locked away, engines dormant, everything exactly where it should be. Except her.
She’s already moving when I see her—bare feet slapping concrete, hair loose and wild down her back, one hand clutching something she’s yanked from the workbench drawer that won’t save her. She clocks me in the reflection of a car door and bolts.
“Róisín—”
She runs. Not toward the doors like a fool. No—she veers sharp, slips between two vehicles, ducks under the half-lifted garage door before I can grab her coat. The cold hits me a heartbeat later as I follow, boots pounding, pulse roaring in my ears.
The grounds open up in front of her—dark lawn, frost-kissed hedges, the long drive stretching toward the gates she knows she’ll never reach. She’s fast. Always has been.
I take the steps two at a time, breath steady, tracking her the way I’ve tracked men across worse terrain.
She cuts left, skirts the fountain, skirts the rose garden like she remembers every inch of this place even now.
Her robe flares behind her, flashes of bare thigh, the muscle in her legs burning as she pushes harder.
She glances back once. Just once. And fuck—it nearly stops me cold. Not fear in her eyes. Not panic. Just that sharp, defiant fire. The same look she wore at seventeen when she used to outrun me down the cliffs just to prove she could.
I gain ground. She darts for the trees at the edge of the property, branches clawing at her hair, the earth slick beneath her feet. She stumbles—recovers—keeps going, teeth clenched, breath tearing out of her in short, furious gasps.
“Don’t,” I call, not a warning. A plea I hate myself for.
She ignores it. I close the distance in three strides.
Catch her wrist just as she tries to twist away, momentum spinning her back into me.
She fights like she always does—knee snapping up, elbow driving back, nails scraping for skin as she snarls something vicious and Gaelic I don’t bother translating.
I absorb it. Twist. Lock her in place. Her back hits the side of a blacked-out sedan parked near the drive, breath punching out of her as I cage her there, forearm braced beside her head, my body blocking every possible escape. Her chest heaves. Mine doesn’t.
“Let me go,” she spits, eyes blazing, defiance crackling between us like live wire.
I lean in, mouth near her ear, voice low, controlled, deadly calm. “One more time,” I tell her, tightening my grip just enough that she understands exactly what I mean, “and I’ll cuff ye to the feckin’ bed.”
She glares up at me—wild, furious, alive— Like she might actually enjoy testing that threat. She laughs—short, breathless, ugly with it.
“Cuff me if it helps ye sleep at night, Finn,” she says, chin lifting in challenge. “Wouldn’t be the first time you needed iron to keep me.”
I bare my teeth. “Careful.”
“Or what?” she fires back. “Ye’ll drag me to the altar in chains like a proper bastard?”
The words land because they’re true. Because we both know it.
“That’s enough,” I say, and there’s no heat in it now. Just decision.
I scoop her up before she can twist away again—one arm under her knees, the other across her back. She curses, fists pounding once against my chest before she stills, breath hard, eyes locked on mine with pure, incandescent hatred.
“Put me down.”
“No.”
I carry her through the doors like she weighs nothing.
The house is awake now—staff flattening themselves to the walls, heads bowed, eyes averted as we pass.
No one says a word. They know better. They always have.
Her nails dig into my shoulder. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to promise she could.
“Yer making a spectacle,” she mutters.
“Aye,” I say quietly. “So are you.”
I take the stairs without slowing, boots echoing, her body rigid in my arms. She stops fighting somewhere near the landing, not because she’s given up—but because she’s thinking.
That’s always been more dangerous. I shoulder open her door and set her on her feet inside, hands still firm on her arms.
“This is over,” I tell her. “For today.”
Her eyes flick to the windows. The door. The corners of the room. I see the calculation. Kill it. I step back and gesture once. Two of my men appear instantly, positioning themselves outside her door—solid, immovable, final.
“They don’t leave,” I say without looking away from her. “Not for anyone.”
She swallows. Just once. Then I turn to the women waiting in the hall—trusted, long-serving, loyal enough to die quiet deaths if needed.
“Help Lady Malloy prepare,” I say. “She’ll be treated with respect.”
One of them nods. “Of course.”
Róisín doesn’t look at them. She looks at me. This close, I can see it—the fear she’ll never admit to, buried under rage and pride and history.
“Don’t touch me,” she says softly to them. “Not today.”
I hold her gaze a beat longer than I should.
Then I step out, closing the door behind me.
The lock clicks. I don’t look back. I head for my wing, boots striking stone I’ve walked since I was a boy, halls dressed for celebration that feel more like a wake.
Flowers everywhere. White and red. Valentine’s Day bullshit.
Love and blood dressed up the same way they always are.
The door to my suite shuts behind me and I finally stop moving. I brace both hands on the dresser, bow my head once, breathing through my nose like it might keep the past from clawing up my throat.
She ran. Of course she did.
She always has—since we were young enough to think running meant freedom and not just another kind of cage.
I’d hoped, like a fool, that the night before had cracked something open between us.
That the blood, the way she’d shaken in my arms, the way she’d slept curled into me like muscle memory hadn’t forgotten— Christ.
I straighten and strip off my shirt, toss it aside, stare at my reflection like it might blink first. This isn’t about romance. This isn’t about love. This is about peace. Territory. Old debts paid in flesh and vows. Two families standing on a knife’s edge and choosing marriage instead of massacre.
And yet…
I open the cufflinks box. Gold. Heavy. O’Callaghan crest stamped deep enough to bruise skin if pressed hard enough. Everything in this house is meant to leave a mark. My hands still when I fasten them. A rare thing. She’ll hate me for today. She already does.
The suit goes on like armor—tailored, immaculate, designed to make men think twice before speaking out of turn.
I check the mirror once more, jaw set, eyes cold.
I can play the groom. I can play the politician.
I can stand at an altar and swear promises I don’t believe in anymore.
What I don’t know is whether she’ll forgive me for stopping her from running.
A knock at the door. “Church is ready, sir.”
I close my eyes for half a second. “Tell them I’m on my way.”
When I open them again, whatever softness I carried for her is locked down tight, buried where it can’t interfere. Because if Róisín Malloy walks down that aisle—I will not let her walk away again.
The church is already full when I arrive. Not just full—watching.
Saint Patrick’s bones-and-marble kind of grand. High vaulted ceilings disappearing into shadow, stained glass bleeding red and gold onto polished stone, candles burning like prayers people don’t really believe in. The air smells of incense and old money and expectation.
The kind of place where sins echo.
I take my place at the front, back straight, hands clasped, every inch the groom they expect. The O’Callaghans fill the first rows—dark suits, sharper eyes, loyalty worn like a second skin. Across the aisle, the Malloys arrive in quiet formation, polite nods exchanged like ceasefire agreements.
The city has turned out for this. Press clustered at the back. Politicians whispering behind gloved hands. Old enemies pretending to be friends because today demands it. Cameras flash as guests arrive, the sound sharp and relentless, like gunfire dressed up as celebration.
A wedding for peace. A wedding to end wars no one will name out loud. They look at me like royalty. Like a king about to be crowned. If they only knew.
The organ begins to murmur—low, anticipatory—and the priest confers with altar boys who look far too young to understand the weight of what’s about to happen. Bells toll somewhere outside, deep and slow, marking time like a countdown.
I check my watch once. Too early. She should be here by now.
I school my face into calm, but my jaw tightens as another minute slips past. My men are positioned discreetly along the side aisles, blends of black suits and vigilance.
Everything accounted for. Everything controlled.
Except her. I catch murmurs drifting through the pews.
Have you seen the bride?
They say she nearly didn’t agree.
After everything between the families—
Still, she’s beautiful. Dangerous, they say.
I don’t correct them. I glance toward the doors. Nothing. My chest tightens, slow and unwelcome. I signal subtly to one of my men. He nods and slips out a side door, already on it. I force myself to keep my posture relaxed, my expression bored, unimpressed—politics as usual.
Inside, though, something sharp coils tighter with every second.
If she doesn’t show—The organ swells, louder now, expectant.
I breathe in incense and steel my spine.
She will come. She has to. Because this city is watching.
And because if Róisín Malloy makes me wait at the altar, there will be hell to pay—and not just from me.
Five minutes past. Then ten. The organ loops a soft, patient phrase like it knows how this ends. Guests shift. Whispers ripple. Cameras hover, hungry. I turn just enough to catch my man’s eye near the side aisle and lift two fingers.
He’s on it. I step back toward the vestry, phone already in my hand, thumb pressing the call before I can talk myself out of it. One ring. Two.
“She’s resisting,” he says quietly, breath tight. “Hard.”
Of course she is.
“Define resisting,” I reply, voice level, groom-perfect.
“A lot of words. Some furniture. We’re—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Leave a mark and I’ll break your hands myself.”
A pause. Then, faintly, her voice in the background—sharp, furious, unmistakable. Good. She’s alive.
“I’ll come,” I say, already moving. “Stand down.”
“No need,” another voice cuts in, confident to the point of stupid. “We’ve got it, Finn. She’s just—”
“Do not,” I repeat, colder now, “touch her.”
Silence on the line. Then a rush of muffled sound—footsteps, a door, her laughter like broken glass.
“We’ve got it,” he insists. “Promise. No marks.”
I stop at the edge of the aisle, stained glass bleeding color over my cuffs, and breathe once through my nose.
“You’ve got three minutes,” I say. “If she isn’t in the car by then, I’m coming—and if I have to choose between peace and her wrists, I won’t hesitate.”
I end the call. Turn back to the altar. The priest gives me a questioning look.
I give him a nod that says all is well. Politics.
Performance. The organ holds. The doors remain closed.
And somewhere across the city, the woman who taught me how to want is fighting like hell to remind me why I married her in the first place.
The phone buzzes once. On our way. That single line loosens something in my chest I didn’t realize I’d locked down so tight it hurt to breathe. I pocket the phone and turn to the priest. Lean in just enough to keep it private, respectful, controlled.
“She’s coming,” I say. “Minor delay.”
He nods like he’s heard that sentence all his life. “Of course. We’ll begin shortly.”
A murmur moves through the church as if on cue—ushers whispering, staff gliding down aisles, quiet reassurance passed pew to pew. Cameras are lowered, then raised again. Guests settle. The organist adjusts his sheet music, fingers hovering, ready.
The city exhales. I take my place once more, shoulders squared, hands steady. This is the part I’m good at. Standing still while the world watches. Pretending my pulse isn’t loud enough to shake marble.
I don’t ask how they got her into the car. I don’t need to. She’ll arrive furious. Wild-eyed. Beautifully unbroken. She always does.
The bells outside begin to toll—slow, ceremonial, inevitable.
Any second now, the doors will open. Any second, Róisín Malloy will walk toward me again.
And whether she comes willingly or not, the chains we forged together are about to be sanctified in front of God, family, enemies—and an entire city holding its breath.