26. Surrender #2
Mannie’s smirk widens as he wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “Who does she belong to, then, Finnis ?” His words are slow, deliberate, and heavy with an unsettling confidence, each syllable a calculated taunt that stirs something primal within me.
“That’s none of yer concern,” I snap, restrained only by the look in Triona’s eyes.
He chuckles darkly. “It seems very much my concern. The fire in your eyes, the recklessness in your fists—those are not born of trivialities. Such passion drives you to strike me for dancing with a lady unclaimed by vow.”
Triona cuts in, her eyes wide with disbelief and simmering anger. “Finn, what are you doing?” she demands, her voice trembling slightly. “This isn’t necessary!”
I glance at her, my resolve faltering under the weight of her disappointment. “He was oversteppin’,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady. “Touching you as if—”
“As if what ?” she interrupts, her gaze piercing. “As one might when asking someone to dance? A dance I gladly accepted?” Her tone is sharp, each word a deliberate challenge. “You’re needlessly causing a scene, Finn.”
Mannie stands tall and adjusts his jacket, the smug expression never leaving his face. “You are undermining her agency, casting doubt on her discernment.”
“Stay out of this,” I growl, levelling a glare at him.
“How can I when your actions have simply drawn me into this spectacle?” Mannie gestures around us. Guests are whispering, eyes fixed on our confrontation. “The weight of your temper can break more than objects.”
Bran appears at my side, his hand gripping my shoulder firmly. “That’s enough,” he says under his breath. “This isn’t the time or place.”
I shrug off his hand, but the weight of the stares—Triona’s wounded expression—it all sinks in. The anger that had driven me dissipates, replaced by a hollow ache of regret.
Bran steps forward, gaze locked onto Mannie with a pointed intensity. “Mannie,” he says flatly, voice low but carrying a quiet authority, “I think it’s time you left this to them.”
Mannie nods his agreement. “Gladly. Triona, should you tire of misguided protectors, and find yourself in need of proper accompaniment, I would ready myself at the drop of a hat.” Before I can react, Bran takes a deliberate step closer, his presence cutting off Mannie’s lingering theatrics.
Bran watches him go, ensuring he’s well out of earshot, before turning back to me.
Out of Triona’s sight, he shakes his head and mouths, “Fix it. Now,” his sharp gaze hardening before he exhales .
“I’ll… check to see if Callan and Casey saw any of this,” he mutters. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he adds, “And get myself a drink. Maybe six.”
My gaze softens as I look at Triona, regret pooling in my chest. “I’m sorry, Little Doe—”
“Don’t you dare,” she snaps, her voice trembling with a mix of anger and pain. “Don’t ‘ Little Doe’ me right now.”
“Triona, I just didnae want him to—” I begin, reaching out to her.
She steps back, avoiding my touch. “To what? Enjoy an evening with me? To be treated with kindness? Why do you care now, Finn? You made your choice, no go live with it.”
She pushes past me as if I’m nothing but mistake she refuses to make. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t glance back.
The world carries on; the music rising once more, as whispers fade into laughter. But I stand frozen, drowning in the truth I can no longer escape—I have no one to blame but myself.
Triona
I flee the ballroom, my heart pounding and my cheeks burning with humiliation. The cloying mix of wine, perfume, and candle smoke still lingers in the air, but I can’t focus on anything except the heat of my anger. I quicken my pace, desperate for distance from my embarrassment.
“Triona, please,” Finn calls, his voice tight with desperation, cutting through the heavy silence of the corridor.
I whirl around as I reach the archway just before the staircase, my eyes blazing. “Return to the revelry,” I snap, my voice sharp with contempt. “You’ll surely enjoy your night more now that you’ve ensured I can’t enjoy mine. ”
He halts a few steps away, his expression crumpling at my words. “Triona, I—”
“No, Finn,” I cut him off, my voice trembling with the force of my emotions. “You were a brute in there!”
He steps closer, his face etched with regret. “I wasna tryin’ to ruin yer night.”
“It matters not!” I snap, my voice rising with frustration.
His breaths come in harsh, heated waves as he strides toward me, his movements deliberate. I press my back against the icy wall, willing myself to stay strong, to not flinch beneath the storm in his gaze.
There’s an incessant desire burning inside me, a need to push him to his breaking point, to force out the emotions he keeps buried so deep.
“You’re acting as if I did something wrong, when I have not. I was politely putting an end to his advances. I am more than capable of defending myself—far better than you give me credit for—”
“I never suggested you acted inappropriately,” he says, tone elevated.
“Then why was all of that necessary when you seemed so fine with it mere minutes before?”
“Because I was a jealous feckin’ git!” He snaps. “I couldnae stand to watch his hands on you!” he shouts, his voice raw, cutting through my tirade like a blade.
“This again? Really , Finn?” I spit.
He’s so close now that I can feel the heat of his breath against my chest, his proximity making my heart thunder in my ears.
He takes a shuddering breath, and his voice softens, though the intensity remains.
“I lied when I said you looked exceptional in there,” he begins, his gaze locking with mine as though the words are being drawn from the deepest part of him.
“You aren’t just exceptional—you are indescribable .
A vision so arresting I could barely breathe.
That dress—gods help me . You walked in, and I forgot everything but you.
How that gown clings to every inch of you, and the way the light dances on your skin… it’s bloody unfair.”
He pauses, jaw tightening, as if the truth burns on the way out.
“You are temptation itself,” he says, his voice low, rough.
“And I’ve never— not once —had to hold myself back the way I am right now.
Because all I can think about is touchin’ you.
.. feelin’ if you’re as soft as you look.
Tastin’ the heat of your skin. And showin’ every bastard in that room that they never stood a bloody chance. ”
His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his restraint fraying at the edges.
“Is that what you want?” he continues, his voice trembling with the weight of emotion he can no longer hide.
“D’ye want to hear how bloody crazed with jealousy I was?
How it felt like fire ripping through me?
How it took everything in me not to pull you away from him and—” He cuts himself off, his fists clenching at his sides as he fights to rein himself in.
“And what, Finn?” I demand.
My mouth opens again, but the words catch in my throat. Understanding dawns like a lightning strike—he isn’t angry with me, and he isn’t truly angry with Mannie. He’s angry with himself.
Finn’s palm presses flat against the wall beside my face. He doesn’t lean in fully, but his sheer presence, the weight of him so close, keeps me rooted.
“You test my patience every single day, without even realisin’ it, and it’s drivin’ me mad.” The restraint in him is palpable—I can feel it, almost taste it, as though he’s holding himself together by the thinnest thread.
“Finn, I don’t want half-truths and hesitation.” My voice is steadier than I feel, but my heart pounds like a war drum. I dare him to answer. I dare him to prove he’s not just saying what I want to hear.
“You dinnae believe me?” His other hand comes up, pressing into the wall on the opposite side of my head. His scent—earth and leather, something wholly him —fills my lungs, making it impossible to focus on anything but him .
“I’ve tried,” he says, his voice low and jagged, “tried to stay away, tried to tell myself you deserve better, but—”
I shake my head, the tears I’ve been holding back threatening to spill. “Stop, Finn. Have I not made it clear? I don’t want better. I don’t want anyone else. I want you .”
He closes his eyes, as if trying to block out the truth in my words. When he opens them again, they’re brighter, fiercer, filled with something that steals the air from me. “I cannae be something you wake up regrettin’,” he asserts, his voice rough with emotion.
My fingers curl into his shirt, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer. “I could never feel that way,” I whisper fiercely. “I know exactly what I’m asking.”
“I’m afraid to risk ruinin’ what we have,” he admits, the words shaky.
“What do we have, Finn?” The question slips from my lips before I can stop it, before I can shield myself from the answer .
His gaze doesn’t waver. It darkens, deepens—stripped bare and trembling. “Somethin’ I cannae fathom livin’ without.”
“I—”
The word has hardly passed my lips before a loud crash reverberates through the air, echoing from the archway just behind us. The sound is sharp, jarring, cutting through the tense bubble of energy between us.
I step toward the source of the sound, peering cautiously around the corner. Finn follows, his presence an unshakable shadow, standing far too close behind me.
My breathing quickens as my eyes lock on the scene before us. I should feel shame from witnessing such intrusion. I should shut my eyes and turn on my heel, but I don’t. I can’t.
Past the archway, a man has a woman pinned against the stone wall, his hands possessive, his body flush with hers in a tangle of urgency.
A fallen case of wine lies at their feet, shattered bottles bleeding red into the stone like an afterthought—unnoticed, unimportant.
His shirt is gone, discarded in a careless heap nearby, baring a back carved with muscle and slick with sweat.