Chapter 14
Chapter fourteen
In the Green and the Grave
Cillian
Gunfire splits the silence like lightning through glass.
“Go!” Rouge shouts from behind us, voice raw from smoke and shouting. “Get her out—I’ll meet you at the safe house!”
He’s firing over his shoulder, clean and precise, while the crowd dissolves into panic—heels snapping, glass breaking, people clawing for the exits.
“Rouge—”
“Don’t argue, you stubborn fuck! Move!”
I grab Siobhán’s hand, pulling her with me. Her pulse hammers against mine—steady, alive. There’s blood on her arm, a cut along her shoulder, and still she keeps pace, chin high like she refuses to let the world see her flinch.
Rouge fires again, covering our retreat, then waves us on. “Go! Go!”
The noise behind us fades as I shove open the service door that leads to the west wing—narrow, empty, echoing with the distant chaos above. I drag her down the corridor, each step pounding through the marble floor.
“Where?” she pants.
“The crypt,” I say.
Her eyes flick to me, understanding sparking there. She doesn’t argue. She knows what that means.
Only I have the key. Only I would take her there. We reach the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor, half-hidden by drapery and shadow. I fish the key from inside my jacket—it’s cold, iron, old as the estate itself. My hand’s slick with blood, but it turns in the lock with a satisfying click.
I push the door open, ushering her inside.
The air shifts instantly—cool, ancient, still.
The chaos from upstairs muffles to a dull, distant hum.
Candles flicker along the walls, untouched by years.
Their light dances over the marble pillars, the carved angel above the doorway, and finally, the piano. My mother’s piano.
Siobhán steps forward, her breath catching. “It’s still here.”
“Always will be.”
I close the door behind us, locking it again.
My shoulder aches; blood drips warm down my sleeve.
She notices but says nothing. She knows this place.
She knows what it means to me. To us. I lean against the stone wall, watching her move toward the instrument, every motion slow, reverent, like she’s walking into church.
Above us, the chaos continues—muffled gunfire, shouting, footsteps fading into the distance.
But down here, it’s quiet. Down here, there’s only her.
For the first time in what feels like hours, there’s silence.
No shouting, no bullets, no chaos — just the low hum of candlelight and the uneven sound of our breathing.
She stands in the middle of the crypt, gown torn, streaks of red up her arms. Blood on her face, in her hair. Still beautiful. Still steady. Christ, I could lose my mind over her.
I cross the space between us, my shoulder throbbing with every step. “You hurt?”
She shakes her head. “Not badly. It’s not mine.”
That doesn’t help. The sight of her like this — marked, stained — hits me harder than the bullet ever could.
I cup her jaw, turning her face toward the light. Her skin is cool under my fingers, pulse fluttering just beneath. She doesn’t look away.
“Tell me,” I say softly. “Did anyone touch you?”
Her brow furrows. “No, Cill—”
“Don’t lie to me, dove.” My voice cracks lower, that dangerous thread I can’t always keep hidden. “Not about this.”
She exhales, slow. “No one touched me.”
Relief hits like a fist to the gut. My shoulders drop. My hand stays on her face anyway, thumb brushing her cheekbone.
“Good girl,” I murmur before I can stop myself.
Her eyes flash — that look that could cut a man in half. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t drip like that.”
She reaches for me, ignoring the warning in my stance. Fingers brush my sleeve, find the tear where the bullet grazed. I hiss when she presses too hard.
“Jesus, Siobhán—”
“Hold still.” She rips a piece of fabric from the hem of her ruined gown, using it to press against the wound. Her hands are gentle but firm. “You need stitches.”
I almost laugh. “You think we’ve time for that?”
Her jaw sets. “You’ll make time if I say so.”
There it is — that spark. The one that’s been killing me since the day I met her. She looks like a goddess dipped in blood and defiance. My ruin wearing silk.
I grab her wrist, stilling her hand against my chest. “You don’t tell me what to do, dove.”
Her chin lifts, eyes narrowing. “Then stop bleeding on me.”
Christ almighty. I should be furious. I should be thinking about the men upstairs, the traitor who’ll pay for this, the plan unraveling.
But all I can think about is her — the smell of her skin, the blood drying on her collarbone, the way her pulse matches mine.
She’s my weakness, my war, my penance. And I’ll burn Dublin to the ground before I let anyone touch her again.
She ties the last strip of silk tight and sits back, wiping her hands on her ruined dress. “This will have to do until we get to the safe house.”
Above us, the gunfire’s long gone silent. Somewhere far off, a door slams. We should move. Rouge will be waiting. But I can’t seem to make myself stand.
“You should rest that arm,” she says softly.
“I’m not resting while you’re bleeding.”
She looks down at her torn dress, at the faint scratches along her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”
“Siobhán,” I say, her name coming out rough, broken, holy.
When she looks up, it hits me like it always does—like the first punch of a fight. God, she’s beautiful. And I’m so bloody tired of pretending I don’t want to ruin her again.
I reach up, brushing my thumb under her jaw where blood’s dried in a faint line. “Tá tú dochreidte,1” I whisper.
She stills beneath my touch, a tiny breath catching between us—one of those fragile, dangerous sounds that says don’t move, don’t speak, don’t ruin it.
Her pulse jumps under my thumb. For a second, neither of us breathes. The fire throws gold against her throat, the shadows licking over the pale skin there. There’s a smear of blood near her collarbone, mine or hers, I don’t know. I don’t care. I just want to taste it.
She blinks slowly, lips parting. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you want me,” she whispers.
I smile, sharp and quiet. “That’s because I do.”
Her hand twitches in her lap. She’s trying not to move, trying not to give me what I already see in her eyes—the want, the ache, the memory of how I used to have her.
I lean closer, close enough to feel her warmth brush the air between us. “You’ve got blood on your skin,” I murmur.
“Then don’t look at it,” she breathes.
I huff a laugh, low and rough. “I wasn’t planning to look.”
Her pupils flare. A shiver runs through her—subtle, but I feel it. Christ, I feel everything. The crypt feels too small now, too alive. The air’s thick with the iron tang of blood and the ghost of something sweeter—her perfume, faint under the smoke. I could drown in it. I want to drown in it.
And I think she knows. Her lips part again, and that’s all it takes—one heartbeat too long, one breath too deep, one thought too late.
She doesn’t move when I lean in. Not even when my mouth brushes her jaw. Not even when my breath ghosts the blood drying there.
I don’t ask permission. I don’t need it. Not with her breath stuttering like that. My tongue drags up the faint line of red. Slow. Deliberate. She shudders so hard her knees knock mine.
“Cill…”
Christ, the sound of my name on her lips. It breaks something open in me.
“We don’t have time,” she whispers, but her hands grip my shirt like she’s terrified I’ll stop.
“I know,” I growl against her skin. “I’m not wasting a second.”
My good hand fists in the skirt of her gown and shoves it up—silk sliding over her thighs, baring the soft heat of her beneath.
She gasps, half a warning, half a plea. I don’t care which one it is.
My other hand—wrapped, bloodied, useless—rests against her hip.
She covers it with her own, steadying me, owning me. Always has.
Her back hits the piano bench behind her, the wood creaking under the sudden weight as I step between her legs. I shove my trousers down just enough. Just enough. Because that’s all we have time for. All I need.
Her fingers dig into my shoulders. “Cillian…”
“Look at me.” My voice is barely human.
She does—eyes wide, blown, shining in the firelight. My ruin. My absolution. My undoing. I drag her forward and sink into her in one sharp, brutal thrust. She cries out—soft, strangled, gorgeous. Her forehead drops to mine. Her breath trembles against my mouth.
“Jesus Christ, dove,” I groan, every muscle locking. “Fuaim mo chroí2… sound of my fucking heart.”
Her nails rake down my back. Her hips lift, meeting every frantic, hungry snap of mine. It’s fast—too fast—because the world above us is still burning in its own way, still full of men who want her dead.
But here? Here she’s alive. Here she’s mine.
I drive into her again, and again, the piano behind her trembling with the force. Her gasp breaks on my tongue when I kiss her—messy, frantic, tasting of fear and blood and everything I’ve ever wanted. The whole world could end above us and I swear I wouldn’t stop.
Her breath shatters against my mouth, her lips brushing mine as she tries to speak. “Fuck—Cillian—”
The way she says my name? It nearly undoes me. I slam into her again, harder, her body jolting up against the piano.
She gasps, grabs my jaw, forces me to look at her. “Don’t you dare stop,” she pants, voice shaking. “Not until I can’t remember my own name.”
A broken sound rips from my chest. Christ. She always knows exactly where to strike.
I drag my mouth down her throat, teeth catching her pulse. “Oh, I’m not stopping, a rún,” I growl against her skin. “I’ll fuck you senseless right here if you ask it.”
Her thighs clamp around my hips, dragging me deeper, pulling a curse out of me so rough it echoes off the stone. I kiss her again—messy, bruising, all tongue and desperation. She tastes like blood and silk and salvation.
Her whisper is a tremor against my lips. “Then ruin me, Cillian. Like you used to.”
Something dark snaps inside me. My hand fists in her hair, tilting her head back so I can take her mouth again, swallowing her moan. “Tá tú ag milleadh dom,3” I snarl.
“I want to,” she breathes, hips lifting to meet every savage thrust. “God, I want to.”
My forehead drops to hers as I pound into her, the bench creaking, the piano shivering behind us. “Good,” I grit out, kissing her deeper, harder. “Because you’re mine, Siobhán. Always have been.”
She whimpers—beautiful, desperate—and kisses me back like she’s starving for it, nails raking my shoulders in time with my rhythm. Our breaths tangle, break, reform. The room spins. My pulse roars in my ears.
She gasps into my mouth, “Harder—Cill—don’t hold back—”
And I don’t. I can’t. Her body clenches around me, molten and perfect, and I swear the whole fucking crypt tilts.
I kiss her through it, swallowing every sound she makes, thrusting her straight into oblivion—her hands, her voice, her heat dragging me with her.
Her moan breaks against my lips. My name falls out of her in pieces.
I thrust into her one last time—deep, shaking— and the world goes white.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing but the sound of us breathing, ragged, uneven, tangled together like we’re still trying to crawl inside each other’s skin. Her forehead rests against mine. My hand stays wrapped in her skirt. Her legs stay locked around my hips like she’s afraid I’ll disappear.
I brush my mouth against hers, slow this time. A whisper of a kiss. “Mo ghrá,4” I murmur, voice raw.
Her breath stutters. Her hand slides up my jaw, thumb trembling a little as she wipes away a smear of blood near my cheek. “Mo chroí,5” she whispers back.
Jesus Christ. I feel that. Everywhere. We stay like that for one more stolen moment—her lips soft, her body warm, her heartbeat fluttering against my chest like I’m the only safe place she has left. But the world above us hasn’t paused. And neither can we.
A sharp echo booms through the stone—Rouge’s signal.
Three knocks. Then silence. It’s time. We’re out of minutes.
I pull back, tucking myself in, helping her adjust her dress, smoothing fabric over her hips with hands that still shake from everything I just took from her. Everything she just gave me.
She brushes a hand through her hair, breath still uneven, cheeks flushed in a way that makes me want to drag her back onto that bench and ruin her again. But survival first. Desire later. Barely.
She nods toward the far wall. “You still have the key?”
I lift the chain from beneath my shirt—thin, tarnished, holding the old brass key we used as kids. “It never leaves me.”
Her lips twitch—soft, aching nostalgia. “We used to run through that tunnel like we owned the whole bloody world.”
I unlock the hidden panel behind the piano, stone shifting with a grinding sigh. Cold air rushes out, smelling of earth and old memories. I reach for her hand. She gives it without hesitation. God, I feel that too.
“Stay close,” I tell her, squeezing once.
“Always,” she whispers.
We slip inside. The door shuts behind us with a final, echoing thud.
The tunnel is narrow, low-ceilinged, the same one we used to sneak through when we were reckless teenagers—me with bloodied knuckles from a fight, her with music sheets tucked under her arm, both of us convinced we were invincible.
Our footsteps echo ahead, the only sound in the dark. After a minute, faint light appears—the trapdoor into the old stable. My home. Her temporary safe house. I push it open, help her climb out first. The night air hits my face, cold and sharp, smelling like horses and gun oil.
Behind us, the tunnel seals shut. And like that— we’re gone.
1. You’re incredible
2. The sound of my heart
3. You’re ruining me.
4. My love.
5. My heart.