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Graves’s brows lift. “Your sister will object.”

“My sister made the wrong choice.”

“Funny that. A stubborn Harrington with their own mind.”

“Tallon got in her head,” I say. “He’ll enjoy her until the insult wears thin, and when she finally understands who he really is, I’ll be the one cleaning him out of her life.”

Graves throws another jab, and I block it fast.

“Now you’ve warmed up,” he says, out of breath. “Start fighting properly.”

I laugh at that, duck low, and get in a hard shot to his ribs. “I was being considerate.”

The man gives ground, one step, then another, and the mat squeaks under his heel as I push him closer to the corner.

“Saint Tallon is only useful while Keira stays unharmed,” I say. “If he hurts her, there won’t be enough of him left for his brothers to bury.”

He studies me from behind raised gloves, his chest moving hard under his sweaty T-shirt. “And the Tallon girl? Sera. The one stuck to Eilish’s hip. Is that a problem?”

Sera fucking Tallon.

The woman from the barn, with rope burns on her wrists and mud on her pale skin.

Graves’s glove cuts through my guard and hits my mouth before I turn my head. Blood breaks against my tongue. The barn goes quiet except for the rain pounding the roof.

He lowers his hands by a fraction. “Was that a free shot?”

I run my tongue along the split inside my lip and taste copper. “No.”

He watches me wipe blood from the corner of my mouth with the back of my glove. The red smears across the leather, bright and irritating.

“Fionn.”

I lift my guard. “Again.”

Graves steps in, and this time I let him think he has the same opening. He commits his weight, shoulder dipping before the punch, and I move under it where older fighters hate younger men’s patience.

My glove drives beneath his ribs. His breath catches. I follow with a clean hook to the side of his guard and stop the third punch an inch from his cheek.

He looks at the glove, then at me. “Something got ya rattled.”

I lower my hand. “You got lucky.”

“Right.” Graves moves to the bench and drags a towel across the back of his neck. “Luck usually has help.”

He pours water over his head, breath still heavy from the round. “You think the Tallon girl will show tonight?”

I strip one glove loose with my teeth. “If she’s smart, she’ll stay at home.”

The cut in my mouth stings, and I taste blood again.

“Your fiancée will want her to come.”

“Eilish doesn’t decide who walks into my house.”

“Women decide more than men admit.”

I look toward the barn doors, where rain drags silver lines down the glass. “Not here.”