12. A Thorn among the Flowers #2
The corners of his mouth twitch before they fully surrender to amusement, and when he laughs, it’s not loud or mocking—but soft, warm, and impossible not to feel. The mirth in his smile lights up his entire face, a glow that chases away any trace of embarrassment I might have felt with anyone else.
I roll my eyes at him, but there’s no hiding my smile. It tugs at my lips before I can stop it, betraying the way his laughter always gets to me.
Then I gasp, bolting upright, hands flying to my pocket.. “The flowers!” I exclaim, frantically checking the small bundle of primrose I’d brought out with me. To my relief, they’re intact—not a petal out of place. I hold them up, grinning in triumph.
I catch a flicker in Finn’s eyes—a softness, maybe even curiosity.
“What’ve you got there?” he asks, his tone genuine.
“If you must know,” I say, holding up the bundle, “it’s primrose. I woke up to them on my bedside table.”
A breath passes before I add, “It’s something my mother used to do. I hadn’t seen them in so long, I almost forgot she ever did this. You know I’ve such a shite memory, so that’s hardly a surprise.”
We both laugh at that.
I bring the purple flowers with their heart-shaped petals down on my lap, a fond smile tugging at my lips.
Finn lowers himself to the ground beside me, crossing his arms over his knees, watching me with that steady gaze of his.
“So?” he finally says, a bit of teasing in his voice. “What’s got you leapin’ to save a handful of flowers?”
I shrug. “It just… it feels important. To keep them all. Or it used to.”
Finn tilts his head, his voice softer now. “You keep all of ‘em?”
I nod, brushing my thumb over the edge of a petal. “Most of the time. Except in instances where I trip and fall and crush them into oblivion.”
I smile, but there’s a hint of shyness tugging at the edges of it now.
“I used to press them into books,” I admit.
“Slide them between the pages so I’d come across them again when I was reading.
” I glance over at him, my voice softer still.
“And when you were away, I sent them to you. Tucked in with the letters. Like you said before—I wanted you to have a piece of home.”
The grin slips from his face, replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. He says nothing at first, but I can feel the shift—the quiet settling between us like the scent of the flowers, warm and subdued.
There’s a beat before I speak again. “You know, this flower is what my father used to win my mother over,” I tell him, gently turning the bundle in my hands.
“He always said, ‘ In the language of flowers, it represents the joy of youth and a celebration of adolescent love .’” I mimic my father’s dramatic tone, and Finn lets out a muted chuckle.
“In full bloom, the primrose is hard to ignore. He said the love he had for my mother was like that—not always out loud and proud, but hard to miss.”
I can almost see my father, bent over, carefully picking the flowers, waiting for the right time, the right season, to give her that special gift.
“They bloom their brightest from May to July, so he waited, patient as anything, collecting them to make that one bottle of scent for her.” I shake my head, laughing softly.
Finn is quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, thoughtful even. “You should wake up to flowers on yer bedside table every day, Triona.”
I look his way, drawn in by the tenderness in his tone. There’s something in his eyes—a genuine acknowledgement. A depth of sincerity that roots me in place. “ Never settle for less. Yer da wouldnae want that.”
For a heartbeat, I’m lost—studying the lines of his face, the way the light brushes against his skin. The way his golden-brown eyes find mine. I’ve met his gaze more times than I can count, but now they hold something new—more grounded, more certain.
An ache rises slowly, blooming like something long buried, and I feel myself poised at the edge of a truth too heavy to name.
I avert my eyes. There’s so much I could say—so much I want to say. About my mother. About Marcus. About the fear clawing at the edges of everything lately. The words burn at the back of my throat, desperate to escape.
But something about this moment feels too delicate. A hush I’m too afraid to disturb. And I do trust him. More than anyone.
More than anything, I’m clinging to the quiet comfort of him beside me—unwilling to break it by acknowledging what waits beyond this stillness. I want it—want him—a little longer before the world presses in again .
“I know he wouldn’t,” I say finally, voice quieter than before.
I pause, eyes fixed ahead. “My mother feels differently.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Finn exhale—sharp, as though he’s been holding it in. His jaw tenses, and I know that’s all the answer I need. That broaching this topic is risky.
I stretch my legs out, keeping my gaze forward, my voice dropping to a quiet murmur.
“I think—I know she wants me to marry Marcus Murray. We got into a particularly awful row about it. It’s the reason I went out to the cliffs the day you returned—why we haven’t been talking.
I can’t stand this sort box she’s trying to fit me in. I won’t fit. I never have.”
There’s a tense pause before Finn speaks. His tone is softer, but there is an unmistakable edge. “And you? What is it you want?”
I swallow, not daring to meet his gaze. “I don’t know.” The words fall out in a hesitant whisper.
The quiet stretches, taut as a pulled thread. Then Finn shifts, his hand reaching out—slow, deliberate—and he gently tilts my chin toward him.
“Look at me,” he says, voice barely above a breath.
And I do.
His eyes search mine, as if he’s trying to see through the fog. My heart stammers beneath the power of his gaze—and if I hold it for too long, I’ll say everything I’ve tried so hard not to feel.
A sharp, chaotic clamour erupting from behind us abruptly interrupts our conversation.
The piercing, desperate whinny of a horse in full panic cuts through the air, reverberating across the yard and setting every nerve in my body alight.
Shadow .
He’s thrashing violently in his stall, hooves pounding against the wooden walls like a battering ram.
The entire building shudders with the force of his panic.
Splinters fly. Dust rains from the rafters.
The sound is unbearable—desperate and wild, the cry of a creature gripped by a fear beyond reason.
Without hesitation, I run toward him, skirts clutched in my fists, boots thudding over the packed earth. Logic flees. Instinct takes over.
“ Triona, stay back! ” Finn’s voice is sharp, panicked—but I’m already halfway there .
The air is electric, crackling with something unnatural. Shadow seems more beast than being, his eyes wild, his body trembling with restless energy. His hooves slam dangerously close to the stall door just as I reach for him.
For a moment, he seems to settle, nostrils flaring, the whites of his eyes beginning to fade as I edge closer—calm, steady.
Then—movement behind me. A sudden rush of air.
Finn barrels into me, arms locking tight around my waist.
The world lurches, tilting off its axis. In the next breath, I’m pulled against him—his grip fierce as he hauls me back. Shadow’s hooves crash down exactly where I’d been standing only heartbeats before.
My back presses to his skin, bare and burning. I can feel the rapid thunder of his heartbeat, wild beneath the surface. The heat of him pours into me, chasing away the cold bite of fear. His breath grazes my ear, ragged and warm, stirring loose strands of my hair.
And clinging to him is the scent of sweat, leather, and earth. I can’t tell if it’s the danger still pulsing through me or the nearness of him that makes my knees threaten to give.
My fingers curl around his forearm, still braced tightly across my waist. For a moment, neither of us moves, the world narrows to breath and heartbeat.
“He’s not right,” he breathes into my ear.
I nod, breathless, trembling.
“Let me handle it.”
Finn’s presence changes—solid, commanding. He steps into the stall as if he’s done it a thousand times.
Shadow rears, hooves flashing. Finn doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Settle,” Finn says low, stepping closer with terrifying calm. “Ye ken me, Scáthfhóilt. Stand down.”
The Gaelic name hits the air heavy—old, familiar, binding.
Shadow bares his teeth, kicking hard against the ground—but Finn doesn’t waver. His hands move until they are iron clamps around the reins. His voice isn’t loud when he speaks, but it feels omnipresent all the same.
“I said settle .”
And somehow—he does.
The transformation isn’t instant, but it’s unmistakable. Shadow shudders. His ears twitch, nostrils flare. But slowly, the tension bleeds out of his body .
I stare, heart caught in my throat.
Finn doesn’t tame him with strength. He doesn’t wrestle him into calm. He calls it into being.
It humbles me, watching it. Watching him .
Finn murmurs something under his breath and gently coaxes Shadow forward, out of the stall and into the clearing. The big stallion follows, quivering but no longer fighting. There’s trust in the movement. Hard-earned. Absolute.
And I can’t tear my eyes away.
Finn moves alongside him, keeping one hand on the reins while the other glides slowly over Shadow’s flank, feeling for heat, for swelling—anything out of place. His palm presses lightly over the stallion’s sides, down his legs, across his chest. A quiet, thorough search.
Then he shifts to the saddle.
His attention sharpens, and then he freezes.
“Finn?” I whisper, barely able to speak.
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches beneath the saddle straps and pulls something free. The moment it clears the leather, a sudden biting cold hits my face, sharp enough to sting. It’s a branch—twisted, gnarled, black as coal. Thorns that are like jagged fangs.