Muireann.
Tarian takes slow, measured steps.
Each one more cautious than the last, until he stands directly before me.
Our eyes remained locked the entire time he approached.
Not once did he break contact.
For what it’s worth, I’ve missed seeing this face of his.
Lysander’s face.
His beautiful eyes that always look as though they’re trying to bore into the depths of me.
Searching for secrets long buried.
And his lips, those lips that are currently parted.
Lips that did awfully dirty things to me the last time we were together.
Memory finds me now.
Just moments after we had sex.
His words, like piercing daggers sinking into my rotten soul.
“That’s a beautiful mural you’ve got up there,” he had said.
I had stilled.
I didn’t look up at the mural.
I didn’t need to.
I knew the mural he meant.
One of ten exquisite pieces I had commissioned to stretch across my ceilings.
Murals of my home.
Of the sea.
Of Ireland.
Of a painful past I will never be able to forget.
Instinct had taken over.
I recoiled the moment I heard him praise it.
That mural, the one capturing the final moments just before I took the stand that shattered my entire world apart.
I hated him for praising it.
I hated him because it was his ancestors who caused me to lose everything.
Their greed.
Their hunger for immortality.
It led them to slaughter my family.
So when I asked us to end everything, I regretted nothing.
“What I mean is that I want you to get out.
Leave.” There was no sting inside me when I said those words.
Only the cruel satisfaction of watching his shock land cleanly.
Only the satisfaction of seeing a Daorheche almost reach the edge of contentment and have it ripped away.
The same way it was ripped from me.
“You look beautiful, Muireann.” Tarian’s voice cuts in now, pulling me back to the present.
I tilt my head, a small smile playing on my rouged lips.
Of course I look beautiful.
I never spare a cent on my appearance.
“Why did you invite me to this…” I pause, sweeping a bored gaze around us.
“Party.”
Disappointment flashes across Tarian’s face.
Maybe because I changed the subject.
Or maybe because of my indifference toward his invitation.
Either way, I don’t care.
“I wanted to see you,” he mutters.
I lift a brow.
“I told you…”
“Not just because of what we shared.” He cuts in smoothly.
“But because of business.
I wanted to inform you that I do not accept the involvement of our lawyers in proceeding with the partnership.”
“You could have sent that in an email… or made a phone call,” I reply, my eyes never breaking contact with his.
He stares at me.
Doesn’t touch me yet.
But still, I feel it.
The heat of his gaze pressing into me.
Taking me in.
As though his eyes are peeling every layer of clothing off my body.
In spite of my restraint.
In spite of how difficult it is to pretend that being away from him for those few days didn’t do something to me, I maintain my composure.
I give him no crack.
No opening.
“Are you going to say you didn’t miss me at all?” He whispers.
I part my lips.
The words I want to say get trapped in my throat.
Burning.
Suffocating.
“I don’t miss anyone, Tarian,” I say instead.
My words are cold.
My tone steady.
He watches me, unfazed.
A fraction of a smile tugs at his lips.
Then he takes my hand, slowly rubbing his thumb across it.
At that exact moment, urgent heels echo from beside us.
We both turn.
A woman stands there, beautiful, slender, her dress shimmering under the light.
Her presence is sharp and disruptive.
“Viola, don’t do this…” another man says, rushing up behind her.
Viola?
The name strikes a chord.
Of course.
Tarian’s wife.
We’ve spoken about her.
Lar warned me about her as well.
The man behind her reaches for her arm, but she yanks it away, eyes blazing between Tarian and me.
“I would do what I want, Damon.” She snaps, never taking her eyes off me.
Red rimmed, furious eyes lock onto mine.
Her lips tremble.
“Have you no shame?” She demands sharply, her voice lowered but cutting.
“Viola.” Tarian warns.
“Don’t, Tarian.” She hisses.
I watch the entire scene with quiet amusement.
“You dare bring your whore to a gathering of my in-laws and then call me ‘Viola’?” She spits.
“Damon, talk to your sister,” Tarian says, turning to the man behind her.
Oh.
Damon Cooper.
The dynamic siblings in the cooking industry.
“I am so sorry about this, Muireann… she…”
Tarian begins, but Viola suddenly lunges, tearing his hand away from mine.
“Take your bloody talons off my husband!” She shrieks.
Her voice rises, sharp enough to slice through the music.
Heads turn.
Conversations die.
The entire party shifts its attention toward us.
I meet their gazes with utter indifference.
None of this bothers me.
A sob tears from Viola’s throat just as more figures approach quickly.
“What is going on here, darling?” A woman asks.
Recognition flickers in me.
Lydia Sawyer.
Tarian’s mother.
A witch.
One who would have sensed my presence, if not for Zafron’s spell cloaking me.
I observe as she pulls Viola into a hug.
Another man arrives beside her.
Timothy Sawyer.
Tarian’s father.
The moment I inhale his Daorheche blood, something coils tightly inside me.
Anger, sharp and immediate.
“Ask your son… he brought Muireann here.” Viola accuses.
Lydia and Timothy’s gazes snap to mine instantly, narrowing.
“He can’t do this to me.” Viola continues, voice breaking.
“He can’t shame me in front of the guests.”
Disgust curls inside me.
Another woman steps in, wrapping Viola in an embrace.
“Why are you doing this to my daughter, Tarian?
Guests are watching.” A man hisses.
Thud Cooper.
Maggie Cooper.
Viola’s parents.
Lar has filled in the gaps about them all before.
Not ever.
“Thud,” Tarian says, voice strained.
“I haven’t done anything.
Muireann is my guest and business partner.
I only invited her here for the occasion…”
“At the expense of my daughter’s suffering?” Thud snaps back.
I exhale slowly, already bored of the spectacle.
Then I turn to Tarian.
“Tarian.
I apologize for this…” I glance briefly at his wife.
She is beautiful.
But right now, she looks pathetic.
Crying over a man who does not love her.
A man who carries the same corrupt blood I despise.
But who am I to tell her the truth?
“Alright… let’s go somewhere more private,” Tarian says quietly.
I shake my head.
“No.
It’s fine.
Deal with this.”
I turn to leave.
But his hand shoots out and grips my arm.
“I’m not losing you again.” He blurts.
I look at his hand.
Then back at him.
“Tarian?” Lydia’s voice cuts through the air, stunned and horrified.
This is gold, I think inwardly, watching the chaos tighten.
“You dare not leave with that woman.
Let her go.” Lydia commands, her tone sharp as steel.
“Mum…”
“Don’t ‘mum’ me.
Let her go.
This instant!”
The entire party now watches in silence.
Waiting.
The tension is thick.
Almost suffocating.
“And you,” Lydia turns to me, voice cold.
“You come into my home to disrupt my party.
Have you no scruples?”
I tilt my head slightly, amusement flickering beneath the surface.
She thinks this is disruption?
She should wait.
“Good night, Mrs.
Sawyer,” I say, offering a faint, amused smile as I shrug off Tarian’s hold.
I turn and walk away.
Ignoring the displeasure etched across Tarian’s face as he watches me leave.
I didn’t come here to comfort you, Tarian.
I came to ruin you.
My heels strike the marble with deliberate precision as I pass through the silent, watching crowd.
“Muireann!”
I stop.
Tarian’s voice.
It comes, anchoring me in place.
My heart begins to pound harder than it should.
Slowly, I turn back.
Our eyes meet again.
His gaze is steady.
Burning.
Determined.
“Where you go,” he says, voice low and certain, “I go.”
My breath catches.
My chest tightens.
Gasps ripple through the crowd, but they fade into nothing.
All that remains is him.
And me.
Tarian moves toward me, just like Lysander once moved towards me.
Except this time, Tarian is ignoring the world, standing against his family.
He’s choosing me.
And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t know whether to feel victorious or utterly, dangerously undone.