24. Declan #2
“I have limited supplies.” I touch her cheek. “Maeve, I can give you the truth for every year that remains. Not the truth when it is convenient, flattering, or safe. All of it.”
The ring waits in Cillian’s coat pocket, but I do not reach for it yet. Promises have harmed Maeve before. I will not decorate this one until she understands precisely what I ask.
“I want you as my partner, never my prisoner.” I trace the small scar beneath her chin.
“I want you to challenge every order, open every file, and tell me when power has made me stupid. I want you to leave the gates whenever you choose and return because this is your home too. I will never again call control protection or expect obedience to prove love.”
Her hand closes around my wrist. “I have never obeyed you.”
“You attempted it once.”
“It was a distressing afternoon.”
“I recovered.”
“Your ego did.”
I smile because the woman I love has survived enough solemn men making promises over her life.
“I want to be Cillian’s father every day.
Not merely the man who puts guards outside his room or kills threats before they reach him.
I want school mornings, bad toast, lost teeth, and questions I am not qualified to answer.
I want to teach him chess until he defeats me without exploiting emotional conversation. ”
Cillian looks up from the book. “That was legal.”
“It was immoral.”
“You kill people.”
Maeve’s mouth trembles. “He has you there.”
“I regret inviting witnesses.” I hold out one hand toward Cillian. “Bring me the ring before your mother finds another reason to delay.”
He jumps from the bench and reaches inside his coat. Instead of a velvet box, he produces a small carved wooden case. The lid bears a raven on one side and an Irish knot on the other. Cillian designed it on paper. A craftsman translated his alarming sketch into something recognisable.
Cillian places it in my palm. “I checked it for trackers.”
Maeve laughs through the first tear. “Practical.”
“Our family has history.”
I kneel before her. The movement silences even Cillian. I have knelt to no king, priest, or enemy. Maeve once told me that men who refused to bend eventually broke. I thought power meant ensuring the world moved first. Loving her has taught me that surrender can be chosen without becoming defeat.
The ring contains no O’Rourke heirloom. Eamon contaminated too many objects by turning history into leverage. I selected an emerald surrounded by small diamonds, set in platinum strong enough for daily wear rather than display. Inside the band are three engraved words: Truth. Choice. Home.
“Maeve Gallagher, I loved you when we were too proud to protect it, hated you because I could not kill it, and searched for you long after hope became humiliating.” I open the case.
“You returned with my son, exposed the traitor ruling through me, and taught the Reaper how to become a king. Will you marry me and spend every remaining year making certain I never become comfortable?”
Maeve looks down at me for so long that Cillian begins shifting beside the cake. Her tears fall freely now, though her smile remains wicked enough to keep me from breathing.
“You forgot to mention your personality.” Her fingers close around mine. “That seems like fraudulent disclosure.”
“I included provisions in the property documents.”
“Then I suppose the risk is known.” She glances at Cillian before returning her gaze to me. “Yes, Declan. I will marry you.”
Cillian cheers before I can stand. Maeve pulls me upright by my coat and kisses me beneath the lights.
I taste tears and laughter, neither of which I deserve and both of which I intend to keep earning.
My hands settle at her waist, but I do not draw her closer until she presses against me. Choice. Even in joy, especially in joy.
Cillian opens the bakery box. “Can we eat now? Engagements appear very slow.”
Maeve looks over my shoulder. “Your father enjoys speeches.”
“I killed most people before they required one.”
“Another romantic detail omitted from your proposal.”
We eat cake on the stone bench while the city moves below us.
Cillian insists on placing the ring on Maeve’s finger because he carried it without losing it.
It fits. I checked the size against a ring she left behind seven years ago, a fact I decline to disclose because there are limits to emotional honesty during dessert.
She rests her head against my shoulder while Cillian explains that he should have chosen a larger cake.
For the first time, the Raven does not feel haunted.
Several Weeks Later
We marry on a clear afternoon at Lorenzo’s estate beneath enough security to survive a military invasion and enough flowers to suggest one surrendered.
Maeve refused roses, white satin, and any ceremony requiring her to promise obedience.
She accepted dark green silk, lilies, and vows reviewed by three lawyers to ensure neither party accidentally acquired ownership of the other.
The guest list includes the Crown families, trusted Irish captains, surviving Gallaghers, and representatives from the teams that destroyed Eamon’s network.
It does not include anyone Maeve cannot identify by name and verified history.
I wait beneath a stone arch overlooking Lorenzo’s gardens with Cillian beside me.
He wears the same deep green tie from the day the Crown recognised him, though Niamh has threatened him twice for touching the knot.
The adult O’Rourke signet ring hangs from a chain beneath his shirt.
He remains too young to wear it, but today he asked to carry it close.
“You look nervous.” Cillian examines me with open interest. “Your left hand keeps closing.”
“I am checking circulation.”
“Mam said you would lie.”
“Your mother has sabotaged your respect for me.”
“She said respect should survive questions.”
I glance down at him. “You have been spending too much time inside the intelligence division.”
“They have better computers.”
Music begins before I can explain why criminal intelligence systems are unsuitable for children.
Everyone turns toward the garden doors. Maeve appears with Niamh on one side and Elena on the other, because she refused to be given away by anyone.
Her hair falls loose beneath a narrow silver comb.
The green silk follows the lines of her body without disguising the woman beneath ceremony.
She wears the engagement ring, carries no bouquet, and looks directly at me.
Every violent thing in my life becomes quiet.
Seven years ago, I believed power meant being the most dangerous man in any room. Today, my son stands beside me and the woman who survived me walks forward because she chooses the same future. Nothing I command has ever felt as powerful as that.
Cillian leans closer. “You stopped breathing.”
“I am conserving it.”
“You need it for the vows.”
Maeve reaches us and hears the final sentence. “Has he forgotten how?”
“Temporarily.” Cillian looks relieved to have competent assistance. “I warned him.”
Maeve places her hand in mine. “If he collapses, we can continue after lunch.”
“I am surrounded by devotion.” I close my fingers around hers. “Proceed before they improve the insults.”
The officiant is an Irish judge who owes Lorenzo three favours and me enough silence to last several lifetimes. He keeps the legal portion brief. Maeve and I wrote our vows separately, though we agreed on one rule: no promise either of us cannot freely keep.
Maeve speaks first. “I do not promise obedience, patience, or agreement. You have experienced enough of me to know all three would be dishonest. I promise truth, even when it hurts us. I promise I will not run from fear or stay because of it. I will choose you on the days you deserve me and challenge you on the days you do not.”