33. The Lull before the Roar #2
Bran throws his hands up, exasperated. “I don’t know! I suppose I thought it was better than standing alone, but then I also kept waiting for it to stop —and it hasn’t.”
Like a bell tolling Bran’s salvation, Casey’s unmistakable, full-bellied cackle erupts across the dock—loud, sharp, and cutting clean through the surrounding chatter .
Bran seizes the opportunity, voice a little too eager. “Ah, would you listen to that? Casey’s found something far more entertaining than whatever this is.” He spins on his heel, marching toward the others without another word.
Finn watches him go, still smirking. “Think we broke him. He’s willingly goin’ over to stand near Casey.”
I exhale, crossing my arms as I glance between them. “Aye, well, I hope they get over whatever the hell happened between them. It’s miserable watching them act like this.”
I chew my lip, mulling over a nagging thought in my head. “I think it was over a lassie.”
Finn’s smirk falters, just slightly.
I continue, voice thoughtful. “The morning after the party, I saw a girl sneaking out of Bran’s room. Looked like she was in a hurry. Thought nothin’ of it at the time, but now…” I trail off, glancing back toward them.
“Only… she left the room just as Amelia and I were walking past, which caused a bit of a scene in and of itself.”
Finn raises an eyebrow, his interest sharpening just a fraction, but he says nothing, waiting for me to go on.
I pause for dramatic effect, my voice quieter now. “Amelia and I had a front-row seat to Bran’s cock standing at full attention—no shame whatsoever at being caught.”
Finn lets out a sharp bark of laughter, shaking his head. “That lad is beyond saving.”
I exhale, shaking my head slightly as the memory comes back clearer. “And then, as we’re all standing there, the door to Casey’s room flies open, and Finn…”
I meet his gaze, my voice quieter now, thoughtful. “I can’t remember the last time I saw such rage in Casey’s eyes.”
Finn’s expression barely shifts—but I see it. That flicker of something, just for a moment, before he smooths it over. A quick flash of realisation, of calculation, before his mask falls perfectly back into place.
I narrow my eyes. “What was that look about?”
Finn exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “They’ll work it out. If not for the betterment of internal peace, then for the mission. Bran is many things, but he’d never jeopardise the safety or well-bein’ of others.”
I study him, suspicion creeping into my voice. “Finn… do you maybe know something you’re not telling me? ”
He looks at me then, really looks at me—his gaze searching mine for a long, quiet moment.
Then he huffs a breath, shaking his head. “I love you with all that I am, but please dinnae make me tell you.”
I tilt my head, lips twitching. “Not even if I put my mouth on your—”
Finn groans, cutting me off as his fingers curl around my waist, tugging me flush against him. “ Caitríona .”
I let out a small gasp. “My full name?” Then, with a resigned sigh, I relent. “Fine, fine.”
“I’ll make it up to you, mo ghrá.” Before I can react, his hands slide lower, gripping my rear with possessive intent—then a sharp smack lands, sending a jolt through me. A startled gasp escapes my lips, my breath hitching as warmth blooms where his touch lingers.
“Finn!” I hiss, my face burning as I glance around.
He only chuckles, the sound curling through my stomach like heat licking at embers. He takes my hand, tugging me forward with easy confidence, and we walk over to join the others.
As we step into their midst, the familiar hum of conversation dwindles, and the weight of this fleeting unity settles in, unspoken but deeply felt.
I take one last look at those that we must part from—Bran’s charming demeanour, Casey’s radiant smile, Amelia’s quiet strength, Deidre’s gentle wisdom, even Mannie and the undeniable flair that amuses those around him.
Each of them leaves an imprint that will linger long after the horizon swallows them from view.
“Well, this is it, then,” Bran says with an unconvincing smile. “Don’t miss us too much.”
As Casey and Bran board their ship, Finn, Callan, and I are guided toward Cairn’s Shadow. “Now, I don’t want to be rude, but are you sure that’s seaworthy? Looks like it’s held together with wishful thinking,” Bran shouts as he pauses on the gangplank.
Casey smirks, pointing toward Tonn Glas with exaggerated pride. “I think it’s fair to say we were dealt a better hand. Our ship looks as if it could carry the gods themselves, while yers might not make it out of the harbour.”
“It’s not about the look of a ship, but the crew who sails her.” Callan grits out.
Finn raises a brow, shooting Bran a pointed look. “And I’d rather have an old boat than a cocky crew, so maybe keep yer gloatin’ in check till ye’ve proved yerselves. ”
I grin, cutting in before Bran can respond. “Oh, come now boys. You can admit, Cairn’s Shadow looks like she’s seen more rough nights than an old doxy.”
Bran bursts out laughing. “See? Even Triona agrees. You should consider adding a few extra dinghies for when you find yourselves in need.”
Finn shakes his head, turning toward me with a raised brow. “I think ye’ve been spendin’ too much time with Bran. He’s rubbing off on ye.”
One by one, we climb the gangplank, each step feeling heavier than the last. I pause at the top, glancing back at Deidre and Amelia. The wind catches Amelia’s hair, framing her face in a halo of sunlight. She lifts a hand in a silent farewell, and I mimic the gesture before turning away.
As Tonn Glas pulls away from the harbour, her shimmering hull gliding through the water as if it’s part of the sea itself, I feel the weight of our singular group becoming two.
I can’t help but glance around Cairn’s Shadow to occupy my thoughts.
The aged vessel creaks as we step aboard.
Her wood, weathered and darkened by countless voyages, tells the story of a ship that has seen too much yet refuses to yield.
Patches cover the sails in places, and the frayed ropes look ready to give way at the slightest gust. A faint smell of salt and mildew lingers in the surrounding air.
The disparity between vessels is grim—one ship a legend, the other a test of endurance. I stand beside Finn, gripping his arm as both ships begin their journeys onward, and I can’t shake the feeling that this is the start of something none of us are truly prepared for.
Callan lets out a low whistle, his brow arching as we take in our surroundings. “This is it?” he asks, his tone laced with skepticism.
The man leading us, a grizzled sailor with a weathered face, grunts. “Aye, she’s a tough old girl, but she’ll see you where you’re bound—so long as you mind her well. Cross her wrong, and the sea’ll be takin’ what’s rightfully hers.”
As the ship glides further from the shore, I can’t help but steal one last glance down at the dock, needing to see Amelia and Deidre’s faces one last time. Only Amelia remains, standing alone, watching.
Her lips move, and I catch the faint impression of be brave dancing across them.
The water between us is calm but vast, reflecting the sky’s shifting hues—a perfect mirror of light and shadow. We now exist in separate worlds.
Callan stands close— near enough to be present, but not so much that he intrudes on our space. His gaze stays fixed forward, shoulders rigid, his presence a quiet yet imposing force.
Finn stands beside me, his hand wrapped firmly around mine, his thumb tracing slow, steady circles against my skin. Though he doesn’t speak, I can feel the tension radiating from him, see it in the way his gaze lingers on the open sea.
Whatever it is feels heavy enough to leave a crack in his composure. I shift closer, my shoulder brushing his arm, offering silent reassurance. We’ve always found strength in each other, and I hope he feels it now.
He exhales softly, the sound almost lost to the wind, but I catch it.
When he finally turns to me, his dark eyes meet mine.
There’s so much there—so much love, fear, and unspoken promise that it steals the air from my lungs.
Without a word, he leans in, resting his forehead gently against mine, the world narrowing to just the two of us.
When he pulls back, his hand remains firmly in mine, and he turns his gaze forward, toward the endless expanse of sea stretching into the unknown. The shadows on his face are still there, but so is the fire—the quiet resolve that burns stronger because we’re together.
The toughened sailor from before returns. “Come now. Mistress Curran made it so each of you would have a proper cabin to your name, far better than you might have expected when you first boarded. She’s got her charms where it matters.”
Finn and I exchange uncertain glances before stepping cautiously below deck.
The dimly lit corridor leads us to the cabins, and I push open the door to inspect the space.
Relief washes over me as I take in the surprisingly tidy quarters.
The bed looks sturdy, the bedding clean, and a faint scent of lavender lingers in the air, as if someone had taken care to make the rooms welcoming.
There’s even a wooden tub for washing; a rare indulgence aboard the confines of a ship.
“Well, this is a sight better than expected,” Callan mutters, his tension easing as he peaks into my living space before moving ahead to his own. Finn’s guarded expression softens as he steps into my assigned room, his eyes scanning the surroundings.
He leans lazily against the bedframe, though there’s nothing idle about the way his gaze darkens as it drags over me. A wicked smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. “You know I’m not sleepin’ alone, aye? ”
“Why, Mr MacGregor,” I purr, stepping through the door, each movement slow, deliberate. “Are you inviting yourself into a ladies’ quarters? How very shameless of you!”
Without a word, I reach back, grasping the door and easing it shut, the soft click echoing in the quiet cabin. I bite my lip, my eyes glinting with mischief as I slowly unlatch my cloak, letting it slide from my shoulders.
He makes a low, rough sound in his throat—a sound that speaks of hunger, of want. He does not move away from the bedframe. He waits for me to come to him.
Then his voice dips, husky and unrepentant, meant for my ears alone. “Two weeks at sea. Two weeks of you all to myself in this cabin. And I mean to make every damned second count.”
My lips curve into a slow, seductive smile. I saunter forward, letting my hips sway, watching the way his eyes flick down, how his breath deepens just slightly, how his hands clench at his sides as if he’s already holding himself back.
His eyes darken, and I catch the faint blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks as I lean up on my toes, my lips brushing his ear. In a voice low and sultry, I whisper, “After I’ve had a bath, I want to find myself on top as you savour me…”
He exhales sharply, spurring me further. “And then…” I let my fingers graze down his chest, featherlight, like a whisper of what’s to come. “I want to see how far down my throat your cock will go.”
Finn’s composure cracks as he grips the edge of the bed frame so hard that the wood creaks. “Gods help me, Triona,” he rasps, his voice rough, trembling with need.
But restraint is not what I want from him tonight. What either of us needs.
His hands are on me before I can draw another breath, his grip firm as he hoists me up with an ease that makes my stomach flip.
His strength is effortless. In a single stride, he moves us to the bed, falling back onto it with me cradled against him. The motion is seamless, his hold unrelenting, and when I find myself straddling his lap, on instinct, the need to press the most intimate part of me to him cannot be ignored.
The hardness beneath me is unmistakable, and when I shift, when I roll my hips against him just slightly, Finn swears low and filthy, his grip tightening at my waist.
“Ye’re a wicked, wicked woman,” he mutters, voice thick with desire.
“Aye, but I’m your wicked woman. ”
His chest rises and falls beneath me, his gaze near feral as he reaches up, tangling his fingers in my hair, drawing me down until our foreheads nearly touch.
“Tonight,” he breathes, “I will worship every inch of you, until you cannae remember where you end and I begin.”
And I will let him. I will give myself to him completely—
To lose myself entirely in him; in the cadence of his breath, in the strength of his arms that feel more like home than any place ever could, and in the way his gaze claims me as though I am the sole light in his world.
I ache to claim and be claimed, to leave a mark so indelible that even the stars themselves will sing of it for ages to come. Finnis MacGregor is not merely my love; he is the air I breathe, the pulse in my veins, and the light that pierces shadow.
It is here, entangled in his warmth, that I acknowledge my soul is no longer mine alone but bound irrevocably to his, as if the stars themselves conspired to make us whole.