Chapter 12 The Cathedral of His Temper #2
“That land feeds three families,” she continues, folding her hands neatly atop the documents. “It houses a dock route, two safe warehouses, and a chapel that predates your grandfather’s bones in the ground. If you didn’t see activity, it’s because you weren’t meant to.”
The man clears his throat. “With respect, Lady O’Callaghan—”
She smiles. It’s polite. Controlled. Lethal.
“Respect,” she says, “would have been asking. Respect would have been sending word. Respect would have been not moving men onto Malloy land like rats into a pantry.”
A few of his men shift. Someone coughs.
He leans back, trying to recover ground. “Times change. Alliances change. You’re married now. Different priorities.”
There it is. I hear it before I see it—two men to my right, whispering behind hands they think are subtle.
“She’s O’Callaghan now. Won’t make waves.”
“Lady of the house. Probably lets him handle the dirty work.”
My jaw tightens. Róisín hears it too. I know she does because her fingers still. Just for a second. Then she looks back at the man across from us, eyes sharp as broken glass wrapped in velvet.
“You mistake my title for a muzzle,” she says lightly. “Marriage didn’t soften me. It armed me.”
He scoffs. “Surely you’re not suggesting a war over a strip of land.”
She leans in then—just enough.
“I’m suggesting,” she says quietly, “that you’ve confused my silence for surrender. And that mistake tends to be fatal.”
The room goes dead quiet. Every man in it knows who she is now. And exactly how wrong they’ve been.
He leans too close next. Close enough that I smell his cologne—cheap, sharp, trying too hard. Close enough that he thinks the ring on her finger means obedience. Ownership. Safety.
“Didn’t think the stories were true,” he murmurs, voice pitched low and smug. “That the Malloy girl finally learned how to behave.”
Róisín doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Then—steel sings. The knife appears in her hand like it’s always been there, an extension of thought rather than muscle. One clean, vicious motion—thunk.
His palm is pinned to the table, blade sunk deep through flesh and wood.
Blood blooms instantly, dark and hot. He screams. She’s already on him.
Her other hand fists in his hair, yanking his head back hard enough his neck bares, forcing him to look at her.
Her face is calm. Beautiful. Empty in the way storms are empty.
She leans in, lips brushing his ear. Her voice is soft. Belfast-cold. Deadly.
“You don’t flirt with me,” she says quietly. “You negotiate, or you bleed. You chose poorly.”
He whimpers. Tries to pull back. Can’t. She twists the knife just a fraction. Not enough to kill. Enough to teach.
“I am not softened by marriage,” she continues, breath warm against his skin. “I’m sharpened by it. And if you ever speak to me like that again, I’ll leave what’s left of you nailed to this dock as a warning.”
She releases him abruptly, shoving his head forward so his forehead hits the table with a dull crack.
Steps back. Blood drips. Men freeze. No one breathes.
And me? Christ. I don’t move. Don’t speak.
I just watch her—standing there in black, jewels catching the low light, blade red in her hand like a crown she was born wearing.
My wife. Malloy violence. O’Callaghan resolve. A queen, finally done pretending. And I’m so fucking hard it’s a miracle I don’t kill someone just to calm down.
Then she sits. Just—sits. Pulls a linen napkin from the table like she’s at afternoon tea instead of the centre of a blood-soaked negotiation. She wipes her hands carefully, methodically, dabbing at the red along her fingers and knuckles until there’s nothing left but pale skin and control.
The man is still screaming. His hand is still pinned to the table, trembling around the blade. Róisín smiles at him. Not cruel. Not kind. Finished.
“Well,” she says lightly, folding the napkin and setting it beside her plate, “now that introductions are properly done.”
Every man in the room goes still. She looks down the table, eyes flicking to the papers, the maps, the highlighted borders like this is a business meeting she’s mildly bored by.
“That land you’ve been helping yourself to?” she continues. “Malloy land. My land. You didn’t ask. You didn’t negotiate. You didn’t even have the decency to lie well about it.” She tilts her head, considering. “I think that answers the question of ownership.”
The man sobs. Tries to pull his hand free again. Fails. She sighs, almost fond.
“This is resolved,” she says, final. “You’ll withdraw. You’ll return what you took. You’ll pay restitution for the insult.” A glance at me. “And you’ll thank us for the mercy.”
She reaches out. Grips the knife. The man barely has time to scream before she rips it free.
Blood sprays. He howls, collapsing forward, clutching his ruined hand.
Róisín stands smoothly, already turning away as if the sound doesn’t exist. At the door, she pauses.
Looks back over her shoulder, veil-dark hair framing her face.
“Oh,” she adds pleasantly, “if you ever confuse my silence for softness again—there won’t be a table to pin you to next time.”
Then she walks out. And I sit there, pulse roaring in my ears, watching the door swing shut behind my wife—absolutely certain of two things: The land is ours. And God help anyone who forgets who she was before she ever became an O’Callaghan.
I don’t follow her right away. I stay. The room is still frozen in the moment she left it—knife gone, blood soaking into the table, the man on his knees clutching his hand like it might forgive him if he begs hard enough. Slowly, I roll my sleeves.
“You should’ve stopped when she smiled,” I tell him calmly. “That was your only warning.”
He shakes his head, sobbing now. “I didn’t—she’s married now—I thought—”
I cross the distance in two steps and grab him by the throat, hauling him upright like he weighs nothing. Slam him back against the table so hard the wood groans.
“You thought marriage made her small?” I snarl, low and lethal. “You thought putting my name on her meant she needed you to remind her how to behave?”
I take his injured hand. Grip it. He screams before I even move. I press it flat to the table where her knife pinned it, lean down until my mouth is right at his ear.
“That land you took,” I murmur, voice almost kind, “belongs to the woman you just disrespected.”
Then I break his fingers.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each crack slow. Deliberate. Punishment measured in bone and breath. He’s howling now, body sagging, tears soaking the floor. I don’t stop.
I grab his hair, wrench his head back so he’s forced to look at me.
“You will give it back,” I say. “Every inch. With interest.” I release him just long enough to reach into my coat.
The knife is already warm when I press it to his cheek.
“And if you ever look at her again,” I add quietly, dragging the blade just enough to draw a thin, weeping line of blood, “I’ll carve her name into places you’ll never forget. ”
I shove him down. Step back and fix my cuffs.
When I open the door, the cold rushes in, clean and sharp.
I don’t look back as I leave. The moment I catch up to her, she turns, eyes dark and bright all at once—blood still drying beneath her nails, spine straight, chin high.
Belfast royalty in black silk and vengeance.
“Problem solved?” she asks coolly.
I don’t answer. I grab her wrist and pull her into the nearest office—slam the door shut behind us, lock it, crowd her back against the desk. Paper scatters. Dust rises. The city hums outside like it has no idea what just happened.
“You let him look at you,” I growl, finally letting it crack through. “You let him speak to you like that.”
She smiles. Slow. Sharp. Dangerous. “And you liked watching me remind him who I am.”
My hands are already on her—throat, waist, hip—claiming without asking. My mouth finds hers hard, punishing, hungry. This isn’t tenderness. This is territory. “If ye ever think I’ll tolerate another man touching what’s mine,” I murmur against her lips, “you’re wrong.”
Her breath stutters—but she doesn’t pull away. “Then don’t,” she whispers back. “Stop me.”
I press my forehead to hers, breath heavy, rage and lust tangled so tight I can’t tell them apart. “You’re my wife,” I say. “And I’ll burn this city down before I let anyone forget it.”
Her fingers curl in my coat. “Good,” she says softly. “Because I’m done being gentle.”
Outside, the docks fall quiet. Inside, the war between us is only just beginning.