Chapter 15 Red in the Devil’s Melody #2
He leads me down a hall lit with soft underfloor lighting. No harsh lights, no shadows—just a warm glow guiding us forward. He opens a door at the end. The master bedroom is darker, quieter, almost sacred. And the moment I step inside, I freeze.
The view—It’s breathtaking.
A massive curved window spans the entire wall, overlooking the river and the city beyond.
The water glows with reflections of bridges and towers.
The skyline is a soft, sleepy blue-black, dotted with gold.
It’s like standing inside a photograph. Or a dream.
The king-size bed sits directly in front of the glass, white sheets rumpled just enough to look inviting.
“This is…” I shake my head. Words fail.
Cillian’s voice is quiet, almost unsure. “I wanted a place where the world felt… far away.”
I turn to him. He looks tired. Worn down. Still bloody. Still beautiful.
“And you brought me here,” I say.
His jaw flexes. “I brought you here.”
Before I can respond, Rouge calls from the other room: “All clear! No movement within three blocks, cameras online, alarms set. We’re locked down tight, Captain.”
Cillian gives a small nod but keeps his eyes on me. The city lights glitter behind him. Dublin glowing like a promise.
We don’t linger. We can’t. The world is still too close behind us.
Rogue appears in the doorway like a shadow that decided to put on a leather jacket. He jerks his chin toward Cillian’s arm. “That needs closing.”
Cillian’s eyes flick to me, unreadable, then he nods once. “Kitchen.”
I follow them down the short hall, my feet sinking into the plush carpet Cillian pretends not to care about. The kitchen is all marble and soft lighting, the kind of place where normal people drink tea and listen to the radio at sunrise. Not patch up bullet grazes at two in the morning.
Rogue drops the med kit onto the island with a clatter. “Sit.”
Cillian takes the stool without arguing — which tells me exactly how much pain he’s in. He braces his good hand on the counter, jaw locked tight.
I move automatically, opening cabinets, searching for anything familiar.
There’s food here, real food, stocked like he planned for this.
For me. My hands find olive oil, garlic, a bundle of fresh herbs.
Something simple. Something warm. Something to make the air smell like something other than blood.
The knife feels steady in my grip as I slice.
Behind me, Rogue threads a needle like he’s threading a curse.
“This’ll sting,” Rogue mutters.
“It already does,” Cillian grinds out.
The needle pierces skin. I hear the breath Cillian tries not to let escape. I keep chopping.
“Stop tensing,” Rogue says.
“I’m not tensing.”
“You’re bending the bloody stool,” Rogue snaps.
I glance over my shoulder. Cillian’s knuckles are white against the edge of the counter, eyes flaring with pain he refuses to acknowledge.
“You could’ve let me bleed to death,” Cillian mutters.
“You’re welcome,” Rogue replies dryly.
Despite everything, my lips twitch. The pan heats. Butter melts. Garlic hisses. The scent unfurls through the room, softening the sharp edges of adrenaline that haven’t quite let me go.
Cillian’s breathing slows. Rogue’s hands move with brutal efficiency. And for the first time in hours, something like calm slips into the space between us. Then Cillian’s phone vibrates on the counter.
Once. Twice.
The screen lights up, casting a cold glow across the marble. Darragh.
My stomach drops. Rogue goes still mid-stitch. Cillian doesn’t breathe. I turn fully, knife still in my hand, garlic on my fingers, heart pounding like a warning drum. He stares at the screen. At his father’s name. At the man who will twist this night into whatever lie best suits him.
Cillian’s jaw flexes. He reaches for the phone. Cillian swipes the screen and lifts the phone, expression smoothing into something cold, neutral, unreadable.
“Daid.”
His father’s voice pours through the speaker like aged whiskey and poison.
Low. Smooth. Elegant. A serpent in silk.
“Cillian, mo bhuachaill,1” Darragh says, as if he hasn’t spent years sculpting his life like a weapon.
“I’ve been trying to reach you. Rouge’s line went dead. There was gunfire—are you hurt?”
Cillian’s eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. He lies with the same ease he breathes. “I’m fine,” he says. “Rouge too.”
A soft exhale crackles through the phone, like relief practiced in a mirror. “And the girl?” Darragh asks, casual, careless. “Has anyone found Siobhán?”
Every muscle in my body goes tight. Rouge pauses mid-stitch. Cillian doesn’t blink.
“No,” he answers. “She vanished. I’ve no idea where she ran.”
My pulse kicks, hot and vicious. I know he has to lie—but the words still scrape.
“Good,” Darragh says lightly. “Better for everyone if she stays lost.”
I grip the edge of the counter so hard my knuckles ache. Darragh continues, voice never rising, never cracking. He’s ice made human. He always has been.
“I’m sure you saw for yourself,” he says, “that the shooter was hers.”
Cillian goes utterly still. Rogue looks up sharply, eyes narrowing. My stomach flips—rage and disbelief blending into something molten.
Darragh keeps going, unbothered. “I warned you, Cillian. She’s a siren. Always has been. Uses that voice, those eyes. Lures men in and pulls them under. You can’t trust her.”
Heat crawls up my throat. I feel sick. I feel furious. Cillian’s face doesn’t move, but something dangerous flickers beneath the surface.
“You’re saying Siobhán hired someone to kill me,” he says, tone flat.
“Who else would want you dead tonight?” Darragh replies smoothly. “She disappeared the moment the bullets started flying. Convenient, isn’t it?”
I want to scream. I want to tear the phone from Cillian’s hand. I want to rip that lie out of Darragh’s throat. Instead, I stand there, garlic burning in the pan, heart hammering, listening to the man who shaped my childhood twist reality with the ease of a conductor leading an orchestra.
Darragh sighs. A showy, weary sound. “Come to the manor tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll meet after her fourth performance. The venue is public, family-friendly. No risks. We’ll discuss our next move then.”
Cillian glances at Rogue. Then at me. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll be there.”
“Good lad.”
A click. The line goes dead.
My hand is still on the counter when Cillian sets the phone down. Barely. I’m shaking too hard.
“That bastard,” I breathe. “Calling me a siren. Saying I’d—” My voice breaks, fury slicing through it. “Saying I’d hire someone to kill you?”
Cillian stands, slow and steady, Rouge finishing the last stitch and taping the dressing down.
“Siobhán,” he says, reaching for me.
“No.” I back away, heat buzzing under my skin. “He stood there tonight—looked me in the eye—and then lied like that? Lied about me?”
Cillian closes the distance, hands coming to my arms. “I know. I know, dove.”
“I should’ve expected it,” I snap. “I should’ve known he’d twist it. But saying I wanted you dead—”
He tips my chin up, forcing my eyes to meet his. “A stór, breathe.”
I suck in air. It doesn’t help.
“He’s meeting me tomorrow,” Cillian says quietly.
“I heard.”
“It’ll be after your fourth performance. Rouge will come with me. You’ll go straight back to the flat when you’re done.”
“Absolutely not.”
Both men freeze.
I cross my arms. “I’m going.”
Cillian’s voice drops. “No, you’re not.”
“I need to be there.”
“That’s exactly why you’re not.”
“Cillian, I am not sitting in some hidden penthouse like a porcelain doll while your father spins stories that could get us all killed—”
Rouge stands, wipes his hands on a towel, and cuts in gently, “He’s right, duchess. It’s not safe for you.”
I turn on him. “Since when do you agree with him over me?”
“Since forever,” Cillian mutters.
Rouge shrugs. “He’s bigger.”
I glare daggers. “You two are insufferable.”
Cillian steps closer, voice low and firm. “Siobhán. My father wants you gone. Dead. Buried. Tonight was proof. I won’t have you in his crosshairs.”
“I’ve lived in his crosshairs,” I snap back. “Since I was a child, Cillian. Since he made me his sweet little prodigy for the spotlight. Since he told you I wasn’t worth trusting. Since he decided I was useful for the family name and nothing else.”
Cillian flinches. A small one, but real.
“I will not be left behind,” I say, breath sharp. “Not for this.”
The room goes still.
Rouge sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Cap… she’s not wrong.”
Cillian turns slowly. “You just agreed with me.”
“I’m reconsiderin’,” Rouge says. “Woman’s got fire. And she’s right — she knows his games better than either of us.”
Cillian pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s negotiating with two lunatics.
I step closer, voice softer. “I won’t speak. I won’t get in the way. I just… I need to see him lie to my face. I need to see you confront him. I need to know I’m not hiding.”
His jaw tics. His eyes drag over my face, reading every crack, every bruise, every piece of my soul. Finally, he exhales.
“Fine,” he murmurs. “You can be there.”
Rouge raises a brow. “Just like that?”
“No,” Cillian growls. “Not ‘just like that.’ She’s the only person whose absence makes me afraid. She stays in sight. At my back. If she so much as sneezes, you shoot someone.”
Rouge nods solemnly. “Aye. Reasonable.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest softens. We clean up quietly after that. Rouge heads out to secure the perimeter. Cillian locks up. And then it’s just us.
He leads me to the master bedroom — that sweeping glass view of Dublin glowing in the dark. The city looks softer from this height. Almost gentle. Cillian drops onto the bed with a tired grunt and pulls me down beside him.
No heat. No fight. Just warmth. His fingers trace slow circles at my hip. My hand rests over his heartbeat. He presses a kiss to my forehead. Then one to my cheek. Then my jaw.
Soft. Reverent. As if he’s afraid to break the quiet. I shift closer, laying my head against his chest. His arm curls around me instantly.
“Sleep, a rún,” he murmurs. “Tomorrow will be hell.”
I nod against him. But for now—just for this breath—we’re safe. The city glitters beyond the glass. Cillian’s heartbeat steadies under my palm. And I fall asleep with his lips in my hair, holding me like I’m the only truth left in his world.
1. My boy