Chapter 16 The Crown Made of Teeth #2
I drag my mouth down her throat, biting the tendon there—not gentle, not soft—marking her the way she's marked me a dozen times before. She gasps, back arching, and I feel her pulse jump beneath my tongue. "You want it rough, wee Rose? Want me to remind you exactly what you do to me?"
"Aye," she breathes, fingers threading through my hair and pulling. "Show me."
I catch her wrists in one hand, pin them above her head against the pillow.
We've played this game before—power shifting between us like a knife passing hands—but tonight there's no performance in it.
Just raw need. She watches me with those dark, fearless eyes while I map every inch of her with my free hand—ribs, waist, the curve of her hip where bruises bloom like violets.
"Does it hurt?" I ask, pressing my thumb into the mark.
"Yes."
"Good." I lean down, kiss it. "Every mark on you tonight is mine. Not from your enemies. Not from a fight. From me. From choosing this."
"Possessive bastard," she gasps, but she's smiling—wicked and wanting—and when I bite down on the soft flesh of her inner thigh she keens.
"Your possessive bastard," I remind her, working my way back up her body with teeth and tongue. "The one you married. The one who's been half-mad for you since before we knew what that meant."
Her legs wrap around my hips, pulling me closer. "Then take what's yours, Finnian. Stop making me wait."
Christ, the way she says my full name—like a prayer and a curse all at once—it nearly destroys me. I release her wrists and she immediately grabs my belt, working it open with the same steady hands that held a gun earlier tonight. The parallel isn't lost on either of us.
"You washed blood off these hands an hour ago," I say, voice dark, watching her fingers work the leather free.
She looks up at me through her lashes, defiant. "Aye. And now they're touching you. Does that bother you?"
"Fuck no." I catch her hand, press it flat against my chest where my heart thunders. "You're Belfast's queen. Violence and beauty. That's what I fell for. That's what I'm claiming."
Her breath hitches. "Then claim me properly. No more careful. No more gentle. I'm not breakable."
"No," I agree, leaning in close, nose brushing hers. "You're not. You're fucking dangerous. And you're mine."
I kiss her then—deep and hungry and honest—and she responds like she's been starving for it.
Her hands find my trousers, pushing them down my hips, and I help her, kicking them off without breaking the kiss.
When I'm finally bare against her, skin to skin, she makes this satisfied sound in the back of her throat that goes straight through me.
"Come here," she demands, pulling me down, and I go willingly—covering her body with mine, letting her feel my weight, my want, everything I am.
I settle between her thighs, one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding down her body—breast, stomach, lower—until I find her wet and wanting. She gasps when I touch her, hips bucking up into my hand.
"Fuck, Róisín," I groan. "Already?"
"Aye," she says, breathless and shameless. "Been wanting this since the chapel. Since you washed the blood off me like I was something holy."
"You are," I tell her, circling her with my thumb, watching her face—the way her eyes flutter, the way her lips part, the way her whole body responds to me. "You're a fucking saint covered in sin and I worship every inch."
She reaches down, wraps her hand around me, and I nearly come apart right there. Her grip is firm, confident, devastating—familiar in the best way. "No more poetry, Finn. Just fuck me."
I push her hand away—gently but firmly—and pin both wrists above her head again. "My pace, love. You asked me not to be careful. That means you take what I give you. When I give it."
Her eyes flash—challenge and desire all mixed together—and she nods once. Permission. Trust. Everything.
I line myself up, feeling her heat, her readiness, and pause. Look down at her. This woman who rules beside me. Who killed beside me tonight. Who chose me again when she could've walked away.
"I love you," I say. Raw. Real. "Every bloodstained, beautiful, brutal part of you."
"I know." Her legs tighten around me. "Now prove it."
I push into her in one hard thrust—no teasing, no gentleness—exactly what she asked for. Her mouth falls open on a gasp that's half shock, half satisfaction, and I groan because she's perfect. Always has been.
"Fuck," I grit out, because she's tight and hot and taking me like she was made for it. Made for this. For us. "You feel—Christ, love—"
"Don't stop," she orders, nails digging into my shoulders where my hands have released her wrists. "Don't you dare stop."
I don't. I pull back and drive deep again, setting a rhythm that's hard and deliberate and absolutely filthy. Each thrust is a claiming. Each gasp from her lips is a surrender. The firelight catches on her skin, turning her gold and shadow, and I lean down to kiss her—messy and graceless and real.
"You're mine," I growl against her mouth. "Say it."
"I'm yours," she gasps, meeting me thrust for thrust like we're fighting again—but this time we're on the same side. "And you're mine. Always have been."
"Always will be," I swear, picking up the pace, giving her everything—harder, faster, the headboard hitting the wall with each movement.
The whole estate can probably hear us. Good.
Let them know exactly what happens behind these doors.
Let them know their king takes his queen the way she deserves—rough and reverent all at once.
"That's it, love," I rasp, feeling her tighten around me. "Take it. Take everything I've got."
"More," she demands, and Christ, she's magnificent like this—face flushed, hair wild, completely undone and completely in control all at once. "Finn, more—"
I shift the angle, hit that spot inside her that makes her cry out, and do it again. And again. Until she's shaking beneath me, chanting my name like it's the only word she knows. Like I'm the only thing that matters.
"Come for me," I order, voice rough as Belfast streets. "Let me feel it. Let me feel you fall apart."
"Fuck—Finn—I—"
She breaks. Hard. Her whole body goes taut, back arching off the bed, and she's beautiful—absolutely fucking beautiful—in her pleasure. I feel every pulse, every tremor, every wave of it, and it drags me over the edge with her.
I come with her name on my lips and my forehead pressed to hers, pouring everything into her—all the fear from tonight, all the love I've carried, all the violence we survived together. When I finally still, we're both breathing hard, slick with sweat, tangled together like we'll never come apart.
I don't pull out. Not yet. I want to stay here. Want to keep her full of me. Want her to feel this tomorrow when she walks into a room and takes what's hers. Want Belfast to see it in her eyes—that she's claimed and claiming.
"Finn," she whispers, hands gentle now in my hair.
I lift my head, meet her eyes. They're soft. Sated. Dangerous.
"Aye?"
"That was better."
I laugh—can't help it—and kiss her slow. "Better than what?"
"Better than careful. Better than trying not to break me." She shifts beneath me, deliberately clenching around me, and I groan because I'm already half-hard again. "Do it again. But this time, I want to be on top."
I roll us in one smooth movement, letting her settle on top of me, hands on her hips. She sits up, hair falling around her shoulders, looking every inch the queen she is. Firelight dances across her skin, catching on the marks I left, the bruises from earlier, the strength in her shoulders.
"Your move, wee Rose." She rocks her hips experimentally and I grip her tighter, jaw clenching. "Careful now."
"No," she says, leaning down to bite my jaw. "You said no more careful. That goes both ways."
And then she rides me—slow at first, rolling her hips in a way that makes my breath catch, testing the angle, finding what she wants. I watch her face as she takes me deeper, see the exact moment she finds it. Her lips part. Her eyes go dark.
"There," she breathes. "Right there."
"Aye?" I grip her hips tighter, guiding her, helping her take it. "That where you need me, love?"
"Yes." She braces her hands on my chest, nails biting in—drawing blood probably, I don't care—and starts to move. Really move. Faster now. Harder. Taking me like she's claiming territory. Like I'm Belfast itself and she's planting her flag.
"Fuck, look at you," I groan, watching her work. The way her body moves. The way her tits bounce with each roll of her hips. The way she's completely unselfconscious, chasing her pleasure like it's her birthright. "You're so fucking beautiful like this. Taking what's yours."
"Mine," she agrees, breathless, riding me harder. "All mine."
"Aye," I rasp. "Every inch. Every breath. Yours."
She leans forward slightly, changes the angle, and gasps. "Finn—God—"
"That's it," I encourage, thumbs digging into her hipbones, definitely leaving marks. "Use me. Take what you need."
"You like this?" she asks, voice rough with exertion, with want. "Like watching me fuck you?"
"Christ, yes." I'm barely holding on, barely keeping myself from just flipping her over and pounding into her. But this—this is hers. Her victory lap. Her claiming. "You're perfect. Fucking perfect. My queen taking her throne."
She makes this sound—half laugh, half moan—and grinds down harder. "Your queen who killed for you tonight."
"Aye," I growl, and fuck, that shouldn't turn me on more but it does. It absolutely does. "My queen who's got blood under her nails and my cock inside her. My queen who's beautiful covered in violence."
"You're fucked in the head, Finnian O'Callaghan."
"So are you, Róisín O'Callaghan." I thrust up to meet her, making her cry out. "That's why we work."
She picks up speed, riding me in earnest now—chasing it, taking it, demanding it. The sounds she makes are obscene. The wet slap of skin. Her gasping breaths. My groaned curses. The whole estate definitely knows what we're doing.
"Tell me," she demands, breathless but commanding—always commanding. "Tell me what you see."
"I see my wife," I grit out, watching where we're joined, watching her take me again and again. "I see the woman who stood in that chapel covered in blood and didn't flinch. I see the most dangerous woman in Belfast riding my cock like she owns it."
"I do own it," she says, and there's that Malloy arrogance mixed with O'Callaghan fire.
"Aye, you do." I slide one hand up from her hip to her breast, thumb circling her nipple. "You own all of me. Body and soul. Blood and bone."
She keens, head falling back, spine arching beautifully. "Finn—I'm close—"
"I know, love. I can feel it." I can—she's tightening around me like a vice, her rhythm getting erratic. "Let me see it. Let me watch you come on my cock."
"Touch me," she demands. "Make me—"
I don't need to be told twice. My hand slides between us, finding where she's swollen and sensitive, and I circle her with my thumb in time with her movements. She cries out, movements stuttering, getting desperate.
"That's it," I coax, watching her face. "Take it. Fucking take it, love."
"Oh God—Finn—"
"Not God," I rasp. "Just me. Just your husband. Just the man who'd kill anyone who tries to touch what's mine."
That does it. That mixture of possession and violence and love—it's always been our language. She comes apart with a shout, whole body going taut, and Christ, the way she looks—head thrown back, throat exposed, tits heaving, completely lost in it—it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
When she comes again, it's with her hands braced on my chest and my name torn from her throat. When I follow, it's with my fingers bruising her hips and the knowledge that this—this violent, beautiful, blood-soaked love—is what we've been fighting for all along.
The fire burns low. The night stretches long. And we take back everything—with teeth and hands and the kind of hunger that doesn't apologize. By the time dawn threatens the windows, we're exhausted. Marked. Claimed. Hers. Mine. Ours.
She collapses beside me, breathing hard, and I pull her against my chest. My hand slides down to rest on her hip, thumb tracing lazy circles over a fresh mark.
"You're staying right here," I murmur into her hair.
"Wasn't planning on going anywhere," she says, voice rough and satisfied.
"Good." I kiss her temple. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. "Because I'm not done with you yet."
She laughs—soft and wicked—and I feel it all the way through me.
"Good," she echoes. "Neither am I."
We lie there a long while after, the city breathing around us.
Belfast never really sleeps—it just changes tempo.
Sirens in the distance. Wind off the Lagan.
Old stone settling into itself like it always has.
This place made me. Broke me. Sharpened me.
And tonight, it finally feels like it’s stopped demanding blood as payment for belonging.
“What happens now?” she asks quietly.
It’s not fear in her voice. It’s calculation. The kind that survives wars.
I shift onto my side, propping myself up so I can see her properly. The woman who ended a dynasty with a violin string. The woman who stood in the ruins of a chapel and didn’t flinch. “Now,” I say, “we make it clear.”
“Clear how?”
“That Belfast doesn’t belong to ghosts anymore. That power doesn’t pass through back rooms and broken promises. That anyone who thinks they can cut us apart to carve themselves a throne is already dead.”
She studies me, eyes sharp, unreadable for a beat—and then she smiles. Not soft. Not sweet. Real. Dangerous. “You’re talking like a king.”
“No,” I correct. “I’m talking like someone who’s done letting men decide what you’re worth.”
Silence settles again, heavier this time. Sacred. She reaches for my hand, lacing her fingers through mine like it’s already been decided. Like it always was.
“Together,” she says. Not a question.
I bring her knuckles to my mouth and press a kiss there—slow, deliberate. A vow without witnesses. “Together,” I echo. “Or not at all.”
Outside, Belfast holds its breath. Inside, the war finally ends. And for the first time in my life, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to take by force. It feels like something we rule. Together.