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I set my glass on a side table and move through the guests, stopping at the glass doors they went through to stare out at a black sky.

Beyond the potted plants lit beneath the terrace lights, Ronan cups her face and leans in for a kiss.

And she doesn’t pull away.

My hand tightens on the door handle.

It’s not anger. Anger, I understand. This is harder to control.

This is Ronan’s mouth on hers, his hand at her jaw, her body close to his when it should know better, and the sudden, violent certainty that if he doesn’t step back, I’ll bury him.

I open the door and discreetly draw my gun as I head in their direction.

Sera breaks the kiss.

“Nope. Nothing,” she says.

“Me neither.”

I come up behind Ronan and press the barrel of my gun to the back of his skull.

Her eyes pop wide. “Fionn⁠—”

Ronan goes absolutely rigid.

“If you don’t want to leave here in a body bag.” I nudge the gun in harder, “then I suggest you back the fuck off.”

His hands raise slowly. “Jesus Christ, Fionn. What did I do?”

Sera grabs at my arm. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Is this because I kissed Sera?” he asks.

“You made a mistake.”

“I was just trying to see if I felt something.”

My finger rests alongside the trigger.

“Put a hand on her again,” I say, calm and controlled, “and you’ll lose it. Kiss her again, and I’ll put you down where you stand.”

Ronan’s breath leaves him in a gust.

“Sera,” he says. “What the fuck is going on here?”

“Go inside,” she snaps, but her eyes stay on me. “Fionn and I need to have a chat.”

Ronan takes a slow step away from my aim, then another, and glances over his shoulder at me as I lower my arm. He keeps walking, and I slide my gun into its holster under my jacket.

The terrace door opens behind us, spilling a flash of music and voices before closing again.

She turns on me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. Why?”

“You put a gun to his head at a party?”

“I’m aware. I was there.”