13. Night of Many Changes #2
“I don’t believe he intended it that way, Finn.” I turn away from his searing gaze momentarily to glance at Marcus, and see his focus remains on where Finn’s hand clings to my waist.
Unspoken challenge hangs heavy in the air, thick with unyielding pride between the two of them. I can feel the tension between them—Finn’s open defiance, and Marcus’ silent demand.
“My statement stands,” Finn says, words as finite as the tight set of his jaw.
“You’ll have to let me be the judge of that.” My tone is resolute, matching the hard-pressed steel of his words.
I feel his fingers flex slightly, as if realising his overstep. A flicker of something—regret, perhaps—passes through his golden eyes before they retreat from mine. Slowly, he lets me go, a grin dancing at the corners of his mouth.
It’s then that Callan makes his presence known. “Triona, come sit by the fire.” Eager to dissuade overlookers, I stride toward where Callan stands at Marcus’s side.
When I near Callan, he crosses his arms, so I decide against further conversation. “I’ll leave the three of you to sort out whatever is necessary to get through this night,” I mutter, slipping past Callan and Marcus’s towering forms.
The hum of guests’ arrival sweeps through the air, creating a contagious excitement that permeates the grounds of our home.
Laughter and chatter ripple through the crowd like wildfire, hinting at an unforgettable evening yet to unfold. Any lingering unease fades as I catch sight of the joy lighting up every face .
Each new arrival brightens the festive ambiance, filling me with pride in my family. Fragments of conversation float my way—promises of first dances, whispered desires for stolen moments beneath the stars. It stirs something deep within me, a growing yearning.
I long for stolen glances, a secret rendezvous, hushed words carrying the weight of longing. The idea of stepping away from the crowd, of finding warmth in another’s presence, calls to me despite my best efforts to ignore it.
These exchanges paint a vivid picture of the life my parents have built—a world full of allies, joy, and celebration. As I take it all in, a sense of belonging washes over me. Amid the discord of life, there are always moments of magic waiting to be embraced.
Finn
I watch Triona’s retreating figure, filled with a mix of satisfaction and unease. I hadn’t initially intended to interfere in her interactions with Marcus, the blethering clot. Not outwardly anyway.
I resigned myself to a life of misery, knowing the day she’d find a husband was inevitable.
I long to see her happy, so I wear a mask of calm around her.
But the shadow that looms around my heart twisted my actions in ways I know will bear no favour, but I couldn’t stop myself from interfering. I was drawn to conflict at that moment.
She wore apprehension like a cloak, and I felt her hesitation as I watched her.
Seeing Marcus attempt to summon Triona— my Triona, whose presence has become the anchor to my happiness, made me react in a way that felt as mindless as taking a breath.
The powerful pull to guard her, despite knowing she’s more than capable of handling herself, is a grievous burden I’d bear for a lifetime.
Callan’s shifting form breaks my line of vision, and I move to join his side .
The two of them differ notably in size and strength. Marcus carries a much leaner tone, lacking the brute force present in Callan. He may stand in even height, but Callan is a mountain of muscle that speaks of both natural strength and hard-earned skill.
His physicality matches mine, so the glance Marcus casts between Callan and me establishes he understands how an altercation between the three of us would end for him; bloody, bruised, and broken.
“I dinnae trust ye,” Callan says, voice low and full of the surety I never question.
“Not with her. Yer intentions aren’t pure”.
He may appear sullen more times than not, which can be mistaken for casting judgement when it isn’t due, but something Callan is notably efficient at is reading people.
None of us can explain it, but it’s as if he possesses a sixth sense of sorts that is unique to him and him alone.
“Regardless of this mistrust, Triona’s choices are her own to make,” Marcus says.
“Aye, that they are,” Callan confirms, “But they’re also clouded from yer lies and schemin’. Catchin’ ye with yer tongue down my sister’s throat, practically ruttin’ into her like a beast in heat, more than affirmed that to me.”
The inferno of protectiveness blazing through me shows plainly on my face, and in the way my body tenses without thought.
My fists clench, knuckles popping audibly. Marcus notices, and he gives me a contemplative once over. I see as recognition takes hold of him just before he glances back to Callan.
“I’ll not stop until ye’re out of her life.”
Marcus smirks as Callan’s statement rolls off. He grins pompously as he reiterates his earlier point. “As I stated before, that decision is not one that you can make. You are mistaken if you think I would ever do anything to harm Triona, mate ,” he asserts, clipping out the last word.
“For all your posturing, you failed to see that she was more than pleased to give herself over to me. The way she was writhing against me as I ran my tongue down her neck—”
That sentence alone seals his fate.
Callan’s fist flies—swift and merciless—cutting him off mid-sentence. It connects with a sickening thud, the sound of bone meeting bone sharp in the stillness. Marcus staggers back into the stone wall, curses spilling from his lips as the crowd gasps in collective shock.
Silence falls over the courtyard, the tension thick enough to cut .
Triona bursts through the crowd, her eyes wide with shock. Her hands crash against Callan’s chest, halting him before he can throw another punch.
“Callan!” she whisper shouts. “What have you done?” It’s not really a question—more an accusatory reeling.
Callan opens his mouth to justify himself, anger etched in each harsh word he utters. “His actions make him more than deservin’ of—”
“No!” Triona cuts him off sharply. “You’ve just turned this into a spectacle. On a night meant for celebration, you’ve made it about violence.” Her voice trembles with disappointment. Callan’s defiance falters, and his shoulders slump.
The weight of her glare shifts at me. The implied why did you allow this to happen lands like a blow. Guilt twists in my gut, not because I feel bad for Marcus, or regret stepping in, but for handling it publicly.
The crowd parts as James and Ellen approach. Ellen’s expression is a mix of disapproval and concern, and reflects Triona’s mortification. It appears she’s unsure whether to console Marcus or chastise Callan.
James remains composed. His eyes scan over Marcus, still being doted on by Triona, then to his oldest son. A flicker of emotion dances in his eyes. It almost appears to be pride, though he says nothing outright.
“What happened here?” Ellen demands, voice sharp.
“Looks like a bit of a scuffle, aye?” James says evenly, his gaze settling on Callan.
That sets Ellen off. “A scuffle? James, Marcus is bleedin’ from the side of his mouth! At the ceilidh of all places. The first time we have a large celebration in years, and my boys are out here throwin’ fists before a drop of scotch has even been consumed!”
“He’s a feckin’ outsider,” Callan mutters. “Ye think they care ?”
Ellen’s jaw tightens, but James intercedes as he places both of his hands over her shoulders. “Ye’ll both be joinin’ us in the study.” Not posed as a question, Callan and I nod in unison.
He kisses the side of Ellen’s face and whispers, “I’ll handle it. Go inside, and I’ll meet ye there.” Ellen leaves without uttering another word.
James’ expression seems to soften as he meets Triona’s eyes. “Go get him cleaned up inside,” he orders, gesturing to Marcus’ bloodied lip. She shoots him a tentative look as she reaches up gently to cup his chin between her forefinger and thumb .
“Do not bother, Triona. I am more than capable of handling this,” he says, gesturing to his bloodied lip. “Go take up place beside your friends.”
“Are you certain?” Triona asks. Marcus smiles down at her and draws his hand outward to encircle her wrist.
“Of course, love. I want you to enjoy your night.” And like something out of a bad dream, I watch as he brings her palm to his lips and places a saccharine kiss in the centre. He uses his other hand to draw her body in closer against his.
James clears his throat, clearly as taken aback as the rest of us. Callan stands beside me, eyes focused anywhere but at the bastard with his hands on his sister. The one who just publicly laid claim to her.
Triona steps out of his embrace, seeming uncertain and torn.
James lingers, assessing what to do next. His gaze shifts back to Callan, and he gives a dismissive nod, then turns to usher Triona back out into the beginnings of the party.
“We need to talk,” Callan mutters under his breath.
No shite.
What have you been keeping from me, Callan?
Callan paces in James’s study, his boots heavy against the floorboards.
His jaw is set, his voice low but vibrating with tension.
“Before she left for Edinburgh, I saw them. Out in the open—as if they didnae care who might walk by. His hands were all over her, Finn, and his mouth…” He stops short, exhaling sharply. “Anyone could’ve seen it. Anyone.”
Frustration with everything simmers in my chest. “And you said nothin’? Ellen’s practically planned their nuptials, Callan. You sat on yer hands while this went on?”
He stops pacing and turns to glare at me, his eyes dark with something more than anger—guilt, maybe.
“What was I supposed to do? Be the cause of ‘em forcin’ her hand on the spot? Have her married to that feckless scunner just to save face? Ye ken me better than that.” His voice drops, sharp with emotion.