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Fionn’s hand never leaves my hair, and his mouth finds mine, warm despite the rain, and for the smallest heartbeat the war disappears.

There’s only him and the familiar taste I’ve grown to crave.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs against my lips, his forehead resting briefly against mine.

Behind me, Keira is on her knees where we’d stumbled out of the barn, coughing smoke onto the rain-soaked concrete.

“Fionn!”

I glance over my shoulder as she pushes herself upright, unsteady after the fire, one hand pressed against her temple as she steadies herself.

She’s exhausted from smoke inhalation and the adrenaline crash, probably dizzy too.

“Where the fuck do ya think you’re going?”

Ma stands twenty feet away, rain soaking her coat, the barrel of her rifle aimed squarely at Keira as she stumbles toward her brother.

“Ma….” I sidestep Fionn, though he doesn’t let go of my hand. “What the hell are ya doing?”

“Don’t either of ya fucking move.”

Horses scatter around the yard, their hooves thundering as the fire spooks them with its savage flames.

“What the hell’s happened to ya, Sera?” Her voice rises in fury. “You’ve dragged that Harrington bitch out of my barn…”

Her eyes rake over me before settling on Fionn.

“…and now you’re standing there letting that Harrington bastard kiss ya.”

“Ma…”

“Shut up.”

“Do not point a gun at my sister, Máirín,” Fionn warns.

Her glare jumps back to Keira. “Your sister shouldn’t be here. And neither should you.”

“Put the rifle down, Máirín.” The command comes from the darkness behind her.

Lorcan steps through drifting smoke, rain dripping from his hair, both hands wrapped around the gun aimed at my Ma.

“Keira’s not your enemy tonight.”

Ma turns without lowering her rifle, and the floodlight finds his face.

In that moment something happens to her. There’s a flicker of recognition like she’s seen a ghost. Her chin lifts, and her mouth opens a fraction.

The barrel of the rifle drifts down an inch, then two, before she catches it and hauls it back up.

“You,” she hisses.

“I was four years old when my mother didn’t come home.”

“So––” Her voice has gone strange. “Alasdair finally decided to tell ya a story.”

“He did.”

“Well, we all know that lying bastard will tell ya what suits him.”