Chapter 10 Consecrated Ruin #2
“And now look at me. Wearing your name. Your ring. Your mark on my throat.” Her voice drops. “Tell me, Finn—was this always the plan? Or did you just decide I’d look better broken?”
I step forward despite the blade. “You ran,” I say hoarsely.
She laughs in my face. “I ran because every man I trusted put a price on my life.” Her voice cracks then—just once. “I wanted revenge,” she admits. “On him. On you. On all of them.” Her eyes lock onto mine, burning. “And I still do.”
The knife lowers—slowly—but it doesn’t disappear.
“So don’t lie to me now,” she whispers. “Don’t you dare try to rewrite that night.” Her chin lifts in challenge. “Because if you’re going to tell me you didn’t betray me,” she says, deadly calm, “you’d better be ready to bleed for the truth.”
“I knew about the marriage.”
The words tear out of me. Her breath stutters.
“I knew they were pushing for it—aye. An alliance. A fucking cage dressed up as peace.” My hands curl into fists at my sides. “But that night? The chapel? The guns?” I shake my head hard, like I can beat the memory out of my skull. “I was meant to die too.”
Her eyes snap up.
“They lured me there,” I continue, voice rising now, cracking, losing its edge. “Told me it was safe. Told me it was just us. Just music and stolen time and your bloody smile.”
I take a step closer. She doesn’t back away. “The meeting point wasn’t for them,” I snarl. “It was for me. And your brother stepped in front of the bullets meant for my heart.”
Her sob breaks free—violent, unrestrained.
“Ciaran was my hero,” I shout. “Do you hear me?! I wanted to be him. Wanted him to look at me like I was worth a damn.” My chest burns. “And I watched him die thinking it was my fault you’d never look at me again.”
She’s crying openly now, shoulders shaking, knife forgotten in her hand.
“I woke up stitched together and empty,” I say hoarsely. “And the first thing I did—the first fucking thing—was start hunting.”
Her head lifts.
“I didn’t hide,” I tell her. “Didn’t mourn quietly. I bled. I broke bones. I buried men.” My voice drops, lethal. “Every whisper, every name, every shadow that night—I’ve been chasing it since.”
I laugh, harsh and broken. “You think I survived because I wanted to?”
She shakes her head, tears spilling freely.
“I survived because I had to find who betrayed us.”
I step into her space now, forehead nearly touching hers. “And don’t you dare think you were the only one who lost everything,” I say, voice wrecked. “I lost you. Lost him. Lost the future we were stupid enough to dream about.”
My hand comes up—not touching her, stopping just short.
“I loved you then,” I say. “I love you now. And I will until this world burns itself clean.”
Her knees nearly buckle.
“So don’t stand there telling me you were alone in your grief,” I finish, voice breaking at last. “Because I’ve been screaming your name into the dark for three years, waiting for you to stab me again if it meant you were still alive.”
She sobs openly, shattered, fucking real.
I step into her space and take the knife from her hand before she can think to stop me.
Her breath catches—but she doesn’t fight it.
The blade is still warm from her skin, from her anger.
I lift it slowly, deliberately, tip brushing beneath her jaw, steel kissing the pulse at her throat. She gasps—not in fear.
“A lesser man,” I say quietly, dangerously calm, “would use this to his advantage.”
Her chin lifts on instinct. Tears stream down her cheeks, cutting clean tracks through smudged mascara.
Her lashes clump together, her lips tremble.
She looks wrecked, ruined. Perfect. My thumb presses just under the blade, steadying it.
Making sure she knows—I’m the one in control. And I’m choosing not to hurt you.
“A lesser man would make you beg,” I continue, voice low, reverent in the way only sin can be. “Would remind you how easily I could end it. How soft you are right here.”
Her breath shudders. She doesn’t pull away.
“But I’m not him.” I lean in, forehead brushing hers, blade still there—an echo, a promise, a warning to the world and not to her. “I won’t take what isn’t given,” I murmur. “Even when you offer it bleeding.”
She swallows hard, throat moving against the steel and I hate how much I want to taste that pulse. She’s shaking now, crying openly. A mess of rage and grief and desire twisted together so tightly it hurts to look at. My fucking beautiful mess.
I lower the knife—but I don’t let it go. Not yet. Her breath stutters, not because of the blade, because of the space between us.
“Then don’t,” she whispers.
I still. The knife hovers at her throat, my hand steady, my pulse not. Tears cling to her lashes, spill anyway. She doesn’t wipe them away, she never does when she’s decided something. Her fingers curl—slow, deliberate—around my wrist. She guides the knife down, just a fraction. Just enough.
“Finish what I started,” she says, voice wrecked and fierce all at once. “Or put it away and stop pretending you don’t want me broken exactly like this.”
Christ.
I suck in a breath through my teeth. My grip tightens—not on the blade, but on her. On the reality of her standing here, offering herself not as a victim, not as a bride sold for peace, but as a woman choosing the edge.
“You don’t get to dare me like that,” I growl.
She laughs—wet, sharp, unhinged. “I just did.”
The knife never leaves her skin, but it doesn’t bite either. It becomes something else entirely. A line, a promise, a claim she’s asking for.
“I won’t hurt you,” I say, low and furious with myself for how much it matters. “Not like that.”
Her eyes burn into mine. “You already have.”
Silence crashes between us. Heavy and holy. I lower the blade at last—press it into her palm instead, closing her fingers around the hilt.
“If you want blood,” I murmur, forehead resting against hers, breath mingling, “you choose where it’s drawn.”
Her hand trembles, not with fear, but with want. And when she lifts the knife again—this time by her own will—I know the fight is over. Not because we’re healed, but because we’ve finally stopped lying.
She doesn’t pull the knife away. Neither do I. The space between us snaps instead. I surge forward and take her mouth like a declaration of war.
It’s not gentle. It’s not asking. It’s heat and teeth and fury pressed into flesh — my hand tangling in her hair, fist closing hard enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to take me the way she once did in the chapel when we were young and reckless and thought love was enough.
She gasps into my mouth, a broken sound, and I swallow it whole.
“This,” I murmur against her lips, breath ragged, violent with it, “is mine.”
She makes a sound — half sob, half challenge — and bites back. Good. I kiss her harder for it. Claiming. Punishing. Worshipping in the same breath. My thumb digs into her jaw, holding her there, making her feel exactly how little room there is left to run.
Her knife presses between us, forgotten, useless now — because she’s shaking, clinging, kissing me back like the world might end if she doesn’t. “You don’t get to disappear again,” I growl into her mouth. “Not after this.”
Her forehead drops to mine, breath shuddering, wrecked. “Then don’t let me,” she whispers.
My teeth graze her lower lip. Not breaking skin, but a promise that I could.
“Aye,” I say, voice dark and final. “That’s the idea.”
I kiss her once more — slower this time, deeper, sealing it — and then I pull back just enough to look at her. Mascara ruined, tears everywhere, blood on lace. My wife.
I watch her there, ruined in my hands, and something primal claws its way up my throat. This is what I've wanted—what I've needed. Her. Broken open. Mine. I slide the knife from her grip, flipping it so the blade rests flat against her throat. Her pulse jumps beneath the silver edge.
"You know what happens next," I say, voice rough as gravel. My free hand travels down her body, possessive, claiming every inch. "You always have."
Her eyes never leave mine as I tear at her dress, fabric giving way beneath my hands. I don't care about the expense or the noise or anything beyond marking what's mine.
"Everyone will see," she whispers, half-warning, half-plea.
I drag the flat of the blade down her sternum, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "That's the fucking point."
When I reach between her legs, she's already soaked through, body betraying what her pride won't admit. I circle her clit with my thumb, watching her face contort with pleasure she doesn't want to give me.
"Look at you," I growl, pressing the knife just hard enough to leave a thin white line against her flesh. The sight makes my cock throb painfully against my zipper. I drag the knife up to her throat again, watching her pupils dilate as I press just enough to command her attention.
"This knife is nothing compared to what I'll do to you," I warn, voice dropping to something inhuman. My fingers slide inside her, two at once, no gentleness to be found. "I'll mark every inch of you so there's no question who you belong to."
She's writhing against my hand, fighting and surrendering in the same breath. I curl my fingers inside her, finding that spot that makes her back arch.
"Tell me who you belong to," I demand, pressing the knife flat against her jugular.
"Fuck you," she gasps, even as her body clenches around my fingers.
I withdraw my hand completely, leaving her empty and desperate. In one swift motion, I grab her by the throat, squeezing just enough to make her eyes widen.
"I'll ruin you 'til ye only answer to my name."
"Finn—" she chokes out, her nails digging half-moons into my wrist.
I drag her to me by her throat, crashing my mouth into hers. The knife clatters to the floor as I lift her, slamming her back against the nearest wall. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, her ruined dress bunching between us.