Chapter 44
Aoife
The air is loud with celebration.
I keep to the edge of the training ground, hidden by the Blackstone’s cold stone walls, I have a few of Matteo’s cousins around me.
My heart beats in rhythm with his name.
He won, and the smile on my face is so big it’s starting to hurt. I want to run to him, feel his skin, kiss his mouth, tell him I’m so proud of him.
But I don’t move.
I wait. I watch him laugh with Marco and Milo, barely standing but still smirking like he owns the night. He’s limping. He’s bruised. And yet he looks like vengeance wearing a crown.
He sees me, and he’s walking over, my body starts to tingle with excitement of having my arms wrapped around him, and hope, pray we can put all this behind us.
And then, a hand covers my mouth.
No sound. No air.
I thrash but arms tighten around me. Familiar arms.
“Shhh,” someone whispers. “Don’t make a scene, Aoife.”
My body’s dragged backward. I can’t scream. I can't breathe. I claw at the hands, but someone else grabs my wrists. Another set of hands, bigger, stronger. My cousin’s.
“You brought shame to our name, girl.”
Something sharp presses into my neck.
A sting.
A cold rush. My legs collapse.
Before my vision fades, I hear the rustle of leaves, the creak of a door.
The night slips from me like silk.
The jet hums with a steady, polished roar beneath my feet, like it’s holding its breath.
I’m strapped in, literally. A leather belt buckled too tight across my waist. My hands trembling in my lap, I don’t remember getting on the plane. It’s all flashes. Men in suits. A needle. Darkness. And now the sky.
I can barely move, but I twist enough to see him.
Uncle Liam.
Sitting across from me, legs crossed, a crystal tumbler of whiskey in hand like we’re just out for a business trip. His suit’s crisp, tailored, gold cufflinks winking in the dim cabin light. Like this is normal. Like kidnapping his niece is just a normal Monday morning for him.
He watches me, lets the silence stretch so thin it trembles.
“You’re quiet,” he says at last, sipping slowly. “But I suppose that’s what we like most about you, Aoife. Obedient. Polished. Never ask too many questions.”
“I’m not going through with it,” I rasp. My voice is raw. “I’ll never marry him.”
He chuckles. A sound without warmth. Without real amusement. “Oh, sweetheart. That decision was never yours to make.”
“I’ll fight you. I’ll run again—”
“You won’t,” he interrupts, calmly. “Because we’ve already taken away everything you thought you had. School. Safety. Matteo.” He leans forward, voice lowering to something colder. “And if you do try again, next time it won’t be a plane. It’ll be a box. You understand me?”
My stomach twists.
How can my own family do this to me?
I lunge suddenly, jerking against the belt, hands clawing toward the buckle.
He doesn't even flinch.
Another man, silent, heavyset, grabs me from behind, pressing me back into the leather seat. A zip tie clicks around my wrists.
“You’re passionate,” Liam says, almost admiring. “Just like your mother was… right before the wedding.”
He says it so casually, like it’s trivia. A family heirloom. Pain passed down like china and silver. I know my mom never wanted her wedding but was forced into it for power.
“You drugged me,” I whisper. “You stole me.”
“No, Aoife,” he says, voice cool. “We’re reclaiming you. You’ve forgotten who you are.”
I lock eyes with him. “I know exactly who I am, and I know what you’re planning.”
A slow smile creeps across his face. “Do you? Then tell me, little lamb… when exactly do you think your knife-wielding, oath-breaking lover will come flying to save you?”
I don't blink. It makes me sick, him calling me the name Matteo uses for me. Sick asshole.
The whiskey sloshes as the plane hits turbulence. My stomach rolls, but my rage burns steadily.
I won’t wear white.
Not for them. Not for this.
Not unless it’s soaked in their blood.
The plane dips, and my stomach flips with it. The seatbelt burns against my hip.
I count the seconds between the wheels dropping and the final announcement from the flight attendant.
I feel the descent now, pressure building behind my ears. The air changes. The silence thickens like a warning.
The moment the wheels hit the tarmac, I inhale a slow, steady breath. I’ve got one shot. Maybe two if they hesitate. But hesitation isn’t something the O’Briens are known for.
The lights flicker. The plane jerks as it slows.
My fingers twitch. Muscles coil.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Dublin—”
I’m up.
Unbuckled, lunging for the aisle.
I hit the first guard in the face with my elbow, hard enough to feel something crunch.
A hand grabs my arm. I twist. Slam my boot down on his foot. Spin and throw myself down the aisle, dodging a tray cart.
"AOIFE!" someone roars behind me.
I don’t stop.
Not for them. Not for anyone.
I make it to the door.
I don’t care if we’re still moving.
Hands on the lever.
Another hand grabs my hair from behind.
I scream, raw and furious, and twist, slamming my head back. Something cracks. He stumbles. I feel his weight fall away, and for a second, I’m free.
Then…
Pain explodes across my side.
I hit the floor, shoulder-first. My breath whooshes out in a sob.
More hands now.
Too many.
I claw. Kick. Bite.
A boot lands in my ribs. I cough. Spit blood.
“Enough!” a voice bellows. Familiar. Cold. Uncle Liam.
“I told you to keep her calm!” he snarls at the men dragging me back to the seat. My arms are yanked behind me. Something cold snaps around my wrists again.
"You thought you'd what? Run into the fog? You’re back where you belong now, and don’t worry, Aoife.” His voice drops. A poisonous lullaby. “We’ll make sure you stay this time.”
I lift my head, blinking through the blood in my eye.
“You should’ve let me jump,” I whisper to myself and to Matteo.
Liam crouches beside me. Smiles like a priest over a corpse.
“Sweet girl, you won’t jump.” His words hit me hard, and I close my eyes knowing this might be the last time I can pray for Matteo to help me in time, because they will do anything to make me forget him.
I wake up to silence.
The air smells of sea salt, peat, and rosewater.
My head is pounding. My mouth is dry. My tongue feels heavy.
Everything hurts.
And the worst part?
I know this room.
It’s the old O’Brien estate. Not my father’s modern house. No, this is the ancestral place. Hidden. Sacred. Guarded. This is where we spent our summers when we were little.
The room is dimly lit by candlelight.
My eyes fall to the object waiting for me.
On the chair at the foot of the bed, draped in shadow and ivory, a wedding dress. Lace. Corset. Beading that catches the firelight like shattered glass.
My breath shudders out.
My throat burns with bile.
This is happening.
I’m being dressed for burial in white.
I try the door.
Locked.
I check the windows.
Barred.
They’ve brought me back to Ireland.
And this time, they won’t just marry me off. They’ll bury me in silk and pearls, and swear it was love.
But as I stand in the center of the room, trembling, heart racing, I whisper to the air, to him.
“Find me, Matteo. Please.”