15. Shattered
Shattered
Finn
I arrive as the last glints of sunlight illuminate the horizon.
Shadows stretch across the property, cloaking everything in darkness, but it’s the stillness, the eerie quiet, that tightens a knot in my gut.
Everything feels familiar yet foreign, a place I should feel safe. And yet, something is terribly amiss.
The stable door swings slightly, left ajar, and every instinct in me says to move. Nothing seems out of place at first, but as I get closer, a sound cuts through the silence.
A scream. Her scream.
The sound rips through me, a raw, guttural cry that lodges deep in my bones, freezing my blood before it sends it blazing hot through my veins. Then, the unmistakable snap of a whip cuts through the air, sharp and deadly.
“Triona,” I breathe, the horror already clawing at my chest .
I bolt for the stables, legs pushing harder than they ever have, and every fibre of me trained on getting to her. I can hear the others behind, but I don’t look back, don’t wait for them to catch up. It’s only me and the desperate need to reach her.
I see red. Red like blood, like rage, like the fire roaring through every inch of me as I take in what’s happening before me. Colina’s standing over Triona, whip in hand, poised to strike. Triona— my Triona—curled up on the ground, battered and broken.
I can hardly breathe through the rage twisting in my chest. My hands shake with unbridled wrath as I reach her, snatching Colina’s arm mid-swing.
I don’t just grip her wrist—I twist it, relishing the sharp snap of bone beneath my fingers.
She screams, a high, piercing sound, but I don’t let go.
She lets out a shriek, but I feel nothing—nothing but contempt.
“Drop it, now!” I growl, each word dripping with venom. My grip tightens, and she gasps, her eyes wide with terror. “Or I’ll make sure you never lift anythin’ again.”
She complies, her fingers trembling as the whip slips from her grasp, but I see it—the disbelief in her eyes, as if she never thought I’d dare to lay hands on her. As if she still believed she held any power here. As if the very idea I’d disapprove was unfathomable to her.
“Ye’ll regret every action you took tonight.”
I keep her close, my grip unrelenting, my fingers digging into her arm as she squirms. Let her feel it, let her know she’s at my mercy.
When Callan, Casey, Bran, and Eamon come charging in, I don’t hesitate.
“Think I broke her wrist,” I mutter, my voice flat, unbothered.
The men falter, their eyes flicking between me and Colina, concern flashing across their faces.
Callan’s brow furrows. “What in the hell is goin’ on?”
I tighten my grip on Colina, feeling her tremble beneath my hold. “She whipped Triona. And she wasna done. She’d have kept going—might not have stopped ‘til Triona couldnae breathe anymore.”
Their concern shifts in an instant. Their confusion fades, replaced with something colder, sharper. Bran’s mouth presses into a grim line, Casey’s hand clenches at his side, and Callan’s expression turns lethal. The air thickens with unspoken fury, and their attention now fixes squarely on Colina.
Only then do I throw her toward Callan, watching with grim satisfaction as she stumbles into his grip .
Colina’s eyes dart between us, panic and desperation overtaking whatever madness drove her to this. “But Finn, ye dinnae understand. Ye wurnae supposed to be back yet.” She stammers, her voice weak, pleading. “This was all for ye—”
“Enough!” The word erupts from me like thunder, a raw, primal snarl that reverberates through the stables. Colina flinches, shrinking back, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. The word hangs heavy in the air, a final verdict, sealing her fate.
“Tie her up. I dinnae care where or how. We’ve little time to deal with this mess. Callan, Bran—we need answers, and we need ‘em now.”
“Aye,” Callan replies, his voice as hard as his grip on her. Bran gives me a nod, a look that tells me he’ll take care of it, no matter what it takes.
I turn back to Triona, shrugging out of my coat and draping it over her bare back, gentle as I can manage.
My hands tremble as I lift her from the ground, careful to keep her close, feeling the wet warmth of blood soaking through my coat as I cradle her to me.
Her whimpers cut through me, each one like a blade to my chest.
“I’ve got you now,” I whisper, low and soft, just for her to hear. “Ye’re safe, Doe. I swear it.”
Her eyes flutter open, dazed, her voice faint. “It hurts...”
“Shhh, dinnae speak. I know it hurts, lass,” I say, my heart twisting at the pain in her voice, her little whimpers that make me feel weak enough to buckle.
“Finn,” she whispers, her breath hitching. “I’m sorry.”
“Not now,” I murmur, clutching her closer. Not ever. I bear no grudge against her. All I want is for her to be okay. I see her trying to hold on, trying to stay present, and I press my lips to her hair, reassuring her, letting her know she’s safe.
“Colina said… ‘ he put her up to it ,’” she whispers, her voice thin, trembling as if the words themselves weigh her down.
My jaw tightens, muscles feathering as rage flares hot and bright in my chest. Someone put her up to this—someone dared to orchestrate this hell, to think they could harm Triona and walk away from it.
As we reach the front door, I kick it open, not caring about the splintering crack as it slams against the wall. Saoirse rushes in first, her face draining of colour the moment she sees Triona’s battered form in my arms.
Then Ellen appears at the top of the stairs. She takes one look at her daughter, and a sound escapes her lips—a broken, guttural cry she tries, but cannot stifle.
“Saoirse,” I snap, sharp but not unkind. “We need medical supplies. Now. Go. ”
She doesn’t hesitate. She spins on her heel and bolts, feet pounding down the corridor.
I cross the floor of the sitting room in a few swift strides, lowering Triona gently onto the divan.
Ellen rushes forward, her hands trembling as they hover over Triona’s face—afraid to touch, afraid of the pain she’s endured.
Behind me, Casey and Eamon approach, their expressions tight with anger and anguish.
Casey steps in beside Ellen, wrapping a steadying arm around her shoulders.
“Ma,” he says, his voice rough and quiet, “we need to talk. But we’ll wait for Da.” He glances down, face taut with anger and worry. “Can you tell us if he beat us here?”
Ellen gives him a small, barely there shake of her head, still too overcome by shock to answer properly. Her gaze stays fixed on Triona, her fingertips brushing softly over her cheek as if to reassure herself that she’s still breathing, still here.
I want to say something to Ellen, to comfort her, but decide better of it and focus on what I can fix instead.
Dealla comes rushing into the room, and stares for a heartbeat too long, frozen as she watches the blood spill from where Triona lies slumped across the divan. The dark stain spreads fast, blooming across the fabric like ink in water.
A strangled cry rips from her throat. “Triona!”
Casey is at her side in an instant, pulling her into his arms. She doesn’t resist—just clutches his shirt, her body trembling against his.
It doesn’t take long for Saoirse to return, breathless and wide-eyed, clutching the supplies in her arms.
I turn my attention to Triona’s wounds, hands working with a practiced steadiness as I clean every mark Colina left on her. She doesn’t wake, but every so often, a faint tremor runs through her, a shallow breath hitching as though she can feel the pain even in unconsciousness.
It cuts through me like a blade to the bone, but I keep my face like stone, my hands steady.
The field taught me how to mend wounds, how to steel myself against the surrounding horrors, but nothing prepared me for this.
For the sight of Triona, lying motionless, her presence reduced to shallow breaths and fragile stillness.
Ellen pauses for a moment, her eyes catching on the necklace Triona wears—the pendant resting on the back of her neck, glinting in the dim light.
“Where… where did she get this?” she chokes out.
My throat tightens, but I answer. “I gave it to her for her birthday. I came upon it durin’ my travels.”
A flicker of recognition sparks in her eyes, something heavy with meaning. Her expression shifts, softening into an ache I hadn’t expected. Then, as if something inside her shatters, she reaches for me, her fingers trembling. Awe and remorse cloud her gaze.
“Gods, I’ve been such a fool,” she murmurs, voice breaking. “It’s been ye this whole time.”
I look at her in great bewilderment. “Ellen, what—what d’ye mean?”
She shakes her head, unable to look at me, her focus fixed solely on the pendant. Her fingers trace its edges, as though afraid to let go. “Finn… do ye even ken what this is?” Her voice wavers, thick with urgency.
“No, it just… called to me.”
“Ye might have jus saved her, Finn.” She swallows, her gaze floating between the necklace and my face. “This is more than just some trinket. It’s a necklace of Manannán mac Lir.”
Confusion knots in my chest, but Ellen presses on.
“Manannán is a protector, a guardian of realms. His magic is ancient, Finn—powerful enough to create barriers between worlds, between life and death itself. This necklace… it’s imbued with his essence.
It was crafted to shield the wearer from unseen forces, from dark intentions. And ye gave it to her.”
Her fingers clutch mine for a moment, a fierce intensity in her grip. “I thought I was protectin’ her all this time, but I was blind. And ye—ye’ve been the one watchin’ over her.”
I swallow hard, glancing from her to Triona’s peaceful face, my confusion and dread mounting. “Ellen… what’s happenin’ here?”
Ellen doesn’t answer. Instead, she takes Triona’s hand, her grip fierce and unyielding, as if she can somehow take the pain away, somehow bear it for her. Silent tears spill down her cheeks, her lips parting to speak—but no words come.
Across the room, Eamon leans close to Saoirse, murmuring softly, piecing together what he can. Saoirse covers her mouth, horror flashing across her face as her wide eyes snap to Triona. Her voice, usually bold and untamed, cracks when she finally speaks.
“Who…who would do all of this?” she whispers, her words barely more than a breath .
I can’t bring myself to answer. Not when I know that once I speak, I’ll only add fuel to the fire already blazing within me.
Instead, I look around at each of them—Ellen, Casey, Saoirse, Eamon, Dealla—a family torn open by violence yet clinging to each other in its wake.
And then I look at her.
Wounded, fragile, still fighting even in unconsciousness.
Something inside me snaps. The fury roars louder, drowning out everything else, consuming every trace of hesitation.
Whoever planned this—whoever pulled the strings, whispered in Colina’s ear, made her their pawn— I will hunt them down . I will drag them into the depths of their own darkness and make them choke on the suffering they inflicted.
And they will pay for it in full.
For every bruise. Every wound. Every breath they tried to steal from her.
I swear it to her in this room, a promise as unbreakable as the steel at my side. They will know what it means to have crossed her—crossed us —and I will not rest until they suffer for the agony forced upon her.
And if I fall along the way, if I must sacrifice everything to see justice done, then so be it.
I will die before I let them escape the wrath I’ve summoned—the vengeance that now surges through my veins like poison.