Page 50 of The Violet Raven

I can’t help myself; a grin spreads across my face as I watch Triona, pride and admiration swelling in my chest. I give her a playful wink when she looks my way. “Now that’s impressive, Triona. Layin’ Callan out? That’s a thing of legend. The stuff ballads are written about.”

Casey gasps, clutching his chest. “That’s what I said!”

Triona groans, dragging a hand down her face. “What is it with the lot of you suddenly wanting to go into bloody songwriting?”

“I’m just sayin’,” Casey says, eyes gleaming, “it’s a crime if we dinnae immortalise that moment in a tune. We’ll call it ‘The Lass Who Felled the Highland Ox.’”

Eamon nods solemnly. “It’s got a pleasant ring to it.”

Callan mutters something under his breath that definitely includes the word “eejits,” but he’s already fighting back a smirk.

The laughter is still echoing when Triona turns to me. Her eyes find mine, and for a moment, the world around us fades.

“You didn’t even question the truth of what happened,” she whispers, her voice low, meant only for me.

I furrow my brow, not out of doubt, but something closer to disbelief—that she doesn’t already know.

“I dinnae need to,” I murmur. “I’m not surprised to hear what ye’re capable of.”

Because I’m not. Not in the slightest.

I’ve seen it even when she can’t—her fire, her fight, the way she walks through the world like it hasn’t earned the right to break her. And it hasn’t. It never will.

If she wanted to raise hell, I’d strike the match.

If she wanted to rule, I’d kneel without hesitation.

If she wanted to run, I’d be right behind her—every step.

The one truth I can’t outrun, no matter how hard I try—is that she can’t be mine. And gods, that thought stings like open flame, but it wouldn’t stop me from being here.

She pauses for a moment, and in that fleeting instant, I catch the faint blush blooming on her cheeks—one that contrasts beautifully with her smooth, fair skin. I want to memorise that sight, to tuck it away for days when she holds herself so guardedly.

Bran coughs—pointed and far too dramatic to be anything but intentional.

I glance and find one eyebrow raised at me, catching the way I’m admiring her, and I roll my eyes, trying to play it off. But it’s pointless. I look at her like she’s hung the moon and the bloody stars.

Seeing her like this—confident, laughing, surrounded by people who admire her—it’s impossible to look away.

She fits here, shines here.

And me? If she wants me beside her, even just in the quiet spaces, even just as a shadow in her corner—I’ll go willingly. Always.

As her attention shifts to Alex, her focus entirely on him, I trace every line, every curve, appreciating how stunning she looks just… existing.

It’s maddening, the way she can pull the air from my lungs without even trying, without even knowing. I’m supposed to be the calm, steady one, but here I am, heart hammering like a lovesick fool, praying the others don’t notice how my focus has shifted entirely to her.

I shoot Bran a sharp look—the kind I usually reserve for when he’s one word away from getting smacked upside the head. But as always, he’s undeterred. His smirk only grows wider as his gaze flicks between Triona and me.

He casually saunters over to where I’m standing, all smug ease and far too much awareness for my liking. He leans in, voice pitched just low enough to keep the others from hearing—but loud enough to set my nerves alight.

“Careful, Finn,” he murmurs, amusement thick in his tone. “You’re looking at her like she’s the last pint in the pub.”

I don’t flinch, but it takes effort. A lot of effort.

“Knock it off,” I mutter through clenched teeth, keeping my eyes forward.

He hums, clearly enjoying himself. “Might want to ease up before you start drooling. Or worse—confessing.”