Chapter 3
ROSALINA
I have not spoken to Erin for two days, which in itself is a kind of violence, especially now that the wedding has been pushed forward to this weekend.
There is no space left to breathe, no time to let emotions settle, only a steady march toward an altar where she is expected to smile at as if nothing inside her is breaking.
I continue protecting her as I always have, because that part of me does not falter, but the shape of my presence has changed.
Instead of sitting in her room and helping her pack, listening to her spiral through nerves and jokes and late-night confessions, I take my post outside her door during my assigned shifts.
I stand there like any other guard, alert and distant, and when my relief arrives I leave without lingering, returning to my own room down the hall rather than staying close to her like I have for most of our lives.
Dolan has tried to speak to me twice on her behalf, once near the west stairwell and once outside the training yard, and both times I stopped him before he could finish his first sentence.
I told him I would gut him like a fish if he said her name again, and he did not test whether I meant it.
He used to lose to me during academy drills, back when he still believed strength alone could win a fight, and he would still lose to me now if he tried.
Time has not dulled my edge, and anger has only made it sharper.
I do not pretend that I don’t understand why they kept it a secret.
Father would never approve, and a low-level guard touching the Irish princess, much less taking her virginity, would be seen as theft rather than love.
Call him old-fashioned if you want, but Seamus O’Connor would kill Dolan for that kind of disrespect without hesitation, and Erin’s feelings would not matter once blood had been drawn.
At least, that is what I tell myself, even as doubt presses in.
Seamus has surprised us before. He was given the decency of true love once, before Erin’s mother died and grief reshaped him into something harder and more dangerous.
He knows what it is to choose someone over duty, and part of me still clings to the idea that he would understand, that he would recognize the difference between defiance and devotion if it were placed plainly in front of him.
My gaze drifts to him at the head of the dinner table as I sit to the right of Seamus at the dinner table, posture straight and expression carefully neutral.
He leans forward over his cottage pie, laughing at something Patrick Murphy, the right hand and cousin of my father, has just said, the sound full and unguarded, as if nothing in this house is about to fracture.
“Murphy, you son of a bitch,” Seamus says, shaking his head. “We are in the company of ladies.”
Patrick lifts his fork, potatoes clinging to the tines. “I told you the story wasn’t for the company of ladies. You insisted.”
“I suppose I did,” Seamus snorts, then reaches out and elbows me lightly in the arm. “But I raised my girls to be as strong as an ox, didn’t I?”
Erin perks up immediately, nodding with exaggerated enthusiasm. “Right, Daddy.”
I slide my fork across my plate and mutter, barely audible, “Yes.”
Seamus’s amusement fades just a fraction, his sharp eyes flicking between us. He exhales slowly, the way he does when he has already drawn a conclusion but wants to give us the courtesy of explaining ourselves.
“All right,” he says, setting his fork down. “What is going on between you two? Erin, you’ve been blinking and rocking like a wind-up doll, and you,” his gaze cuts to me, “have barely touched your shepherd’s pie, which I know is your favorite.”
“I’m not hungry,” I answer evenly.
He scoffs. “That’s bullshit. You have never not been hungry.”
“We had a big lunch,” Erin cuts in quickly, smiling too wide.
Seamus’s eyes narrow. “Funny, because I hear you two haven’t been in the same room together, let alone broken bread.”
“I’ve been busy with the wedding,” Erin says smoothly, her smile tightening at the edges.
I snort before I can stop myself, the sound sharp and ugly in the quiet that follows.
She has been busy, just not with anything related to this marriage.
She has been busy finding moments with Dolan whenever someone looks the other way, busy carving out a future that does not include the man she is meant to marry.
Maybe that is why this burns so badly, why the silence feels like betrayal layered on top of betrayal.
Why would she keep this from me? Why would she treat me like an afterthought?
Did she really believe I would not keep her secret?
Did she think I would not protect her, like I always have, like I promised I always would, even if it meant standing against our father?
I love her. I have always loved her. How could she ever doubt that?
“You have something to say?” Erin snaps, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “Because if you do, now would be a great time to say it.”
“I have nothing to say,” I reply, my tone flat and controlled.
“That’s a lie,” she fires back, pushing her chair back slightly. “You’ve been glaring at me for two days like I committed a crime.”
“You did,” I answer quietly.
The room tightens in the silence that follows and I watch the muscle ticking in Erin’s jaw. Patrick shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable, and Seamus’s gaze hardens, the humor draining from his face as he looks between us.
“Both of you have been at each other for two days, and I am over it,” he says firmly.
Erin turns to him at once. “Daddy—”
“No,” Seamus cuts in, raising a hand. “No, I thought Rosie’s favorite dinner and a Guinness chocolate cake for Erin would make this better. I thought it was cold feet, but obviously it is something more.”
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, looking down at my pie again.
He looks at me then, his expression unreadable. “You calling me a liar, Rosalina?”
“No, Papa but--”
He gestures toward the hallway with two fingers, a small motion that carries the weight of a command. “Go outside. Talk it out. I won’t have my house tense on the eve of my daughter’s wedding.”
Erin stands immediately, her chair scraping softly against the floor as she pushes it back.
The sound slices through my nerves sharper than her raised voice ever could.
She does not look at me as she rises, and that hurts more than if she had, because it tells me she already knows this conversation will cost her something.
I follow a second later, my movements controlled to the point of stiffness.
Every instinct in me is screaming to stay, to keep my eyes on Father, to read his face for any sign that he already suspects the truth, but discipline wins out over fear.
I straighten my spine, set my shoulders, and step away from the table like a guard dismissed from duty rather than a daughter being sent to settle a private war.
My jaw is locked tight enough to ache, tension crawling up my neck and settling behind my eyes.
I am acutely aware of how exposed my back feels as I turn, of how vulnerable Erin is walking ahead of me without my body between her and anything that might strike.
I have spent years positioning myself instinctively in front of danger, and now I am being told to step aside and talk instead, as if words can shield her the way I have.
Behind us, Seamus turns back to Patrick, his tone lightening despite his irritation. “The flaws of raising two young women.”
Patrick chuckles. “Don’t worry, Seamus. I remember the teenage years. It was like a minefield.”
I hear the unmistakable sound of Patrick’s hand smacking Seamus’s shoulder, friendly and familiar.
Seamus lifts his glass slightly. “Then let’s drink to escaping the teenage years.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Patrick laughs, just as the dining room doors close behind us.
The minute I enter the hallway I notice two guards lingering near the corner by the stairwell, murmuring quietly to each other as they trade watch notes.
Another stands farther down the corridor, posture relaxed but eyes alert, pretending not to notice us while noticing everything.
Anything that is said in the hallway will be told back to Seamus, so I keep that in mind, but I don’t think Erin noticed.
Erin spins toward me the moment we clear the threshold, her face flushed, eyes bright with frustration. “You didn’t have to embarrass me like that.”
I stop short, my voice already sharp when I answer. “You embarrassed yourself when you lied to his face. Oh, I’m Erin and I have have been busy getting ready to get married tomorrow.”
Her breath hitches. “I did not lie. I have been getting ready.”
“That was a half-truth,” I snap, my hands curling at my sides as heat floods my chest. “And half-truths are lies in this house. You know that better than anyone.”
Her mouth opens, anger flashing hot and reckless across her face. “You don’t get to stand there and judge me like you’re not part of this.”
“I am part of this,” I say, stepping closer despite myself. “I have been part of every version of your life since we were children. I am part of this wedding, part of your safety, part of whatever fallout comes next. Do not pretend this does not involve me.”
She laughs sharply, the sound brittle. “You act like I planned this. Like I woke up one morning and decided to ruin everything.”
“I don’t care if you planned it,” I reply, my voice lowering as something dangerous coils tight behind my ribs. “I care that you hid it from me. I care that you looked me in the eye for months and smiled and let me protect you without telling me what I was protecting you from.”
Her gaze drops to the floor for half a second, and the sight of it hits harder than her anger ever could.
“I was going to tell you,” she says quietly.
“When?” I ask. “After the vows? After the blood was already spilled if something went wrong?”