Page 82 of The Violet Raven

“Tie her up. I dinnae care where or how. We’ve little time to deal with this mess. Callan, Bran—we need answers, and we need ‘em now.”

“Aye,” Callan replies, his voice as hard as his grip on her. Bran gives me a nod, a look that tells me he’ll take care of it, no matter what it takes.

I turn back to Triona, shrugging out of my coat and draping it over her bare back, gentle as I can manage. My hands tremble as I lift her from the ground, careful to keep her close, feeling the wet warmth of blood soaking through my coat as I cradle her to me. Her whimpers cut through me, each one like a blade to my chest.

“I’ve got you now,” I whisper, low and soft, just for her to hear. “Ye’re safe, Doe. I swear it.”

Her eyes flutter open, dazed, her voice faint. “It hurts...”

“Shhh, dinnae speak. I know it hurts, lass,” I say, my heart twisting at the pain in her voice, her little whimpers that make me feel weak enough to buckle.

“Finn,” she whispers, her breath hitching. “I’m sorry.”

“Not now,” I murmur, clutching her closer. Not ever. I bear no grudge against her. All I want is for her to be okay. I see her trying to hold on, trying to stay present, and I press my lips to her hair, reassuring her, letting her know she’s safe.

“Colina said… ‘he put her up to it,’” she whispers, her voice thin, trembling as if the words themselves weigh her down. My jaw tightens, muscles feathering as rage flares hot and bright in my chest. Someone put her up to this—someone dared to orchestrate this hell, to think they could harm Triona and walk away from it.

As we reach the front door, I kick it open, not caring about the splintering crack as it slams against the wall. Saoirse rushes in first, her face draining of colour the moment she sees Triona’s battered form in my arms.

Then Ellen appears at the top of the stairs. She takes one look at her daughter, and a sound escapes her lips—a broken, guttural cry she tries, but cannot stifle.

“Saoirse,” I snap, sharp but not unkind. “We need medical supplies. Now. Go.”

She doesn’t hesitate. She spins on her heel and bolts, feet pounding down the corridor.

I cross the floor of the sitting room in a few swift strides, lowering Triona gently onto the divan. Ellen rushes forward, her hands trembling as they hover over Triona’s face—afraid to touch, afraid of the pain she’s endured. Behind me, Casey and Eamon approach, their expressions tight with anger and anguish.

Casey steps in beside Ellen, wrapping a steadying arm around her shoulders.

“Ma,” he says, his voice rough and quiet, “we need to talk. But we’ll wait for Da.” He glances down, face taut with anger and worry. “Can you tell us if he beat us here?”

Ellen gives him a small, barely there shake of her head, still too overcome by shock to answer properly. Her gaze stays fixed on Triona, her fingertips brushing softly over her cheek as if to reassure herself that she’s still breathing, still here.

I want to say something to Ellen, to comfort her, but decide better of it and focus on what I can fix instead.

Dealla comes rushing into the room, and stares for a heartbeat too long, frozen as she watches the blood spill from where Triona lies slumped across the divan. The dark stain spreads fast, blooming across the fabric like ink in water.

A strangled cry rips from her throat. “Triona!”

Casey is at her side in an instant, pulling her into his arms. She doesn’t resist—just clutches his shirt, her body trembling against his.

It doesn’t take long for Saoirse to return, breathless and wide-eyed, clutching the supplies in her arms.

I turn my attention to Triona’s wounds, hands working with a practiced steadiness as I clean every mark Colina left on her. She doesn’t wake, but every so often, a faint tremor runs through her, a shallow breath hitching as though she can feel the pain even in unconsciousness.

It cuts through me like a blade to the bone, but I keep my face like stone, my hands steady. The field taught me how to mend wounds, how to steel myself against the surrounding horrors, but nothing prepared me for this. For the sight of Triona, lying motionless, her presence reduced to shallow breaths and fragile stillness.

Ellen pauses for a moment, her eyes catching on the necklace Triona wears—the pendant resting on the back of her neck, glinting in the dim light.

“Where… where did she get this?” she chokes out.

My throat tightens, but I answer. “I gave it to her for her birthday. I came upon it durin’ my travels.”

A flicker of recognition sparks in her eyes, something heavy with meaning. Her expression shifts, softening into an ache I hadn’t expected. Then, as if something inside her shatters, she reaches for me, her fingers trembling. Awe and remorse cloud her gaze.

“Gods, I’ve been such a fool,” she murmurs, voice breaking. “It’s been ye this whole time.”

I look at her in great bewilderment. “Ellen, what—what d’ye mean?”