Chapter 20 The Green Crown of Dublin’s Devil
Chapter twenty
The Green Crown of Dublin’s Devil
Cillian
It’s Christmas season again, and the world has finally slowed enough for me to breathe—but Siobhán hasn’t.
She’s been everywhere these past few weeks.
Concert halls. Music school meetings. Planning sessions with choir directors.
Final fittings for the wedding. Visits with the children at the academy she’s building in her mother’s honor.
Rehearsals for her winter performances. Gift deliveries. Charity functions.
She’s a storm of red and gold and lace, moving through Dublin like she owns it— because she does. Because I gave it back to her. Because she earned it long before I ever stepped into the role meant to devour me. And God help me, I’ve never loved her more.
She hums Christmas melodies under her breath these days—little wandering tunes that get stuck in my head for hours. She’s always got some ribbon tangled in her curls, or glitter somewhere on her cheek, or sheet music tucked under her arm like a holy scripture she’s been entrusted to deliver.
She doesn’t even notice how luminous she is, how the entire city shifts when she walks by.
But I do. Christ above, I do. And every time she rushes past me with another list, another rehearsal, another meeting, another concert, I want to pull her into my arms and remind her she’s my wife in ten days.
Ten. Fucking. Days.
And somehow it still doesn’t feel real. I watch her now from across the room as she pins up the last of her music notes on the corkboard she insisted we install in the stable house kitchen—“So I don’t lose anything, Cill, because somebody keeps moving my piles”—and the sight nearly undoes me.
She’s in one of her winter dresses, deep green velvet, her curls pinned half-up with gold clips. Her bracelet—the one I gave her last Christmas—glints in the light as she moves. Her humming drifts across the room like a hymn meant only for me.
She’s exhausted. Brilliant. Too busy by half. A miracle in motion. And I’m just… standing here. Wondering how the hell I got lucky enough to be the man she comes home to.
I clear my throat, but she’s too focused to notice.
Of course she is. She’s been like this for weeks—working herself to death while somehow still glowing like the star on top of every Christmas tree from here to the Liffey.
And I can’t help it. I smile. Because even in the chaos, even in the blur of holiday madness and the last minute wedding preparations, one thing remains painfully, beautifully clear: She’s mine.
And in ten days, the entire world will know it.
I cross the kitchen in three strides, unable to pretend I’m content watching her from across the room like some lovesick ghost drifting through my own house.
My hand finds the small of her back, thumb sweeping over the velvet of her dress.
She startles, then melts when she sees it’s me.
It never gets old—that soft, private smile she saves only for me.
Not the public Siobhán Kelleher smile, not the performer, not the saint Dublin’s tried to make her. Just my woman. My heart. My future.
“Cill,” she breathes, leaning into my touch like she’s been waiting for it all day.
“Come take a break,” I murmur, guiding a curl away from her cheek. “Before you collapse on the kitchen floor and I have to explain to the Irish Times why Dublin’s Darling Daughter is unconscious beside the kettle.”
She laughs—a tired, musical sound. “I can’t. I still have to finalize the choir order for the Winter Gala, and—”
“No.” I tilt her chin up. “You’ve given every last drop of yourself to this season. Let me give something back.”
Her cheeks flush—not from embarrassment, but warmth. Trust. She hands me her crumpled list, that little smirk tugging at her lips. “Fine. Five minutes.”
“Five?” I scoff. “You’ll get twenty, mo chroí, and you’ll take them without argument.”
She rolls her eyes, but the exhaustion softens, easing out of her shoulders as I pull her into me. She rests her head against my chest, breathing in. The world finally stops spinning. God, she’s tiny against me. Tiny and fierce and mine.
“I love this,” she says quietly. “Even when it’s chaos. Even when I’m running from rehearsals straight to gift deliveries. Even when you come home bleeding because someone thought they could test the Red Hand.”
My fingers curl at her waist. “You stitched me up beautifully.”
“You got blood on my good towels.”
“I bought you new ones.”
She snorts. “You bought twelve sets.”
“So I’d be prepared for next time.”
Her laugh is soft—but she doesn’t dispute it. She never asks what I’ve done or who tried to start something they shouldn’t have. She simply cleans me up, kisses my jaw, and tells me to try not to ruin her linen again. She’s my equal, not my shadow. My partner. My calm. My wife—in ten days.
Her fingers toy absently with the bracelet at her wrist—the one I fastened on her last year, the one she never takes off. The green stones catch the kitchen lights, glittering like a promise.
“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmurs.
“Just admiring the view.”
She nudges me with her shoulder. “You’re biased.”
“Entirely.”
She smiles up at me, slow and warm, and for a moment the world shrinks to this kitchen—her dress brushing my legs, the faint sound of carolers drifting in from the street, the scent of cinnamon and winter and her. “Cillian?” she asks softly.
“Yes, love?”
Her eyes sparkle. “Will you come with me tomorrow? The new students want to show you their concert pieces. And the parents keep asking if the ‘mysterious patron’ actually exists.”
I groan. “God save me.”
She laughs, rising on her toes to kiss my jaw. “They’ll adore you.”
“No, they’ll fear me.”
“Same thing,” she teases.
“Not in the way you mean.”
She gives me that look—fond, knowing, a little exasperated. “You’re not half as frightening as you think.”
“If that were true,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her cheek, “you wouldn’t run back to me every night the moment you lock the academy doors.”
“I run home because I love you,” she whispers. “Not because I’m afraid of you.”
I swallow hard. Christ.
There are moments—rare, sacred—when the Devil of Dublin feels like a man on his knees. This is one of them.
I rest my forehead against hers. “Ten days,” I say again, softly.
She smiles. “Ten days.”
Outside, the church bells ring the hour.
Inside, Siobhán’s fingers trace a slow, absent heart over my chest. And standing here—her body warm against mine, her list abandoned on the counter, her humming drifting through the kitchen like the last carol of the night—I know something with absolute, bone-deep certainty:
The city can call me devil, king, tyrant, whatever it likes. But in ten days, I become something else entirely. Hers. Forever.
Istand at the altar—Dublin’s Devil in a black suit and a green silk tie she chose, the only color allowed near my throat today—while the last of the December sun pours through the stained glass behind me.
It ignites the air in gold and emerald, setting the dust motes spinning like slow-falling stars.
All Saints’ is quiet in that holy, breath-holding way that churches only manage right before something life-changing. The candles flicker along the aisle. Garlands of winter greenery line the pews—holly, spruce, and white roses she insisted on “because they make the cold feel like heaven.”
Family and friends fill every bench—hers, mine, ours. Faces from Dublin’s underbelly beside faces from her mother’s world of music and lace. Choir members. Children from her academy dressed in their little winter best, legs swinging as they try to sit still.
Behind the heavy wooden doors, the city waits.
I can hear them—crowds gathered on the steps, spilling into the street, their breath fogging in the cold, waiting for a glimpse of their devil and his star.
Waiting for the moment when Siobhán Kelleher becomes mine in the only way the world will recognize.
My hands clasp in front of me, not in nerves—in awe.
Ten days. Ten days since she whispered she loved me because she chose to. Ten days since she looked at me in the kitchen, covered in ribbon and music notes, and said the words that still echo through my bones.
And now, here I stand. A king of nothing holy, in a house of saints, waiting for the only miracle I believe in.
The organist adjusts sheet music. Someone coughs quietly. A bridesmaid sniffles already. I glance toward the doors at the far end of the aisle. The world holds its breath with me.
She’s coming. And God help me—I’m ready to fall to my knees the moment I see her.
The first chord of Canon in D swells through the stone arches—soft at first, then filling every carved beam and stained-glass shadow like a benediction I have no right to receive.
But I stand here anyway. Selfish bastard that I am.
The late-afternoon sun slips through the rose window behind me, shattering into gold across the aisle runner.
Dust motes drift like blessing or ash—God only knows which I deserve.
The church is packed. Old families. My men.
Her musicians. Children from her academy with their little Sunday shoes dangling off pews.
And outside—Christ, I can hear them—the crowds on the green roaring like Dublin itself has come to witness this.
To claim its devil as something approaching redeemed.
But all of it goes silent when the back doors open. And she steps in.
My breath vanishes so sharply I swear the church tilts. Siobhán. God above. She’s— No. Angel isn’t enough. Angels wish they looked like this.