Chapter 12 The Cathedral of His Temper
Chapter twelve
The Cathedral of His Temper
Finnian
The car glides through the city like a confession no one dares interrupt.
Black glass, black leather, Belfast blurred beyond the windows—wet pavement, iron railings, the echo of old power stitched into stone.
There’s a driver up front, eyes forward, smart enough not to exist. In the back, it’s just us.
Her hand is in mine. Not clenched, not fighting, just there. Warm and certain.
She’s dressed in black—of course she is.
Not mourning, not softness, but command.
Lace sleeves hugging her wrists, fabric skimming her like it was designed to behave only for her.
The O’Callaghan jewels gleam against her throat and fingers, heavy with history: the necklace at her neck, my name on her hand twice over, the bracelet biting gently at her wrist like a promise that knows how to draw blood. She wears them like a threat.
I match her in black—tailored, severe, the cut of my coat sharp enough to suggest violence without ever promising it outright. We don’t touch beyond our joined hands, but the space between us hums. Recognition. Possession. Something old and feral that never needed permission.
Lord and lady.
Two families that spent generations circling each other like wolves now stitched together with vows, blood, and a marriage half the city still can’t decide whether to fear or worship.
I feel the looks already—the ones we’ll get when we arrive.
The weighing, the wondering who bent first, yet they'll never know.
I glance at her. She’s staring straight ahead, chin lifted, expression calm in that way that fools everyone except me. I know what that stillness hides. I know the way violence lives just beneath her skin, patient as a blade kept clean.
My thumb brushes once over her knuckles. A silent check-in. A reminder. She doesn’t look at me—but her fingers tighten around mine. Good.
The car slows, and power waits for us just beyond the door. Gravel crunches beneath the tyres. Salt hits the air—cold, sharp, unmistakable. The docks loom ahead, all iron bones and dark water, cranes standing like old sentinels that have seen too much and said nothing.
Of course. I feel it the second she does.
Her fingers tighten in mine—not in fear.
In recognition. The driver pulls to a stop.
Old docks. The kind the city pretends not to remember.
Where deals were sealed in blood long before they were sealed in ink.
Where ghosts linger because no one ever bothered to bury them properly. Where I took her. The first time.
She exhales slowly, the sound barely there. Then, softly—too softly for anyone but me—“Poetic,” she says.
I glance at her. Her mouth curves, not quite a smile. Something sharper. Sadder. Older. She finally turns her head, dark eyes meeting mine, and there’s no accusation there. No blade behind the look. Just truth.
“This is where you dragged me out of my life,” she adds. “Threw me into yours.”
I swallow. “Aye,” I say. “Didn’t plan the symmetry.”
She huffs—a quiet, breathless sound. “You never do.”
The corner of her thumb brushes my knuckle. Absent. Intimate. A habit from when we were younger, when touching meant safety instead of strategy.
“And yet,” she murmurs, gaze drifting back to the water, “here we are. Together. Walking back in.”
Not prisoners. Not enemies. Something else. Something dangerous in a different way.
I lift our joined hands, press my lips briefly to her fingers—nothing for the world to see. Just for us. “This time,” I say, low, steady, “no one’s taking you anywhere you don’t walk into yourself.”
Her throat bobs.
“Good,” she replies. “Because if you tried again, husband, I’d stab you properly this time.”
I grin despite myself. “Fair.”
The driver opens the door. Cold air rushes in. Shapes move near the warehouses—men waiting, alliances already shifting, eyes already counting sins.
I squeeze her hand once before we step out. “Ready, Lady O’Callaghan?”
She lifts her chin, black veil fluttering faintly in the dockside wind. Jewels glint. Bloodlines settle. “Always,” she says. “Let’s go ruin someone’s day.”
Together, we step onto the docks—back into the past, hand in hand, daring it to try and hurt us again.
The building swallows us whole the moment we step inside. Cold concrete, rusted steel beams, the low hum of generators somewhere beneath our feet. The docks always smell like rot and money—old salt, oil, and the quiet desperation of men who think land is worth more than lives.
The other family is already there. They stand in a loose half-circle near a long table dragged into the centre of the space—too casual, too relaxed. A performance. Their men linger behind them, hands visible but never empty, eyes sharp with the kind of hunger that mistakes itself for courage.
I feel Róisín straighten beside me. Not stiff, not defensive, but composed. Lady Malloy, Lady O’Callaghan—A woman carved from bone-deep pride and old blood.
I let my expression go flat as stone. The way it always does in rooms like this.
No smiles. No warmth. Just inevitability.
Men like these understand only one language, and I speak it fluently.
Introductions are exchanged. Names said aloud that mean nothing and everything at once.
Hands shaken. Lies layered politely over old threats.
I take my seat without ceremony. Róisín does the opposite.
She moves with quiet grace, smoothing her skirt as she sits, ankles crossing neatly beneath the table.
Her posture is perfect—back straight, chin lifted just enough to signal breeding without arrogance.
Her hands fold in her lap, rings catching the low light.
The O’Callaghan emeralds rest heavy at her throat, impossible to miss.
She looks every inch what they expect her to be; A bride. A prize. A symbol of peace. They underestimate her immediately. Good.
One of the men—mid-forties, confident in the way men get when no one has cut them down yet—leans forward, smile slick. “Lady O’Callaghan,” he says, voice oiled with false respect. “A pleasure.”
She returns the smile. Small. Polite. Immaculate.
“The pleasure is mine,” she replies, tone smooth as silk. “I trust you’re enjoying Belfast’s hospitality.”
I watch their eyes flicker. They hear the message beneath the manners. This is my city, behave.
The discussion begins—maps unfurled, borders traced with fingers that shake just slightly.
They talk about parcels of land like they weren’t soaked through with bodies and history.
Malloy land. Her land. They dress it up as misunderstandings.
Administrative errors. Old agreements that suddenly matter again. I let them speak. I always do.
Róisín listens with perfect attention, nodding in the right places, asking questions that sound harmless and cut straight to the bone. Her voice never wavers. Not once. She thanks them when they clarify. Smiles when they lie.
She plays the part beautifully. Too beautifully.
And as one of them leans a little too close—eyes lingering where they shouldn’t, voice dropping like he’s forgetting I exist—I feel it stir. That old, dangerous heat. The cathedral of my temper begins to rise stone by stone.
But for now—I stay still. Cold. Watching. Waiting.
The man to her left is the problem. I clock it the second his eyes linger too long, the second his smile shifts from polite to personal. He leans back in his chair like he owns the room—like he hasn’t just stepped into a den full of knives.
“Lady O’Callaghan,” he says, voice warm, lazy. “I have to say—this land dispute is almost worth it, if only to finally meet you.”
Róisín tilts her head. Just a touch. Enough to be charming. Enough to invite trouble.
“I’m glad our inconvenience could be of service,” she replies sweetly.
A few of the men chuckle. He takes it as encouragement. Idiot.
He taps the edge of the map. “This parcel here—your family’s held it a long time. But surely you understand… times change.”
She leans forward now, elbows resting lightly on the table. Lace sleeves glide back just enough to show her wrist, the emerald bracelet catching the light.
“Oh, I understand change very well,” she says softly. “It’s amazing how quickly things shift when people overestimate their position.”
His smile sharpens. “You always this dangerous, or is that just for your husband?”
She laughs. Actually laughs. Low. Warm. Disarming.
“I’m only dangerous to people who mistake manners for weakness.”
I feel it then—the slow, deliberate tightening in my chest. The urge to put my hand through his throat and introduce him to God. But I don’t move. I don’t blink. I sip my coffee like I’m bored.
He leans closer, dropping his voice. “If this meeting doesn’t go your way, perhaps we could… discuss alternatives. Privately.”
Róisín’s gaze flicks to me for half a second. Not for permission. For sport. Then she turns back to him, smile deepening just enough to be lethal.
“Careful,” she murmurs. “That almost sounded like a threat.”
He grins. “Sounded like an invitation to me.”
Inside, something feral snarls. I imagine the sound his skull would make against the concrete. Imagine how long it would take his men to realise he’s already dead.
But outwardly—I remain calm. Because this is the game. And she’s playing it beautifully.
I let the silence stretch. Let him think he’s winning. And when Róisín folds her hands again, posture perfect, eyes glittering with quiet menace, I know—This is about to get bloody.
The papers slide across the table. Maps. Deeds. Old borders traced in red ink like healed scars someone’s decided to reopen.
“The land was unused,” the same man says, spreading his hands. “No active operations. No visible presence. We assumed—”
“You assumed,” Róisín cuts in, voice calm as still water, “that absence meant permission.”
Every head turns to her. She doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t need to.