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Justice comes in many forms. Not always clean. Not always public. But arriving nevertheless.

The Kavanagh empire continues operating—shipping, imports, less legal ventures—while I stand within its protective boundaries rather than fighting from outside. A choice made with open eyes.

"We should go in," Cillian says. "Early meeting tomorrow."

I nod, walking beside him toward the house where Niamh arranges coffee in the sitting room, where Tiernan reviews documents in his study, where Eamon pours whiskey to quiet demons.

My new family. My chosen path.

In our bedroom, Cillian helps me undress, his touch lingering on my skin. The intimacy of routine—buttons unfastened, clothes folded, day washing away—says more than grand gestures.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, fingers gentle on my skin.

"Better." I reach for him, needing connection after the day's tension.

His kiss begins gentle, asking rather than demanding. I open to him, pulling him closer. Our bodies recognize each other, a language developed through months of learning.

He lifts me to the bed, his weight settling over me with careful precision. His fingers trace my collarbone, my breast, my hip—territories mapped but now seen without disguise.

"I know who you are now," he whispers against my neck. "Every part."

I guide him into me, our joining slow and deliberate. No roles to play. No personas to maintain. Just us, stripped of pretense.

"This is what truth feels like," I say as he moves within me.

His eyes hold mine, refusing to break contact. "No more masks."

We move together without rushing, savoring each sensation. His hands hold mine above my head, fingers intertwined rather than restrained. Partnership, not dominance.

"Tell me what you want," he says.

"This," I answer. "You. Us."

He kisses me deeply as our rhythm builds. No performance, just pure response. I wrap my legs around him, taking him deeper. His breath catches.

"Orla," he groans, my real name from his lips sending sparks through me.

When I come, the release carries more than physical pleasure—a surrender to what we've become together. He follows, his body tensing then relaxing against mine.

After, he holds me close, my back against his chest, his arm protective around my waist. His breathing steadies against my neck.

"I never thought I'd find peace with a Kavanagh," I confess into the darkness.

His arm tightens. "I never thought I'd trust someone who lied to me."

"Yet here we are."

"Here we are," he echoes, pressing a kiss to my shoulder.

I close my eyes, feeling his heartbeat against my back. An uneasy truce between past and present, justice and compromise, outsider and insider. Not perfect. Not simple.

But mine.