Chapter 11 The Violence Between Notes
Chapter eleven
The Violence Between Notes
Róisín
Iwake to quiet. Not the fragile kind, the heavy kind—like the house itself is holding its breath.
The bed is wide and cool where his body should be.
Linen tangled at my hips. My skin bare to the morning air.
I register the ache first—deep, lived-in soreness that settles into my bones rather than screaming.
Bruises bloom like ink beneath my skin, fingerprints and teeth and memory mapped across me with a care that feels almost reverent in hindsight.
Marked.
I shift, slow. Every movement answers back.
Not pain exactly—more like proof. Proof I’m still here, proof something broke last night and something else, quieter, started knitting itself together.
The room smells faintly of smoke and soap and him.
The aftertaste of vows and violence. Of truth finally dragged into the light and left there, blinking.
Alone. Naked. Breathing.
I stare at the ceiling and let the silence sit on my chest, counting the spaces between my heartbeats like rests in a score—waiting to hear what comes next.
I pull a robe from the back of a chair and slip it on, the fabric brushing over skin that still feels too aware of itself. Every place he touched answers back—bruised, sore, marked—but not broken. Not anymore.
I follow the smell before I fully register where I’m going.
The kitchen is already alive. Finn stands at the stove like this is a normal morning.
Like the world didn’t split open last night and swallow us whole.
Sleeves rolled, hair damp, bare forearms flexing as he flips something in a pan with steady hands.
Eggs. Bacon. Coffee brewing. The low, domestic hiss of heat and oil fills the space.
It’s… wrong. Psychotic, really.
My body freezes just inside the doorway, robe cinched tight around me, bare feet on cool stone. He moves with easy confidence, reaching for salt, adjusting the heat, utterly at home in the aftermath of everything we did and said and survived.
As if he didn’t kneel in blood and lace with me hours ago. As if he didn’t hold me while I cried myself empty. As if vows and violence aren’t still clinging to my skin. The normalcy is almost louder than screaming.
I watch him for a long moment, heart thudding slow and heavy, counting the seconds between movements like rests between notes. Waiting. Measuring. Trying to decide if this quiet is peace—or just another kind of danger.
I step fully into the kitchen and let the silence sit between us, thick and charged, neither of us breaking it yet. I decide not to look at him.
I move around the kitchen like he isn’t there, pouring myself coffee, standing at the counter instead of sitting across from him. I keep my eyes on the mug, on the steam curling upward, on anything that isn’t the man who married me yesterday and broke me open on the floor like a confession.
Behind me, plates slide onto the table, silverware set with care, two places for both of us. I ignore that too.
I turn, finally, and sit—pulling out the chair furthest from him, robe falling open just enough to remind my body what it remembers. I tell myself the ache is just soreness. That the heat crawling under my skin is nothing.
I’m lifted before I can react—hands firm, sure, familiar—my breath leaving me in a sharp, startled sound as he pulls me back into his space. Onto his lap. Solid. Warm. Alive. My hands brace against his shoulders automatically, instinct older than reason.
I huff, planting my palms against his chest. “What are you doing?”
His shoulders lift in a careless shrug, like I’m asking about the weather instead of the way my body has gone tight and traitorous in his lap. He reaches for a fork, spears a strawberry, and brings it up between us.
“To eatin’,” he says mildly. The fork touches my lips. “Eat, wee Rose.”
I shove the fork away, sharp and offended. “I do not need you feeding me.”
The corner of his mouth ticks—not a smile, not quite. More like satisfaction. He doesn’t move me off his lap. Doesn’t loosen his grip. Just leans back in the chair, one arm banded tight around my waist, the other settling on my thigh like it belongs there.
“You will,” he says quietly. “Sit here and eat like a good girl.”
I inhale sharply—until his hand slides, slow and deliberate, up the inside of my robe. Skin on skin. No rush. No apology. Just heat and memory and the unbearable awareness of him beneath me, solid and unrepentant. My breath stutters. Traitor.
“You’re impossible,” I mutter, even as my body betrays me, even as I don’t move away.
“Aye,” he agrees easily. His thumb presses at my hip, grounding. Claiming. Not asking. “And you’re sittin’.”
His hand slides higher beneath my robe, finding me wet already for him. I jolt at the contact, my coffee sloshing dangerously.
"You're still sensitive," he observes, voice low against my ear as his fingers explore lazily.
I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. "Don't."
But my body betrays me, pressing down against his touch. His fingers circle my entrance, teasing but not entering.
"Eat," he commands again, using his free hand to pick up a piece of bacon. He takes a bite, eyes never leaving mine, then offers me the rest.
My pride tells me to refuse, but there's something in his gaze that makes my resistance crumble. I take the bacon from his fingers, letting my lips brush against them longer than necessary.
"Good girl," he murmurs, and his fingers press inside me as a reward.
I gasp, my back arching involuntarily. "Finn—"
"Breakfast," he reminds me, his voice maddeningly calm while his fingers are anything but. He reaches for another strawberry with his free hand and brings it to my lips.
I bite into it, juice spilling down my chin. He catches it with his thumb, then brings it to his own mouth, sucking it clean while maintaining eye contact. The sight sends heat spiraling through me.
His fingers curl inside me, finding that perfect spot that makes my breath catch. He acts like he's simply enjoying breakfast, casually taking another bite of eggs with his free hand while his fingers work their magic between my thighs.
"This isn't fair," I gasp, my hips rocking against his hand despite my protests.
"Never claimed to be fair, love," he murmurs, pressing his thumb against my clit in slow, deliberate circles.
I try to focus on my coffee, on the food, on anything but the building pressure low in my belly. But he knows exactly what he's doing, exactly how to touch me. His rhythm is maddeningly unhurried, each stroke precise and calculated.
"You're a bastard," I breathe, my head falling back against his shoulder as his fingers curl deeper.
"Aye," he agrees, his lips brushing my neck. "And yet you're soaking my hand."
I'm close already, embarrassingly so. My thighs begin to tremble as he increases the pressure just slightly, just enough to push me toward the edge.
"That's it," he encourages, voice rough against my ear. "Let me feel you."
I'm about to fall apart when he suddenly stops, lifting me by the waist. I make a sound of protest as he sets me on the table's edge, the wood cool against my heated skin.
"What are you—"
He doesn't let me finish, pushing the robe off my shoulders until it pools around my waist. The morning air kisses my bare skin, making my nipples harden instantly. His eyes darken as he takes me in, bruises and all, like I'm something precious.
"I've had some of my breakfast," he says, voice low and rough as his hands push my thighs apart. "But I think I'll save the best for last."
My breath catches in my throat as he kneels between my legs. This isn't like last night—there's no fury here, no desperation. He looks up at me through his lashes, and the softness in his eyes makes something in my chest ache.
"Finn," I whisper, uncertain what I'm even asking for.
His hands slide up my thighs with exquisite gentleness, thumbs tracing circles on sensitive skin. "Let me taste you properly, wee rose."
The first touch of his tongue against me is so gentle I nearly sob. A reverent stroke, slow and deliberate, like he's savoring something precious. His hands cradle my thighs with unexpected tenderness, thumbs making small, soothing circles against the bruises he left last night.
"Christ," he murmurs against my inner thigh, "you're perfect."
I want to scoff, to remind him of all the ways we're broken, but then his tongue traces my entrance with exquisite patience, and my head falls back, a shaky breath escaping me.
"That's it," he encourages, his voice a low rumble against my sensitive skin. "Let me hear you."
This is nothing like last night's desperate, punishing passion. There's no urgency in the way he tastes me, just a slow, dedicated worship that makes my thighs tremble. He takes his time, mapping every inch with his tongue, learning me all over again.
"So sweet," he murmurs, his breath warm against me. "Always so sweet for me."
I thread my fingers through his hair, not pulling, just needing to touch him. He hums his approval against me, the vibration sending sparks up my spine. His tongue flattens against my clit, applying gentle pressure that makes me gasp.
"My beautiful wife," he murmurs against me, the words seeping into my skin like a balm. "Look at you, taking everything I give you."
The praise hits differently than his commands last night. There's something reverent in his tone that makes my chest tighten.
"You taste like heaven," he continues, his tongue making slow, deliberate circles. "Like something worth dying for."
I whimper, unable to form words as he worships me with his mouth. His hands slide up to cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples with unexpected gentleness.
"Perfect," he whispers against my thigh, pressing a kiss to a bruise he left there. "Every inch of you."
The tenderness is almost worse than the violence. I can fight against fury, can match it with my own. But this—this careful adoration—leaves me defenseless.