Chapter 21 #2
"Then we adapt. Improvise. Do whatever it takes to protect our people."
"Even if it means making hard choices about men we've called brothers?"
"Especially then."
Emmanuel nods, understanding. In our world, loyalty is everything. Betrayal is the one sin that can't be forgiven, can't be overlooked, can't be explained away.
Whoever's been feeding information to Trace has signed his own death warrant. The only question is whether he'll have the sense to run before we catch him.
I head back upstairs to find Alastríona still sleeping, curled up in the center of our bed like she's trying to make herself as small as possible. The conversation with Murphy hit her hard, it added another layer of grief to everything she's already carrying.
But she's safe. Whatever happens next, whoever we're fighting, she's safe in this house, in this bed, under my protection.
Tomorrow, we hunt a traitor. Tomorrow, we set traps and plan violence and take another step toward ending this war.
Tonight, I hold the woman I love and remember why all this matters.
Tonight, that's enough.
But as I settle beside her, as she instinctively curls against my warmth, I can't shake the feeling that we're running out of time. That Trace is planning something bigger, something worse than anything we've faced so far.
The mole in our organization isn't just feeding him information. He's helping him plan our destruction, piece by piece, person by person.
And tomorrow, we start taking that advantage away.
One way or another, this ends. The only question is how many good people die before we get there.
I close my eyes and try to find sleep despite everything racing through my mind. Beside me, Alastríona murmurs something in her dreams, and I tighten my arms around her instinctively.
Whatever's coming, whoever we're fighting, she's mine to protect.
And I'll burn down half of Ireland before I let anyone take her from me.
* * *
I'm pulled from restless sleep by the feeling of warmth against me.
Alastríona's awake, seeking comfort in the only way she knows how. Her hand slides down my chest, lower, finding me already responding to her touch.
"Hey," I whisper, my voice rough with sleep. "You okay?"
"I need you," she murmurs against my throat.
Her fingers wrap around me, and I bite back a groan. She's still half-asleep, moving on instinct, but her touch is deliberate, purposeful.
"Alastríona—"
"Please." Her mouth finds mine, desperate, hungry. "I need this. Need you."
I can taste the salt of tears on her lips, and feel the tremor in her hands. Murphy's death, the weight of everything she's lost, is crushing her. And this—us, together—is her way of fighting back against the darkness.
"Anything," I breathe. "Whatever you need."
She shifts, moving down my body with kisses and touches that set my skin on fire. When her mouth closes around my cock, hot and perfect, my back arches off the bed.
"Fuck, Alastríona—"
But she's lost in it, in the rhythm, in the control it gives her. She’s taking what she needs from my body, using my pleasure to chase away her pain.
I thread my fingers through her hair, gentle, not guiding. Just connecting, grounding us both in this moment.
"So good," I manage. "You're so fucking good at this."
She hums against me, the vibration nearly undoing me completely. But I hold back and let her set the pace, let her take what she needs.
When she pulls away and crawls back up my body, her eyes are clearer. More present.
"I want you inside me," she says.
"Are you sure? After everything—"
"I'm sure. I need to feel alive, Freddie. I need to feel connected to something good."
I roll us over carefully, mindful of her healing injuries. I settle between her thighs, but don't move. Not yet.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," I say. "At any point, for any reason."
"I won't want you to stop."
"Promise me anyway."
"I promise."
I kiss her then, deep and slow, pouring everything I feel into the connection between us. When I finally push inside her, it's gradual, careful, giving her time to adjust.
"Okay?" I ask.
"Perfect. You're perfect."
But I don't move yet. Just hold her, letting her body adjust and the intimacy build between us.
"What do you need?" I whisper.
"You. All of you."
I start to move then, slow and deep, building a rhythm that's more about connection than release. Her hands slide up my back, nails digging in slightly, anchoring herself to me.
"That's it," I murmur. "Take what you need."
She meets every thrust, matches my rhythm, and I can feel some of the tension leaving her body. The grief is still there, but it's sharing space with something else now. Something warm and real and ours.
"More," she breathes.
"More what? Tell me what you want."
"Your hand. On my throat. Light."
The request sends heat straight through me, but I search her face first, making sure this is what she really wants and it’s not just desperation talking.
"You're sure?"
"Please."
My hand slides up her throat, fingers positioning carefully. Just enough pressure to make her breath catch, to add an edge to the pleasure building between us.
"Like this?"
"Yes. God, yes."
The combination of sensation—my hand on her throat, my body moving inside hers—makes her eyes flutter closed. But I want to see her, want to watch her face as I take her apart.
"Look at me," I command softly.
Her eyes open, and lock on mine. The trust there, the complete surrender, nearly breaks me.
"Beautiful," I tell her. "So fucking beautiful like this."
I increase the pressure slightly, feeling her pulse racing under my fingers. But I'm careful, so careful. This is about trust, about giving her what she needs, not about control.
"Tell me how it feels."
"Like flying. Like drowning. Like everything I've ever wanted."
Her words fuel something primal in me, but I force myself to stay in control. To focus on her pleasure instead of my own.
"Not yet," I say when I feel her starting to tighten around me. "Not until I say."
"Freddie—"
"Trust me. I'll give you what you need, but not yet."
I slow my movements, ease the pressure on her throat, and bring her back from the edge. She whimpers in frustration but doesn't protest.
"Good girl. So good for me."
The praise makes her shiver, makes her clench around me involuntarily. I file that reaction away for later.
"You like that? Like being told how good you are?"
"Yes."
"Then let me tell you. You're incredible, Alastríona. Strong and brave and perfect. You survived everything they threw at you, and you're still here. Still fighting."
My hand finds her throat again and applies just enough pressure to make her gasp.
"Still mine."
"Yours," she agrees breathlessly.
I build her up again, slow and deliberate, watching her face for every reaction. When she's close, desperate, I ease off again.
"Please," she begs. "I need—"
"I know what you need. And I'll give it to you. But first, I want you to understand something."
"What?"
"You're safe with me. Always. No matter what happens, no matter who we're fighting, you're safe."
"I know."
"Do you? Because sometimes I think you forget and believe you're alone in this."
"I'm not alone."
"No. You're not. You've got me, you've got Henry, you've got family who'd die for you. Remember that."
I increase the pace, the pressure, driving her higher. Her breathing becomes ragged, desperate, but I don't let her fall yet.
"Tell me you're mine," I command.
"I'm yours."
"Tell me you're safe."
"I'm safe."
"Tell me you're loved."
"I'm—" Her voice breaks. "I'm loved."
"That's right. More than you know. More than you'll ever understand."
Finally, finally, I let her go.
"Come for me," I say through gritted teeth.
Her orgasm crashes over her like a wave, pulling me under with her. I come long and fucking hard, harder than I've ever come before.
I collapse on the bed beside her, dragging her onto my chest.
"Better?" I ask, running my hands through her hair.
"Much. Thank you."
"For what?"
"For knowing what I needed. For giving it to me."
"Always."
She settles against my chest, and I can feel some of the grief has eased. Not gone—it'll never be completely gone—but manageable now.
"Freddie?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you. Not just because of this, not just because of the sex. But because of who you are. Because you see me, really see me, and love me anyway."
"There's no anyway about it. I love you because of who you are, not despite it."
"Even when I'm broken?"
"Especially when you're broken. That's when love matters most."
* * *
Morning comes too soon, gray Dublin light filtering through the curtains. Alastríona's already awake, sitting by the window with her phone pressed to her ear.
"I know, I know," she's saying. "I should have called sooner."
The accent on the other end is thick Belfast, female. Young.
"Vittoria," Alastríona explains when she notices me listening. "My friend from Belfast."
I remember her mentioning Vittoria before. The girl who was facing an arranged marriage, the only real friend she had in Belfast.
"No, I'm safe," Alastríona continues. "I'm with family now. Real family."
The conversation is in English, but there are undertones I don't understand. References to people and places that belong to Alastríona's old life.
"You should come visit," Alastríona says. "When things settle down. I'd love for you to meet everyone."
A pause while Vittoria responds.
"I know it's complicated with your parents, but maybe someday."
I can hear Vittoria's response, her accent thick like Alastríona's. "I want you happy, Tríona, that's all I've ever wanted."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Tríona. Not Alastríona, but something shorter, more intimate. A nickname I've never heard anyone use. They continue talking for a moment and I leave them be, just being here as support if she needs it.
"I have to go," Alastríona says. "But I'll call again soon. Promise."
She hangs up, sets the phone aside, and notices me watching her.
"Everything okay with your friend?" I ask.
"She's worried about me. About what I've gotten myself into."
"Smart friend."
"She is. Vittoria's got more sense than most people twice her age."
"She called you Tríona."
A smile flickers across her face. "Childhood nickname. My real name's too long for casual conversation."
"Who else calls you that?"
"Just her. And my dad." Her expression turns wistful. "Haven't heard it in months."
"I like it. Tríona. It suits you."
"Does it?"
"Yeah. Alastríona's formal, proper. Tríona's more... you. The woman who fights in back alleys and argues with crime bosses."
She laughs. "You can use it, if you want. I'd like that."
"Tríona," I test the name on my tongue. I fucking like the way it sounds, and I love the way her eyes darken when I say it.
"Alastríona feels like someone else's name sometimes. Someone I used to be."
"And who are you now?"
"Yours."
A simple answer, but it carries weight. She's not just Killian's daughter anymore, not just Henry's granddaughter. She's mine, and I'm hers, and that matters more than bloodlines or family obligations.
I watch her as she gets dressed, moving carefully around her injuries. The morning light catches the dark silk of her hair, the graceful curve of her neck. She's beautiful, but it's more than that.
She's everything I never knew I was looking for.
A few months ago, I was a broken man carrying ghosts and calling it living. Defined by loss, by the people who'd left me behind. Now I understand what the poets write about, what drives men to madness and greatness in equal measure.
Love—real love, the kind that changes everything.
And the insane part is I might never have found it if Trace hadn't started his war. If he hadn't killed Ava. If he hadn't targeted the Gallaghers. If Henry hadn't needed someone to bring his granddaughter home.
Evil creates good by accident. Destruction leads to salvation.
"What are you thinking about?" Tríona asks, catching me staring.
"You. Us. How fucking lucky I am."
"Lucky?"
"To have found you. To have this." I gesture between us. "Not so long ago, I thought I knew what love was. Turns out I didn't have a clue."
"And now?"
"Now I know. And it's nothing like I expected."
"Better or worse?"
"Terrifying. Overwhelming. The best thing that's ever happened to me."
She comes to me then and settles in my lap despite the chair not really being big enough for both of us.
"I feel the same way. Like I've been sleepwalking my whole life, and you woke me up."
"Good thing. Because I'm not letting you go back to sleep."
"I wouldn't want to. This is better. Harder, more dangerous, but better."
"Come on," I say finally. "Time to face the world."
"Do we have to?"
"Unfortunately. But tonight, we come back here. To this."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Because no matter what happens today, no matter what we discover or who we have to fight, this is what we're protecting. This love, this connection, this chance at something beautiful in a world gone mad.
It’s worth every risk we'll take to keep it.
It’s worth everything.