12. A Thorn among the Flowers #4
I furrow my brow, not out of doubt, but something closer to disbelief—that she doesn’t already know.
“I dinnae need to,” I murmur. “I’m not surprised to hear what ye’re capable of.”
Because I’m not. Not in the slightest.
I’ve seen it even when she can’t—her fire, her fight, the way she walks through the world like it hasn’t earned the right to break her. And it hasn’t. It never will.
If she wanted to raise hell, I’d strike the match.
If she wanted to rule, I’d kneel without hesitation.
If she wanted to run, I’d be right behind her—every step.
The one truth I can’t outrun, no matter how hard I try—is that she can’t be mine. And gods, that thought stings like open flame, but it wouldn’t stop me from being here .
She pauses for a moment, and in that fleeting instant, I catch the faint blush blooming on her cheeks—one that contrasts beautifully with her smooth, fair skin. I want to memorise that sight, to tuck it away for days when she holds herself so guardedly.
Bran coughs—pointed and far too dramatic to be anything but intentional.
I glance and find one eyebrow raised at me, catching the way I’m admiring her, and I roll my eyes, trying to play it off. But it’s pointless. I look at her like she’s hung the moon and the bloody stars.
Seeing her like this—confident, laughing, surrounded by people who admire her—it’s impossible to look away.
She fits here, shines here.
And me? If she wants me beside her, even just in the quiet spaces, even just as a shadow in her corner—I’ll go willingly. Always.
As her attention shifts to Alex, her focus entirely on him, I trace every line, every curve, appreciating how stunning she looks just… existing .
It’s maddening, the way she can pull the air from my lungs without even trying, without even knowing. I’m supposed to be the calm, steady one, but here I am, heart hammering like a lovesick fool, praying the others don’t notice how my focus has shifted entirely to her.
I shoot Bran a sharp look—the kind I usually reserve for when he’s one word away from getting smacked upside the head. But as always, he’s undeterred. His smirk only grows wider as his gaze flicks between Triona and me.
He casually saunters over to where I’m standing, all smug ease and far too much awareness for my liking. He leans in, voice pitched just low enough to keep the others from hearing—but loud enough to set my nerves alight.
“Careful, Finn,” he murmurs, amusement thick in his tone. “You’re looking at her like she’s the last pint in the pub.”
I don’t flinch, but it takes effort. A lot of effort.
“Knock it off,” I mutter through clenched teeth, keeping my eyes forward.
He hums, clearly enjoying himself. “Might want to ease up before you start drooling. Or worse— confessing. ”
I shoot him a glare sharp enough to slice bark off a tree, but he just grins wider, completely unbothered.
The bastard lives to test me .
“Can’t say I blame you,” he murmurs, his gaze drifting back to Triona. “She’s absolutely stunning. But pick your jaw up before she notices, aye? Wouldn’t want her thinking you’re about to pounce on her right here in front of the family.”
I clench my jaw, praying he’ll shut up before anyone else catches on. But the quiet chuckle that slips from him says otherwise—he’s enjoying this far too much.
“Finn? Bran?” Triona’s voice cuts through the moment, sharp enough to jolt me.
“Sorry, Bran willnae stop buzzin’ in my ear. What’d you say?”
She grins, full of fire. “Feel up for a game of hurling?”
I scoff, grateful for the shift in attention—but not enough to stop the corner of my mouth from lifting. “Triona, you might’ve bested yer brother, but—”
She holds up a hand, cutting me off. “I will not be joining in. First of all… I don’t trust that one to keep his wandering hands to himself.” She jabs a finger at Bran.
Immediately, Alex and Callan tense like hounds scenting blood.
Ah. Karma. A fickle, glorious mistress.
Bran’s smirk falters. A flush creeps up his neck as he throws out a nervous scoff. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—don’t get me wrong, you’re beautiful, but you’re not ‘I’m ready to meet my maker today’ beautiful.”
He glances over at me as if I might step in and save him. I just raise a brow and let him burn.
“…It was a jest,” Triona adds smoothly, winking. Her tone is light, but the glint in her eyes says she knows exactly how deep inside his head she’s crawled.
Bran lets out a nervous laugh. “All right, I see how you keep these menfolk in line now. Felt as if I was about to have my insides rearranged for a second.”
“Oh, I dinnae ken. Could still happen.” James’s voice rumbles from the side as he strides up beside Bran, cutting through the laughter.
The group goes silent, all eyes on James, who’s staring at Bran with that unflinching look of his, making Bran visibly tense.
He’s trying to keep his cool, but I can practically see the sweat rolling down his temple.
Finally, James breaks the silence with a booming laugh, slapping Bran on the shoulder.
Bran lets out a dramatic sigh before turning to Triona with a look of mock solemnity. “By all the gods, I solemnly swear to be the picture of restraint in your presence. Pure, untainted innocence.”
Triona steps forward and reaches up, patting him on the head like a tamed pup. “ Good boy .”
Bran chuckles, but her voice—soft, teasing—lingers in my mind. Those words echo as if they were whispered just for me, warm breath against my ear. It sends a shiver down my spine so sharply I have to swallow hard and drag my gaze away from her.
Focus.
I turn from the group and head toward the hurleys—the whole reason we’d gathered out here in the first place. I take my time, letting the rhythm of movement steady me while the banter continues behind me.
“Aye, it will be much more enjoyable overseeing this informal match as Brehon,” Triona finishes.
Casey lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Aye, brilliant idea—give Triona unchecked power. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Go on and amuse yourself now, but mark my words—when calamity inevitably befalls you, and the lot of you are stumbling about in utter disarray, you’ll be pleading for my guidance. And, being the benevolent soul that I am, I shall deign to save your sorry hides.”
A chuckle ripples through the small group, a mixture of amusement and reluctant acknowledgment, as if they half-suspect she might actually be right.
I rejoin them just in time to catch Bran elbowing Casey. “She says that like she hasn’t already planned the downfall herself.”
Triona smirks, unbothered. “I prefer the term ‘strategic foresight .’”
I hand off the hurleys, slipping easily back into the circle as the surrounding energy sharpens. The sun is climbing; the field is wide, and the tension—friendly or otherwise—is about to explode in motion.
Her gaze flicks to mine, eyes glinting with mischief. “Now then,” she calls, “how shall we divide the teams?”
“I believe,” I say, clearing my throat as I step back into the circle, “since ye’ve claimed the lofty title of overseer, Little Doe, the selection falls to us .”
She gives me a mock-curtsy. “How generous of you.”
“I think two captains should do the picking.” She turns, eyes already twinkling with a playfulness I admire. “Da, Alex—would you do us all a favour and take up the noble mantle as the elders of the group?”
Both men let out low chuckles and move to stand opposite one another like it’s some kind of ceremonial duel. There’s a dramatic hush for all of three seconds before Bran loudly whispers, “Place your bets, everyone. It’s the beard versus the biceps.”
James strokes his chin. “The beard and the biceps, if ye please.”
Alex cracks his knuckles and grins. “Aye, but mine are younger. Less likely to lock up halfway through.”
The group laughs, the energy warm and buzzing with anticipation.
Triona raises her hand with mock authority. “Right then. Captains, prepare to choose your warriors.”
“Wait,” Casey says, “we only have seven here.”
“Actually, Marcus is inside. He was stuck in a conversation with Saoirse, but should be out momentarily.”
Callan huffs, his mood shifting instantly.
“Marcus?” I say, body tensing. Why would he be here?
“Aye,” Casey says. “He’s courtin’ our dear sister.”
“Casey, shut it!” Triona snaps, her tone sharp, but there’s colour rising in her cheeks.
I feel Casey’s words viscerally, as if someone just reached into my chest and took my heart into their hands.
It’s just another reminder—another brutal, silent blow—of how completely and hopelessly gone I am for her.
Only yesterday, we talked about Marcus. She opened the door to that truth, and I sat there in silence. Didn’t say what I wanted to say.
Didn’t shout that he wouldn’t be good enough.
That I could see it , even now, in the way her jaw tenses, in the way she won’t quite meet anyone’s eyes—that maybe, just maybe, she knows it too.
And gods, I should’ve said something. But I didn’t.
Now I can barely contain the storm that’s risen in me. The jealousy. The ache. The helpless fury. I wear a mask of indifference, but my breath is uneven, my hands clenched too tight.
Beside me, Bran shoots a look—quiet sympathy written across his face.
It’s a kindness I don’t want. Not right now. Not when the woman I care for more than anyone might end up with the wrong person, purely out of duty .
“Moving on,” Triona says as I stand beside her with a bleeding heart, “since this is just a puck-around, you’ll each need a goalkeeper, midfielder, centre-forward, and forward. Agreed?”
She glances at each of us, her eyes lingering on me just a second longer. I meet her gaze, and she gives me the warmest smile. I can only manage a quick one in return before she carries on.
“I think it’s only fair for our captains to play goalkeeper, given their progressed age. Any issues with that?” Triona says.
The two older gentlemen scoff at her statement before grumbling in agreement.
“Da, please choose your midfielder.”