12. A Thorn among the Flowers #3
“ Blackthorn …” Finn mutters, holding it up for me to see its twisted branches and sharp thorns catching the light.
Revulsion twists in my gut. My skin crawls. Blackthorn isn’t just wood—it’s weaponised malice.
“Why would this be here?” I whisper, fingers curling around the necklace he gave me earlier, seeking anything to ground me.
Heavy footsteps thunder across the gravel. Callan barrels into the clearing, shirt half-buttoned, eyes wide. “What the hell happened?! I heard screamin’—”
Casey and Eamon’s entry cut Callan off. Both of them barge in with hair wild, blades drawn.
“What happened?!” Casey practically screeches out.
Finn holds up the branch.
Callan recoils instinctively. “ Is that— ?”
“Aye, blackthorn,” Finn growls. “Wedged up under his saddle. Just waitin’.”
Eamon blinks hard, shaking his head. “I saddled him not half an hour ago… ”
Casey takes a step closer, inspecting the branch with narrowed eyes. “That’s placed. You dinnae just pick that up in a brush.”
Shadow snorts, still rattled, still watching the thing like it might leap from Finn’s hand.
Eamon’s voice is quiet, almost too small. “That kind of wood… it’s used in binding spells. Dark ones. And curses. Sometimes… sacrifices.”
“It could mean nothin’,” Finn says, his tone soothing but his eyes shadowed with worry. “Could be it was tangled in the saddle?”
A shudder rolls through me.
“Not a chance. Someone did that,” Eamon urges. “I swear to the gods it wasn’t there, Finn. I’m certain.”
“Burn it,” Callan demands. “Now.”
Dealla and Saoirse approach with apparent hesitation.
“What’s this then?” Dealla asks, voice tight.
Saoirse takes one look at the Finn’s hand and her face drains of colour. “That’s cursed wood.”
Without ceremony, she takes it from Finn’s hand. Her fingers barely brush the bark before she grimaces.
“I’m burnin’ it. Right now.”
She moves to the firepit with a strange urgency—swift but silent, her skirts barely whispering over the ground. As she lowers herself to her knees, she does so with a practiced steadiness, like someone performing a rite.
Beside me, Finn pulls his shirt back on, fingers moving quickly, jaw tight. Then, without a word, he wraps an arm around me—grounding me.
But the cold lingers. My skin prickles. My pulse won’t settle.
Shadow isn’t thrashing anymore. But he isn’t calm, either. He watches the fire, ears pinned back, a deep unease radiating from his enormous frame.
“Dinnae fash, Little Doe,” Finn murmurs, voice low enough for only me to hear.
We all feel it—that heaviness, the shift in the air. As if something’s been disturbed. Awoken .
A gust of wind rushes in, stirring ash and loose straw across the ground. Somewhere nearby, a raven caws once—sharp and out of place.
A chill skitters down my spine. My gaze shifts to the far end of the stables, drawn by movement in the gloom.
A figure looms, half-shrouded in shadow.
Colina.
She’s staring, arms at her sides, the sunlight barely brushing her face. Her eyes aren’t on the fire Saoirse is trying to coax into life, or the blackthorn still smouldering in the pit. They’re not even on Shadow, still tense as he seems to pace around us.
Her gaze rests on Finn’s arm across my body, on the way I’m leaning into him. Her brow tightens, almost imperceptibly. A small flicker of something passes over her face. There, then gone.
Focused in such a way that she doesn’t notice that I’m looking at her.
But then, as if some current between us jolts to life, our eyes meet.
Colina straightens.
And without a word, she turns and walks away, disappearing behind the stable with quick, purposeful steps.
I blink, uncertain.
The silence thickens again.
I shift in Finn’s hold. My pulse is still uneven, my body trying to catch up with the chaos that’s only just settled.
His arm tightens around me—not forcefully, but firm. Protective. Reassuring. A response born of instinct, not thought.
My body responds before my mind does. The tension in my shoulders eases, my breath finds rhythm again. The cold crawling up my spine—the one that has nothing to do with the wind—retreats.
And I settle.
Not because the fear is gone.
But because he hasn’t moved.
Finn Wednesday, 30 April 1823
Triona steps outside, her gaze sweeping over the group as though she has stumbled upon a council of kin in deep discussion.
At the centre stands Alexander—Bran’s father—his presence commanding, his authority unmistakable.
The resemblance between father and son is striking, their shared lineage evident in their bearing and expression.
Easy smiles convey an effortless sense of belonging, as though they have long been a part of the family’s affairs.
Alex carries himself with quiet confidence, a steady demeanour, and tranquil strength laced with wry humour—traits his son has unmistakably inherited. Bran’s smirks mirror his father’s, though his edges are softer, his charm more playful.
Even Callan, typically ensconced in an armour of guarded reservation, has abandoned his customary frown.
A rare flicker of approval crosses his face—so brief it could be missed.
Yet, it is enough to suggest that even he cannot deny the quiet steadiness the man exudes.
Alex’s bond with James is one of deep camaraderie, and it appears forged through years of shared history.
Casey takes it upon himself to play host, waving Triona over with a look that practically sparkles with mischief. “Triona, come meet Alex.”
There’s no denying what the light in her smile means—it’s the warmth that only comes from a sense of belonging. Blood relation or no, we’re family to her, and that now extends to Bran and Alex, just as naturally.
“So wonderful to meet you, officially , Mr Mumford.”
Alex playfully winces at the formality, pressing a hand to his chest as if she’d struck a blow. “Ach, ‘ Mr Mumford ’—you make me sound ancient,” he laments, though his eyes gleam with amusement. “Just Alex, please, unless you fancy putting a few more grey hairs on my head.”
He casts a knowing look toward her, a grin tugging at his lips. “Much like you and your brothers have done to your poor father, aye?” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I imagine the man’s due for sainthood, putting up with the lot of you. ”
Triona snorts, tossing her hair back with exaggerated flair. “Aye, well, I’ve two clarty bampots for brothers to wrangle, so if sainthood’s on offer, I’ll take mine with a crown, a castle, and a lifetime supply of whisky. Seems only fair.”
“From what I’ve heard,” Alex says with a chuckle, “you’ve got this bunch of hooligans well in hand.”
His glance sweeps over us as if he’s known us his whole life, and a ripple of laughter stirs through the group.
“They do know better than to cross me—don’t you, lads ?” She glances at each of us with a raised brow, daring us to disagree.
Casey is the first to break, his laugh echoing as he nudges Callan.
“Oh, Callan most assuredly. She kicked his arse the other day. Laid him out—flat on his back, legs in the air, lookin’ like a tavern girl who’d just been tossed onto a mattress too quick.
” The laugher spreads quickly, causing a scowl to form on Callan’s face. A hint of red creeps into his cheeks.
I glance over at him, raising an eyebrow with feigned seriousness. “You failed to mention this to me.”
Casey’s grin stretches wide, pure delight shining in his eyes as he steps forward, arms crossed as if he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment. He rocks back on his heels, savouring the scene, the way Callan’s pride is about to take a hit.
“I tried to tell you the other day when you arrived,” he says, his voice carrying that familiar, too-pleased lilt. “But now? Now seems an even better time to mention it. Bigger audience. Better impact.”
Callan’s glare deepens. “Aye, well, it wasna really worth mentionin’,” he mutters, but his eyes betray a mix of pride and begrudging respect for Triona.
Triona’s grin widens, satisfied, and she leans in, eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Och, I’d say it’s worth mentioning, Callan,” she drawls.
“How often does one get to witness the great Callan Sinclair—Highland warrior, legend of the glen—sprawled on his back, looking as if he had no idea what hit him?”
Casey’s already mid-performance, lifting his hands dramatically.
“Imagine it, aye? Triona—cool as a breeze—sidesteps him so fleetly he stumbles forward like a lost bairn, all arms and no balance. Then—before he even knows what’s happenin’— bam!
—she’s got him flat on his arse, his own weight havin’ worked against him, and all he can do is blink up at her like he’s beggin’ for mercy. ”
The entire group howls. Someone chokes. Even Eamon’s grinning now, shaking his head.
Callan’s jaw flexes tight, eyes narrowing, but even he can’t fight the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
I can’t help myself; a grin spreads across my face as I watch Triona, pride and admiration swelling in my chest. I give her a playful wink when she looks my way. “Now that’s impressive, Triona. Layin’ Callan out? That’s a thing of legend. The stuff ballads are written about.”
Casey gasps, clutching his chest. “That’s what I said!”
Triona groans, dragging a hand down her face. “What is it with the lot of you suddenly wanting to go into bloody songwriting?”
“I’m just sayin’,” Casey says, eyes gleaming, “it’s a crime if we dinnae immortalise that moment in a tune. We’ll call it ‘The Lass Who Felled the Highland Ox.’ ”
Eamon nods solemnly. “It’s got a pleasant ring to it.”
Callan mutters something under his breath that definitely includes the word “eejits,” but he’s already fighting back a smirk.
The laughter is still echoing when Triona turns to me. Her eyes find mine, and for a moment, the world around us fades.
“You didn’t even question the truth of what happened,” she whispers, her voice low, meant only for me.