Page 123 of The Violet Raven

I exhale slowly, forcing my voice to remain level. “Bran, I’m not here to judge,” I say, keeping my stance firm while my tone softens. “I just need to know ye’re all right.”

His jaw tightens, and he glares at me, but it’s not the sharp, cutting Bran I know. There’s fear there, buried beneath the irritation, and it makes my chest ache. “Finn, I am not discussing this with you.”

The heat of his anger catches me off guard, but I refuse to back down. “So you can talk about my life, but the moment I bring up yers, I’m supposed to shut my mouth?”

Bran’s jaw clenches, and his eyes narrow. “Your choices won’t get you killed,” he snaps, his voice biting. “So fucking drop it, Finn.”

The breath punches out of me. My fists curl at my sides, but I force myself to stay calm. “Ye think I’d ever do anything to risk yer safety?”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “You don’t get it, Finn. You can’t just… waltz in like some storybook hero and set everything right. I don’t need you to protect me, and I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity,” I say firmly. “It’s me lookin’ out for someone I’d do a whole hell of a lot for. That’s what this is.”

For a moment, the bravado slips. His gaze flickers away, his jaw working like he’s chewing over words he doesn’t want to say. Then he shoves past me, his shoulder brushing mine. “Drop it, Mac. Whatever you think you saw—whatever you think you know—you’re wrong.”

Finally, I let out a sharp breath, shaking my head. “Fine. Keep your secrets, if that’s how you want it.”

Bran doesn’t respond immediately. He stares at me, his expression unreadable, before stepping back and adjusting his pack. “You’ve got enough to deal with, mate. Focus on that.”

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there with too many gods damned questions and a knot of frustration tightening in my chest.

Triona

The weight of my pack presses down on me, each step toward the harbour’s end burdened by the growing anxiety inside. Callan leads the way. A slip of paper with an address is clutched firmly in his hand, his brows drawn in an unwavering, determined focus.

The rest of us follow in silence, and despite Casey attempting to lighten the mood, it seems to fall short. Something about that feels odd.

Bran’s quiet isn’t the comfortable kind; it’s the heavy, brooding kind. He’s been off since Finn pulled him aside this morning. The usual spark in his eyes is missing, replaced by a tightness in his jaw and a brooding air that clings to him like a storm cloud. He lingers a step behind us, his gaze flicking toward Finn now and then, only to snap back to the street ahead.

Casey keeps looking at Bran like he’s holding back from saying something. A look that promises an argument if Bran so much as breathes the wrong way. It’s strange. They usually get along like a house on fire—teasing, joking, backing each other up. Now, the air between them feels thick, like a storm about to break.

And then there’s Finn. He’s striding ahead of us, his shoulders tense and his mouth set in a hard line. He hasn’t said a word in what feels like hours, and the scowl etched into his face makes him look older, harsher somehow. He glares at Bran every so often, though he says nothing, which is almost worse than the alternative. Finn isn’t one to simmer in silence unless something’s really eating at him.

Bran glances my way, and for a moment, I catch something raw in his expression—something almost vulnerable—but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a familiar smirk that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You’re quiet,” I say, keeping my tone light, hoping he’ll take the bait.

He shrugs, his usual swagger muted. “Long trip, Sinclair. Even I get tired.”

“Since when?” Callan asks, his tone sharp enough to make Bran’s smirk falter.

Bran’s shoulders stiffen, his smirk vanishing. “Don’t start, Callan,” he mutters, his voice dangerously flat.

“Start? I huv’nae said anythin’,” Callan replies, his tone dripping with mock innocence. “Jus seems odd, is all. Usually, ye can’t stop running that mouth o’ yours.”

Bran stops walking abruptly, turning to face Callan. “Maybe I just don’t have the energy to be chatty today.”

“Or maybe,” Callan says, taking a step closer, his voice dropping lower, “there’s something else eating at you.”

Finn glances back at the exchange, his jaw tightening as he mutters something under his breath. He doesn’t intervene, though, his focus staying fixed on the road ahead, his shoulders tense and his steps heavy.

“Leave it, Callan,” I say sharply, stepping between them before it can escalate further. “We’ve all been through enough the past few days without adding to it.”

If the four of them don’t work it out soon, I might be the one losing my patience—and none of them will want to see that.

The harbourmaster’s office comes into view, its sun-bleached walls standing out against the blue sky. But before we reach it, everything stops. Every sound, every step, every thought halts as if the world itself has drawn a sharp breath.

I freeze mid-step, my heart skipping as my eyes lock on the figure ahead. A woman stands there, arms crossed, her dark hair catching the sunlight. Her familiar grin is wide, filled with mischief and warmth, the expression that could light even the gloomiest of days.