Chapter 13 Nocturne for a Married Knife #3
I lean forward, my hair falling around us like a curtain, creating a private world where only we exist. "They'll never see us coming," I whisper against his lips.
"The ones who ordered it. The ones who tried to keep us apart.
" I rock against him, feeling his cock twitch inside me.
"We'll make them bleed for what they took from us. "
His hands slide up my back, one tangling in my hair, pulling just enough to expose my throat to his mouth. "And what will you do when they're begging for mercy?" he asks, teeth grazing my pulse point.
"There will be none," I say simply, the words falling between us like a vow. "Not for any who stood in that chapel."
His rhythm falters for a moment, his eyes searching mine. I see the recognition there—the understanding that I am not the girl he once knew. That I have been forged in the same fires that tempered him.
"My beautiful, ruthless queen," he murmurs, his voice thick with something beyond desire. His thumb traces my lower lip, reverent. "Belfast won't know what hit it."
I increase my pace, watching his face contort with pleasure.
The power of it—knowing I can reduce this dangerous man to desperate need—is intoxicating.
I roll my hips in a way that makes him grip me tighter, his fingers leaving fresh marks alongside the ones from nights before I watch his eyes darken as I roll my hips deeper, claiming my power with each movement.
The leather chair creaks beneath us, bearing witness to this new alliance forged in blood and truth.
"Do you feel that?" I whisper against his mouth, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "How perfectly we fit together?"
His hands slide up my back, pressing me closer, as if he could meld our bodies into one. "Always have," he murmurs, voice rough with need. "Even when you hated me."
"I never hated you," I admit, the truth breaking free after years of denial. "I hated what I thought you'd done."
He captures my mouth in a kiss that steals my breath, his tongue sliding against mine in a dance as old as time. When he pulls back, his eyes burn with a fervor that sends heat spiraling through me.
"They're waiting below," he reminds me, his hands never stilling on my body. "The men who took everything from us."
I don't slow my pace, savoring the way his breath hitches when I tighten around him. "Let them wait," I repeat, my voice dropping to a whisper as his hands tighten on my hips. "I want to savor this moment first."
"How will you do it?" he asks, voice low against my ear, his breath hot on my skin. His hips never stop moving beneath me, each thrust punctuating his question.
I know exactly what he's asking. Not if I'll kill them. But how.
I smile, leaning back just enough to watch his face. "What do you think, husband? With my knife?"
His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. "Too quick," he murmurs, eyes never leaving mine. "Too merciful."
"Then perhaps my gun?" I roll my hips deliberately, watching his pupils dilate further.
He shakes his head, a predator's smile curling his lips. "Too impersonal."
I lean forward, my mouth hovering just above his. "No," I whisper, pleasure building with each movement of our bodies. "I'll use my violin string."
His breath catches. Something dark and appreciative flashes in his eyes.
"I'll wrap it around their throats," I continue, my voice a silken whisper as I move on him. "The E string. The thinnest, sharpest one. It cuts through flesh like butter when pulled tight enough."
His breathing grows ragged, his thrusts more urgent. "And if that fails?"
I drag my nails down his chest, leaving red trails in their wake.
"My bow," I tell him, watching his pupils dilate further.
"The tip—sharpened.” I slide my fingers into his hair, gripping tight as our bodies move in perfect rhythm.
"Between the ribs," I whisper, my voice catching as pleasure builds inside me.
"A musician knows exactly where to find the heart. "
His hands tighten on my hips, guiding me faster, deeper. "Christ," he groans, "you're magnificent."
I can feel him throbbing inside me, so close to the edge. I'm right there with him, my body tightening around his length as waves of pleasure build higher. His eyes never leave mine—blue fire burning into my soul, stripping away every lie, every secret.
"Tell me," he demands, voice ragged. "Tell me what you want."
"Everything," I gasp, rolling my hips in a way that makes him curse. "I want everything back that was stolen from us."
His hands slide up to my face, cradling it with unexpected tenderness. "It's already yours," he promises. "Everything I am. Everything I have."
The intensity in his eyes pushes me closer to the edge. I can feel myself unraveling, my control slipping away as my body tightens around him.
"Come for me, wee rose," he growls against my mouth, and the word becomes a command, a prayer, a promise.
My back arches as the pleasure crests, impossible to contain. I shatter around him, my body convulsing as waves of ecstasy wash through me. "Finn—" His name tears from my throat like a confession.
He follows me over the edge, his grip bruising on my hips as he drives up into me one final time. I feel him pulse inside me, filling me, claiming me from within. His forehead presses against mine, our breath mingling in the space between us.
"My queen," he whispers, reverent and raw.
I collapse against his chest, my heart hammering against his.
For several moments, we remain joined, neither willing to break the connection.
His hands stroke my back, gentle now where they were desperate before.
I can feel him still trembling beneath me, aftershocks rippling through both our bodies.
"That's what power feels like," I murmur against his neck, tasting salt on his skin.
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through me where our bodies connect. "Aye. And it suits you."
I lift my head, breath still uneven, and look at him—really look at him. Not the boy in the chapel. Not the man bleeding on stone. Not the groom beneath cathedral bells. The king. And beside him, reflected back in his gaze, something I have not allowed myself to name until now. Equal.
His hands are still on me, steady and warm, anchoring me to this moment as the world beyond his office waits—quiet, fearful, bleeding in its anticipation.
Below us, chains shift. Voices murmur. Men who thought themselves untouchable are discovering the cost of being wrong.
Finn presses his forehead to mine, not in command, not in conquest—but in oath.
“We end this,” he says softly. Not a threat. A promise.
I nod once. “Together.”
His thumb brushes beneath my eye, wiping away the last trace of tears I hadn’t noticed falling. He kisses my brow—gentle, reverent—then sets me back on my feet as if I am something precious rather than breakable. Rather than forged.
When the door opens behind us, the house seems to inhale. Finn takes my hand, lacing our fingers together in a way that leaves no room for doubt. No room for separation.
“My queen,” he murmurs—not for anyone else to hear.
I squeeze his hand once. Ready. Whatever waits below will learn the same truth the city is already beginning to understand: We are not haunted by the past. We are the reckoning.