Chapter 20 The Green Crown of Dublin’s Devil #2
Her dress is a cathedral of its own—embroidered lace sleeves like frostwork, bodice fitted to her delicate frame, the skirt billowing in soft candle-lit ivory.
The veil trails behind her for yards, sheer and shimmering, catching the light like a comet’s tail.
Her blonde hair has been curled into soft, old-world waves, pinned with a scattering of pearls like fallen snow.
She glows. Actually glows.
A warmth rises up my throat, so sharp it borders on pain. This woman—this impossible, infuriating, brilliant creature—is walking toward me. I don’t deserve her. I’ve never deserved her. But I’m too selfish to give her up. Too ruined by her love to let go.
The music swells, and she starts down the aisle on her Rouge's arm—slow, steady, radiant. Every pew she passes gets swallowed into that glow. People turn their heads like she’s the first sunrise they’ve ever seen.
And me? My hands are trembling. Cillian O’Dwyer—Devil of Dublin, red-handed tyrant of the city—is shaking like a boy at his first confession.
She lifts her eyes to mine, and Christ— I’m done for. Her smile is small, soft, secret. The kind she saves only for me. The kind that turns every ruthless part of me into something obedient and holy.
The closer she gets, the worse it becomes. My heart is a riot. My breath is a prayer. She is everything. My brightest sin. My quiet salvation.
She reaches the halfway point of the aisle—gold light pouring through her veil, dust catching on the lace like glittering snowfall. Every step she takes is a vow before the vow. A promise before the promise.
And I— I stand here, pinned to the altar by something bigger than faith. She’s almost to me now. Almost mine. Almost forever.
She reaches me. God help me, she reaches me. My hands are steady when I take her bouquet—steady when I slip trembling fingers beneath the edge of her veil. But the moment I lift it… Christ.
Her hair catches the winter light like spun gold. Her eyes—soft, shy, luminous—knock every last thought out of my skull. And the dress… the lace, the beading, the sweep of it behind her like she’s dragging heaven down the aisle with her.
She blushes when I stare too long. So I lean in, close enough that only she will ever hear it, and whisper:“You didn’t walk to me, a rún. You brought every miracle in this city to its knees.”
Her breath catches. Her smile trembles into something shy, startled, devastating.
She whispers back, “Cillian…”
And I swear the bells outside answer her. The priest clears his throat gently, a man used to unruly couples, and the church shifts—everyone rising a little taller, settling a little deeper into the pews. The air thickens with candle smoke and winter roses.
And then it begins. The old rites. The traditional Irish Catholic liturgy. The words half the city knows by heart—because half the city is holding its breath outside in the snow, waiting for Dublin’s Devil and his golden girl to make it official.
I take her hands. She squeezes once—steadying me. The priest drones on about love, covenant, unity, sacrament. I don’t hear a word. Because all I can think is: In ninety seconds, I will vow my whole goddamn soul to her.
“Cillian O’Dwyer,” the priest finally says, ancient and booming, “repeat after me.”
I swallow, my thumb brushing over her knuckles. She smiles—soft, luminous, devastating.
“Tógaim mé tú, Siobhán Kelleher,1” the priest intones. “Mar chéile dhlíthiúil dom2—”
My voice is low, steady, dangerous. “Tógaim mé tú, Siobhán Kelleher, mar chéile dhlíthiúil dom—”
“3Le grá agus le dílseacht,” the priest continues.
“Le grá agus le dílseacht,” I echo, watching her throat work as she breathes.
4“I gcónaí agus go deo.”
“I gcónaí agus go deo,” I finish, and Christ help me, it feels like a battlefield oath—like blood and eternity and choosing her over the whole world.
Her eyes shine. She tries to blink it away; it only makes one tear slip free. I catch it with my thumb. Then the priest turns to her.
“Siobhán,” he says gently, “your vows.”
She inhales—slow, shaky, heartbreakingly soft—and repeats the Irish words with that perfect, lyrical voice that ruined my life the first time I heard it.
“Tógaim mé tú, Cillian O’Dwyer,” she whispers. A murmur ripples through the church. “My lawful husband.” She squeezes my hands harder. “Le grá agus le dílseacht,” she continues, voice breaking on the last word. My chest cracks open. “I gcónaí agus go deo,” she finishes.
Forever. Her forever. Outside, the bells begin ringing early—Dublin prematurely celebrating like even the city can’t fucking wait.
The priest clears his throat. “The rings, please.”
Rouge steps forward with the little velvet box like he’s carrying a crown instead of two bands of gold. He smirks at me like try not to drop them, Devil.
I take the ring meant for her. Slide it onto her trembling finger. “With this ring,” I say, “I bind myself to you. In every life, in every way.”
Her breath catches. Then she takes my ring. Her fingers shake so badly I help guide it onto my hand. “With this ring,” she whispers, “I take you as you are. As you’ve always been. As you’ll be for the rest of my days.”
Someone sniffles loudly. Probably Rouge. Maybe half the church.
The priest lifts his hands. “By the authority of the Church and the blessing of God, I now—”
Siobhán laughs under her breath, tiny and disbelieving and beautiful. And me? I’m staring at her like I just witnessed my own resurrection.
The moment the priest says the words—“You may kiss your bride”—I don’t wait.
I can’t wait. I pull her in with both hands, one at the back of her neck, one at her waist, and kiss her like every vow I just made is sealed on her mouth.
The church erupts around us—chairs scraping, gasps, laughter, cheers—but all I taste is her.
All I feel is her hands clutching at my jacket like she’s trying to keep from melting into the floor.
And then— the bells explode. All Saints’ tower shakes the winter air with a roar of sound, drowning out everything for a breathless, holy heartbeat. And beneath the thunder of the bells, a deeper roar rolls through the stone walls. Dublin. My city. Our city.
The crowd outside must feel the moment like a pulse, because they’re cheering so loudly I swear the stained glass trembles. Siobhán laughs into my mouth, breathless, shining, the veil slipping down her back like falling snow. She tries to come up for air; I kiss her again, deeper, hungrier, because
Christ above— my wife. My wife.
I break just long enough to touch my forehead to hers.
Her eyes are wet, her smile trembling, and I’ve never seen anything more devastating.
The priest clears his throat like we’ve committed some mortal sin.
Someone whistles. Someone else sobs audibly.
Rouge shouts something wildly inappropriate.
I don’t care. I don’t care about anything except the woman whose heartbeat I can feel through her dress.
The applause rolls through the church like a wave as I turn us toward the aisle. She barely has time to blink before I bend, scoop her clean off her feet, and lift her into my arms. The church erupts. Laughter. Screams. Clapping so loud it shakes dust from the rafters.
She throws her arms around my neck, half laughing, half crying, her veil cascading behind us like a comet’s tail as I carry her down the aisle—our families reaching out, brushing her hands, blessing us, sobbing and cheering all at once.
Somewhere behind us, someone rings a handheld bell like a madman.
Someone else shouts “Sláinte!” at the top of their lungs.
And Siobhán—my brilliant, golden girl—presses her face to my jaw and whispers, voice shaking from joy: “Cill… we did it.”
I hold her tighter, heart pounding like I’m twenty again and fighting the whole world just to keep her safe.
“No, dove,” I whisper back, stepping into the blinding winter light as the doors swing open and Dublin’s roar crashes over us—“We’re just getting started.”
The second the doors of the church close behind us, the world shifts. Outside, Dublin is roaring itself hoarse—bells, cheers, music, shouting, the kind of joy you can feel in your ribs. Inside, it’s warmth and candlelight and the echo of her name dissolving into the vaulted ceiling.
My wife. Christ, I’m never getting tired of that.
The drivers hold the door open for us, breath fogging in the cold, and Siobhán laughs—a breathless, disbelieving sound that’s half-sob, half-song—as I lift her into the back of the car like she weighs nothing.
Her dress is a miracle, all lace and light and holy-looking nonsense, and I’m terrified I’ll crush it. She cups my face, still laughing, still crying, and shakes her head like she can’t believe any of this is real. “Cill…”
I kiss her before she can finish. I kiss her like I’m sealing a pact with God Himself.
The car door shuts, muffling the roar of Dublin until it’s nothing but a thunderous heartbeat outside.
Inside, it’s just her. Her flushed cheeks.
Her veil pooling around us like a cathedral built only for two.
Her hands in my hair, pulling me close because distance is a sin neither of us intends to commit ever again.
She breaks first, breathless, smiling so wide it’s unfair. “We’re married,” she whispers, like she needs me to confirm it. Like she’s afraid the universe will take it back.
I drag my thumb along her jaw, wiping a stray tear. “Aye, mo ghrá. We are. You’re mine now.”
She smiles. “I was always yours.”
The car starts moving, slow and smooth through the stone courtyard.
Snowflakes drift past the windows, catching golden from the streetlamps.
The world looks enchanted—like somebody shook a snow globe and whispered a blessing over Dublin.
We pass crowds still gathered on the steps—people waving scarves, lighting sparklers, crying, shouting her name, my name, “The Devil’s Bride!
” “Our golden girl!” “Happy Christmas!” “Sláinte!”
She presses her hand to the window, stunned. “They’re all here…”
“For you,” I murmur. “Always for you.”
She turns her head then, eyes shining through the remnants of tears, and it hits me in one brutal, beautiful blow: This is the happiest she’s ever been.
And I got to give it to her. Christ save me.
My chest knots so hard I have to look away, pretend to adjust her skirt, pretend I’m not two seconds away from embarrassing myself in front of the woman I just married.
She nudges me gently. “Cill?”
I breathe out once, shaky. “I didn’t think I’d survive loving you.”
Her smile softens. “And yet here you are.”
“Aye. Here I am.” I lean in, forehead against hers. “And here I’ll stay.”
She kisses me again—slow this time, reverent, a promise rather than a claim. Her fingers slip through mine, and she brings our hands to rest on her lace-covered stomach, just under the beads and embroidery. Both of us look down at the same moment.
Future. Family. Forever. Not yet. Not tonight. But soon.
I swallow hard. “Let’s get through our first dance before you make me feral.”
She laughs—bright, wild, golden. “No promises.”
The car turns the final corner, and the reception hall comes into view—windows ablaze with warm light, evergreen garlands framing every archway, gold ribbons catching the glow of the chandeliers. Snow drifts down in lazy spirals, settling softly on the steps like the world dressed itself for her.
Our guests spill out into the cold to greet the car—Rouge shouting, the choir director sobbing into her gloves. Someone rings handbells. Someone else pops champagne and sprays half the coaching staff with it.
Siobhán stares at the madness, speechless, overwhelmed. This, right here—this is the moment she realizes she’s not just loved. She’s cherished. Claimed by a city. Worshipped by the people she’s healed, inspired, and led home. I watch her take it all in. Then she looks at me. And the world quiets.
“You ready, Mrs. O’Dwyer?” I murmur, offering my hand as the door opens.
She nods—small, shy, glowing. “Always.”
I step out first, turn, and lift her from the car like she’s the rarest treasure on earth.
Cheers explode around us. Bells ring in the tower.
Snow swirls in the golden hour light. And I carry my wife—my brilliant, stubborn, shining girl—up the steps and into the warmth of the hall where our life begins in earnest.
Christmas lights. Music. Laughter. Tears. Her hand in mine. If this isn’t heaven, then God’s going to have to explain Himself. Because I swear on everything holy: This is the best night of my life. And it’s only the beginning.
An deireadh
1. I take you, Siobhán Kelleher
2. as my lawful spouse
3. With love and loyalty
4. Always and forever