Chapter 11 The Violence Between Notes #2
"Such a good girl," he praises as I arch into his touch. "Taking what you need."
His tongue delves deeper, and I cry out, my hands tightening in his hair, hips rising to meet his mouth. I'm coming undone, faster than I want to admit, my body responding to his devotion with an eagerness that terrifies me.
"There you go," he murmurs against me, his tongue relentless now. "Let go for me."
I shatter with a cry, my back arching off the table as waves of pleasure crash through me. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, his tongue working me through every pulse and aftershock.
"Beautiful," he whispers, looking up at me with eyes dark with hunger. "But I know you can give me more."
I shake my head, still trembling from the first orgasm. "I can't—"
"You can," he insists, his voice gentle but commanding. "My good wife can give me one more."
The words 'good wife' send a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the morning chill.
His tongue returns to my oversensitive flesh, gentler now but no less determined.
I whimper, caught between pleasure and something that borders on pain, but he soothes me with his hands, rubbing circles on my thighs.
Everything blends together as his mouth works me beyond reason. I can't tell where one sensation ends and another begins. My vision blurs at the edges, the kitchen ceiling swimming above me as another wave crashes through my body.
"Oh God—Finn—I can't—" My voice breaks as he draws another orgasm from me, stronger than the first, my thighs trembling uncontrollably against his shoulders.
"Yes, you can," he murmurs against my flesh, his voice vibrating through me. "So beautiful when you come for me. Give me more, love. Just one more."
I'm floating, disconnected from everything but his mouth. The pleasure is so intense it borders on pain, yet somehow I'm still climbing higher. My body is no longer my own—it belongs to the sensations he's creating, to the relentless skill of his tongue.
"Please," I gasp, not sure if I'm begging him to stop or continue.
"You taste so fucking good," he groans, looking up at me with dark, hungry eyes. "I could do this all day. Let me have more, Róisín. Let me have everything."
His words unravel me further. His name falls from my lips like a prayer as my third orgasm tears through me, more intense than both before.
My body convulses, every nerve ending raw and exposed.
I'm floating somewhere beyond myself, anchored only by his hands on my thighs, his mouth between my legs.
When I finally collapse back against the table, I'm trembling uncontrollably. Finn rises slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are dark, hungry, but there's something else there too—something tender that makes my chest ache.
"Now that," he says, voice rough as he pulls me upright, "is how breakfast should be."
I'm boneless in his arms as he lifts me from the table, cradling me against his chest. My head falls against his shoulder, too spent to hold itself up. He carries me to a chair, settling me in his lap again, but this time it's different—gentle, protective.
"Eat," he murmurs, reaching for my abandoned coffee and pressing it into my hands. My fingers tremble as I take it, the warmth seeping into my palms.
I take a sip, watching him over the rim.
His pupils are still blown wide, his mouth soft and swollen, like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet either.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then my hands start to shake.
The adrenaline drains out of me all at once, leaving only exhaustion in its wake—bone-deep, aching, earned.
Finn notices immediately. Of course he does, he always has.
“That’s enough,” he murmurs, already standing, already lifting me like I weigh nothing at all. I don’t argue. I don’t have it in me. My arms loop around his neck on instinct, my face pressing into the warm column of his throat.
He carries me back down the hall, past the bedroom we destroyed last night, into the quiet that follows violence and confession and something dangerously close to peace.
He lays me down gently this time, pulling the covers up around my shoulders, tucking me in like I’m something that might break if he doesn’t handle me carefully.
I watch him through heavy lashes as he brushes my hair back from my face.
“Sleep, wee Rose,” he says softly. Not a command. A promise.
My eyes burn, but I don’t trust myself to speak. He stays until my breathing evens out. I know because even as sleep drags me under, I can still feel him there—solid, watchful, unwilling to leave.
For the first time in years, I let myself truly rest.
The pounding on the door drags me out of sleep like a blade across stone. I sit up, heart already racing, the ache in my body a dull reminder of last night. The bed beside me is empty—but I can hear him moving downstairs, boots on wood, already halfway there.
Of course he is.
I don’t rush. That’s the thing about power—you don’t scramble for it.
I slide from the bed and pull on the long silk nightgown laid out at the foot, ivory and heavy, cool against my skin.
The matching robe follows, cinched tight at my waist. I step into my house shoes—structured, elegant, absurdly expensive. Armor, dressed as comfort.
By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, Finn is at the door.
His men stand on the other side when he opens it—dark coats, hard eyes, the familiar weight of violence barely leashed. The room shifts the second they see me. Spines straighten. Gazes dip. Respect, not fear. Good. I don’t look at Finn. I don’t need to.
“I’ll make tea,” I say calmly, already turning toward the kitchen. “Go on—bring them in.”
And I don’t wait for an answer. I move through the kitchen on muscle memory, assembling the tray the way I’ve done a hundred times before—china warmed, kettle steady, cups placed just so.
The ritual settles me. Steam curls upward, carrying the faint bite of bergamot. Control, poured neatly into porcelain.
When I carry the tray back in, the room stills. They thank me as I set it down—soft murmurs, respectful. Eyes stay lowered. Finn’s hand comes to my back, warm and possessive, anchoring me at his side. Not a cage. A statement.
I don’t look at him. I look at the men. The men don’t sit until Finn nods. Even then, they perch on the edges of the chairs like they’re braced for impact.
One of them—Declan, I think, dark suit, knuckles still rough despite the tailoring—clears his throat. “It’s the Keane lot.”
Finn’s jaw tightens. “They’re three generations too small to be brave.”
“Aye,” another man says. “Which is why it’s quiet. Not guns. Not yet. Paperwork. Surveyors. Blocking access roads on the east boundary.”
I set the tray down and pour, slow and deliberate. The kettle doesn’t shake. Neither do my hands.
“Which east boundary,” I ask calmly, already knowing the answer.
Declan hesitates. Looks at Finn. Then at me.
“Malloy land,” he says.
The room goes very still.
Finn’s hand presses more firmly at my waist. Protective. Instinctive. I feel it—but I don’t lean into it.
“How much?” Finn asks, voice flat. Dangerous in its restraint.
“Two acres marked ‘disputed,’” another man says. “They’re claiming historical access. Old grazing rights. Saying your da signed something years back.”
My mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper.
“My da,” I say evenly, “signed away nothing he didn’t mean to sell.”
Finn glances down at me then, brief but loaded. “They pushing hard?”
“Hard enough to test you,” Declan says. “Harder now that the wedding’s public. They think there’s… distraction.”
I finally look up and meet his eyes. “Of course they do.”
Finn lets out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “They think marriage makes ye soft.”
I take a cup of tea, lift it, don’t drink. “They think I’m ornamental.”
That gets their attention.
One of the men shifts. “With respect, Lady Malloy—”
I cut him off without raising my voice. “It is Lady O’Callaghan now. And if you’re about to suggest this is handled quietly, without me, don’t.”
Finn hums low in his chest. Agreement. Pride. Something feral.
“They want a meeting,” Declan says carefully. “Neutral ground. Tomorrow, maybe.”
I set the cup down. Look at Finn now. Really look. “We’ll attend,” I say.
Finn doesn’t argue—but he doesn’t yield either. “We attend,” he corrects. “Together.”
I turn to him, slow. Measured. “It’s my land.”
“And you’re my wife,” he replies just as evenly. “Which means anyone who comes for what’s yours comes through me.”
The men exchange glances. Smart enough not to interrupt.
I step closer to Finn, just enough to feel his heat. “This isn’t about protection,” I say quietly. “It’s about precedent.”
His eyes darken. “It’s about survival.”
“It’s about ownership,” I counter.
A beat. Then his mouth curves—not a smile. A promise. He leans down, close enough that only I hear him.
“No one will ever take a thing from you again, wee Rose. I’ll see to that myself.”
Something settles in my chest. Heavy. Dangerous. I turn back to the men.
“Set the meeting,” I say. “Tell the Keanes Lady O’Callaghan will hear their claim.”
Finn’s hand tightens at my waist. “And tell them,” he adds softly, “that I’ll be sitting beside her.”
No one argues. No one doubts. I lift my tea again, finally take a sip. Let them come. The door closes behind the last of them, the sound final in the way only old houses know how to be. Silence settles.
I turn on Finn at once. “You don’t get to correct me in front of them.”
He doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t retreat. Just folds his arms and watches me with that maddening calm like he’s measuring weather. “You don’t get to walk into a meet alone.”
“It’s my land.”
“And you’re my wife.”
I scoff. “That doesn’t make me fragile.”
“No,” he says quietly. “It makes you hunted.”
I step closer, finger jabbing his chest. “I’ve been hunted since I learned to walk.”
“And I’ve been killing men since I learned to shoot,” he shoots back. “So forgive me if I don’t let you be brave by yourself anymore.”
My mouth opens with another sharp retort—and he closes the distance and shuts me up with his mouth.
The kiss is not gentle. It’s firm and claiming and unapologetic, his hand coming up to cradle my jaw, thumb pressing just enough to still me.
Not asking. Not forcing. Just deciding. The kind of kiss that says enough now.
It works. When he pulls back, my breath is uneven and my pulse is everywhere.
“We go together,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine. “Every time.”
I swallow. “Finn—”
“You will never be alone again, wee Rose.” His voice drops, dark as old stone. “Not in rooms like this. Not in meetings. Not in the ground if I can help it.”
His hand slides to my lower back, possessive but steady. “And if anyone tries to sell you again—your blood, your land, your name—” His eyes meet mine, feral and absolute. “I will kill them.”
No hesitation. No poetry. Just promise. Something in my chest loosens. Something dangerous settles in its place. I don’t argue. I lean into him instead. And for the first time since the bells rang, I believe him.