Page 22 of The Violet Raven

“Don’t crowd him!” My mother scolds. Callan huffs from his position against the wall, and when I look at him, his jaw ticks.

As the doorway clears, my vantage point becomes obvious. When our eyes lock, as he walks through the doorway, my breath hitches.

I am all too familiar with the person before me, but everything about him has changed. No longer the boy I once knew—every bit a powerful man. His fair coloured hair, shorter than it used to be, brushes just below his ears, but those eyes—those same piercing blue eyes—haven’t changed.

He steps through the doorway, his bright eyes fixed on me, and I feel my pulse quicken further.

“There you are, beauty… I have missed you.” There’s a new weight to his voice—richer, lower—curling around me as he closes the distance, his hand lifting toward me. I follow the silent pull of his gesture, watching, mesmerised, as he brings my hand to his lips—a token far more intimate than anything from our youth.

The boy that took my first kiss.

Marcus Murray is breathtaking—and the hunger in his eyes, raw and unrelenting, leaves no doubt about what he wants. He’s not here to reminisce or rekindle an old friendship. He’s here for something far more significant.

My mind reels as realisation sets in. This meeting, this moment, hasn’t been left to chance. My mother, in her quiet, persistent way, has been planning this, setting the pieces in motion well before today.

As Marcus holds my gaze, a strange, unbidden thought weaves its way into my mind. For just a moment, I allow myself to imagine it—to wonder what it might be like to be his. There’s something electric about the way he watches my every move, and it makes my heart race in a way I can’t quite control.

I should not want this.

Within minutes of standing near him, I feel my resolve and the need for self-preservation slipping.

But somewhere, deep in the back of my mind, a voice calls to me. Faint but unmistakable. A quiet reminder that this—whatever this is—cannot be my fate. Somewhere in the world’s vastness, another exists.

Someone who is meant for me, and I for him.

7

A Woman Who Wonders

Triona

The soft sound of Marcus clearing his throat breaks the heavy silence that encompasses the room. I feel all eyes on us, yet I remain fixated on how his bright blue eyes search mine.

The tumultuous storm of emotions churning within me is a complex web, too complex to articulate. Desire and doubt war for domain, twisting into a knot that refuses to unravel.

“I was hoping to steal you away for a moment,” Marcus begins, his words hesitant, almost unsure. “I know you only just arrived, and need time with your family, so I am more than happy to return tom—”

My mother’s voice cuts across his, a bright forced note ringing out. “S’no trouble at all! Take all the time ye need.”

Marcus turns his attention to me, gaze searching mine for permission, for reassurance that I approve.

I offer him a reassuring smile, my lips pressed together in a thin line. His smirk falters for a moment, his eyebrows twitching in a silent apology he does not owe me. The gentle pressure of his thumb tracing lazy circles on my knuckles registers belatedly, and with it, the realisation he never released my hand after pressing those warm lips to my skin.

“Come now,” my mother calls out, her voice a cheerful facade. “Best to give these two a bit of breathin’ room. There’s plenty else that can be done around here.” She ushers everyone from the room with the efficiency of a sheepdog corralling a flock. Dealla and Saoirse are the first to comply, but not before they shoot me a furtive thumbs up from just out of Marcus’ line of sight.

Casey saunters out behind them, his hands buried deep in his pockets, a wicked glint dancing in his eye. He’s assuredly enjoying the spectacle of me being ambushed by this unexpected visit.

Marcus releases my hand to offer his own to my father, who meets it with a firm, clenched-jawed shake. Marcus, of course, misses the subtle tension entirely. More unsettling is the sudden shift in my mother’s demeanour. Her smile, though aimed at Marcus, is thin and brittle—like glass stretched too far, ready to crack. I don’t know why, but it makes my skin prickle.

My parents trail after Callan, whose face is a mask of barely contained displeasure. Callan never approved of Marcus’ involvement in my life, especially not after the incident. The mortification I’d felt that day still feels fresh every time I sit and think about it.

My parents exchange a weighted glance, followed by a lingering look cast back at me, and the anxiety churning in my belly only intensifies.

A shaky breath escapes my lips as I pivot to face Marcus, a chuckle rumbling from his chest, likely to ease some of the awkwardness at the tense exodus of our audience. I catch myself smiling, my gaze locked on his, and a flush of embarrassment heats my cheeks. Such apprehension is unfamiliar territory for me; Marcus was never one to fluster me so.

Undeterred by the flush in my cheeks—or perhaps emboldened by it—Marcus steps closer, closing the distance between us with one long, deliberate stride. His confidence is palpable, unshaken, as if he knows exactly the effect he has on me. Before I can think to retreat, his hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers with ease.

The moment his skin meets mine, a jolt courses through me, sharp and undeniable, like the static spark of a storm. It’s both startling and electrifying, leaving me caught between instinct and intrigue.