Page 4

FINN

S he’d been a ghost for years. A memory wrapped in silk and thorns—untouchable, unforgettable.

But when the elevator doors slid open and her scent punched into his lungs, it all came rushing back like blood to a wound.

Warm skin, the faintest hint of citrus and jasmine, the echo of laughter he hadn't heard in years. She wore the scent like a challenge, and it hit him in the chest. He hadn’t expected the look in her eyes, hadn’t braced for the sharp, skeptical cut of her gaze.

Like she already knew his worst secrets and was daring him to lie.

And what hit him then wasn’t just attraction—it was something older, something primal.

Recognition. His pulse had spiked, not from fear, but from the sudden, bone-deep certainty that she would matter more than she should.

And for a while, he didn’t question why she’d been there, why Con had handed her off like a peace offering. He didn’t care.

All he saw was her.

But looking back, it was obvious. Cathal had thrown her to the O’Neills like meat to wolves, hoping a wedding band could erase the spilled blood and betrayal her father and sister had perpetrated.

She’d learned the truth the morning of the wedding—while she was getting dressed, hair half-pinned, the silk of her gown still cool against her skin.

Finn had known none of it until after she’d run.

Only then did the pieces fall into place—why she’d left, why she hadn’t just confronted him, why she’d vanished without a trace, why she’d left him at the altar without a word.

Finn hadn’t lied to her—that part had been on her uncle.

If the bastard had kept his mouth shut, that day in Galway might’ve ended with vows and a kiss, not an empty chapel and scorched pride.

But Cathal Lynch couldn’t resist—he’d made sure Keira knew the truth before she ever reached the altar: that she was a bargaining chip.

Offered to the O’Neills as a last attempt to end the blood feud with Con.

A deal sealed not in affection, but desperation.

And Con, ever the strategist, hadn’t just agreed to the deal.

He’d given Keira to Finn—not out of obligation, but because he saw the truth Finn hadn’t dared admit.

That he wanted her. Badly. Enough to make a future with her.

Enough to be tamed. Con had handed Keira over as both gift and anchor, believing she might be the only thing strong enough to hold Finn in place.

Finn hadn’t seen her that day—hadn’t known what had happened until long after—but he imagined her in that quiet dressing room, alone, blindsided as her uncle laid out the truth like a death sentence.

He didn’t know what she’d been wearing or what she’d done in those last moments—only that she’d run.

He imagined her hearing it from her uncle, learning her life had never been hers to begin with.

That she was a bargaining chip. He didn’t know how she reacted—whether she screamed, wept, or went utterly still—but whatever happened, it had driven her away from him.

That was the moment something in her changed—when love tangled with betrayal and pride, and she chose escape over trust.

And Con, clever bastard that he was, saw exactly what Finn wouldn’t say out loud. That he wanted her. Not just to keep the peace—but for himself. Con hadn’t forced the pairing. He’d exploited it. Gave her to Finn, knowing full well what she would become to him.

And then came Galway.

The storybook-like chapel, old stone with ivy trailing up the bell tower, sat nestled in the hills; inside, soft candlelight cast golden halos on pews packed with O’Neills, Lynches, and uneasy allies.

Finn had never worn a tux before that day, and he never would again.

It hadn’t just been a suit—it had been armor, a symbol of the man he thought he could become with her by his side.

Hope had looked good on him, but it didn’t survive the silence of her absence—that hollow, merciless vacuum where her footsteps should have been.

Not the quiet of a chapel, but the kind that settled in his chest and stayed.

That tux, given to a charity organization, had carried the ghost of her—her scent, her smile, and the illusion that love could rewrite bloodlines.

The collar of his tuxedo shirt had felt too tight, the air too still, and yet none of it mattered.

Not when he was waiting for her.

He’d stood at the altar, fists clenched at his sides, trying to tame the nervous energy riding his spine. The priest had looked calm. The guests had whispered behind programs. And Finn—he had been something close to happy.

Then the seconds dragged into minutes. Heads turned. The whispers stopped.

No music. No footsteps. No bride.

Just the squeak of a wooden pew as someone squirmed uncomfortably, and the faint cough from a guest trying to fill the aching void. The silence pressed in, thick and merciless.

He remembered the way the light changed—how it moved just slightly through the stained-glass windows, casting red across the white runner like blood. The priest cleared his throat. Someone in the back got up. And Finn knew.

Not because someone told him. Not because of some sound or sign. Because she wasn’t coming.

He stood there anyway. Because part of him couldn’t move. Wouldn’t believe. Couldn't believe. Not yet. Not until someone said the words.

But they didn’t have to. The silence was loud enough—pressing in on all sides, as if the stone walls themselves held their breath.

The echo of what should have been—of footsteps, of vows, of her voice—hung heavy in the air.

It was a void that wrapped around his chest, tight and merciless, until he could barely breathe.

She was gone. No explanation. No message.

Just absence, sharp and clean—a scalpel slicing through his chest with surgical precision.

It wasn’t chaos or drama or fire. It was quiet devastation.

Precise. Measured. Final. The kind of wound that didn’t bleed until you looked straight at it and realized you were already bleeding out.

And he had to walk out past all those faces—Con’s tight jaw, Cathal’s pale grimace, the pity in the eyes of men who’d kill for him but couldn’t meet his gaze—feeling like someone had carved him open and left him to bleed out in front of everyone.

Just an altar, a bouquet, and a hole in his chest—one carved by absence, by the echo of words never spoken and promises never made.

The silence hadn’t just hollowed out the room; it had hollowed him, scraped him raw from the inside out.

That altar had been the place where he’d planned to build something new, something sacred.

Instead, it had become a monument to what he lost the moment she didn’t walk through that door.

He’d written vows for her—words he never spoke aloud to anyone.

Promises inked on the back of an envelope and stuffed in his jacket pocket.

Promises to protect her, to walk away from the blood and power games if it meant giving her peace.

He’d planned to tell her she was his future, his tether to something better.

Instead, all that hope had curled into ash the moment he realized she wasn’t coming.

But she’d run. Left him standing at the altar, fists clenched, heart cracked clean through.

Even so, he’d protected her. From the fallout of her own choices.

From Con's wrath, which would’ve lit a fire Finn couldn’t put out.

From the truth of what he was, because deep down, he didn’t care if she chose him.

He made that decision the moment he first caught her scent.

She was his fated mate—destined, bound by something older and deeper than either of them could name.

Whether she accepted it or not didn’t change the truth.

He would claim her. Sooner or later, she’d know.

She’d feel it. And he would no longer hold back.

An hour after she left, Finn stood in the rooftop garden, the wind twisting around him like a living thing.

It snapped at his clothes, tugged at his hair, and tried to slice through his skin like glass.

But he stood unmoved, chest rising slow and steady, as if the surrounding chaos was nothing more than background noise to the storm inside.

Keira was still in his blood, still in his head, and not even the wind could shake her loose.

He didn’t feel it. Never had. Cold didn’t touch him—not since the beast had first stirred beneath his flesh.

The city stretched out around him, a glittering sprawl of light and noise, but none of it reached him.

Not when every breath he drew still carried a hint of her—warm skin and something wild underneath, like jasmine and danger.

It stirred everything in him: desire that curled low in his gut, rage at her absence, and betrayal that hadn't dulled with time. She was an ache and an addiction, and the scent of her only made him want to hunt or hold—he hadn’t decided which.

It didn't calm him. It burned, stoking the need that never truly left. Every inhale dragged her deeper into him, made it harder to think of anything else. She haunted his senses, not like a ghost, but like a fever he didn’t want cured.

Not when his blood simmered with the memory of her mouth, her voice, her fight.

She was out there somewhere, pretending she had a choice.

And he stood in the dark, every instinct alive with the truth—she was his, and the only thing that remained was to make her accept it.

His control snapped the moment the cab pulled away with her in it.

She hadn't even looked back. One flick of her eyes would’ve been enough—one second of hesitation, one sign that she still felt the pull between them—but she gave him nothing.

And that emptiness opened the door he’d kept shut for years.

The change took him fast.