Page 191 of The Violet Raven

A soft chuckle escapes me as I glance at the canvas overhead. “We’re not technically beneath the stars.”

Finn flashes me a wicked grin. “Aye, well—I’d rather not risk some poor bastard glimpsin’ you and losin’ my head. I’m not in the habit of sharin’ what’s mine.”

My breath hitches at the possessive edge in his voice, at the way he says mine. I lean up, catch his bottom lip gently between my teeth, and give it a playful tug before murmuring against his mouth, “Good. Because I’ve no intention of being anyone else’s.”

There are no words between us now, only the unspoken promises carried in every glance, every caress.

The sounds that rise between us are music born of heat and reverence—his low bellows of pleasure, answer the breathless whimpers he draws from my lips. They clash and mingle in the tent’s hush, raw and unfiltered—masculine hunger and feminine surrender, strength and softness entwined.

Each time I gasp, he answers with a growl. Each moan he tears from me becomes a vow he returns in sound alone—rough, reverent, and wrecked with need. The deeper I draw him in, the deeper he falls, until we’re no longer two voices, but one song—aching and beautiful and divine in the way only love can be.

Together, we let the rest of the world fall away, leaving only the sky, the stars, and the love that has bound us long before we knew to name it.

36

Heart in the Dark

Finn

Sunday, 22 June 1823

Dunshaughlin, Ireland

Morning arrives with a softness that feels at odds with the intensity of the night before. Pale sunlight filters through the thin canvas of our tent, casting warm, muted shapes across Triona’s sleeping features. She lies curled on her side, her hair cascading over the blanket, her breathing steady and calm.

I take a moment to study her—the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the subtle curve of her lips, the peaceful expression that softens her face. She looks so serene that I almost thank the gods above for granting us this delicate slice of time.

Eventually, I shift away, careful not to wake her. A chill lingers in the air, and gooseflesh rises along my skin as I step into the morning hush. The clearing is wrapped in stillness, broken only by distant birdsong and the soft whisper of leaves overhead.

The fire has dwindled to a whisper, its ashes faintly glowing. I kneel beside it, feeding kindling into the embers, coaxing the flame back to life. The warmth creeps over my hands, a welcome anchor in this quiet moment before the world begins again.

Behind me, there’s the soft rustle of the tent’s flap. I turn to see Triona emerging, her hair tousled from sleep, eyes still heavy-lidded. She offers me a small, wry smile that sends a gentle warmth through my chest.

She settles beside me, stretching her arms overhead with a low groan. “Morning,” she murmurs, her voice soft and husky.

“Mornin’.” My gaze shifts to the sky, which has lightened into a pale, cloudless blue. “We should get moving soon if we’re to make Tara by midday.”

She nods, her expression turning serious as she follows my line of sight. For a moment, we sit in comfortable silence, the weight of our task palpable. Then, with a quiet exhale, I lean in to press a tender kiss to her temple. Wordlessly, we pack away what’s left of our camp.

After a quick breakfast of dried fruit and bread, I unfurl the map again. The shimmering symbols trace a winding path northwest through low-lying hills and gentle farmland.

There’s something different about this land—an ancient hush that seems to listen. Stones, old trees, even the faint winding streams we occasionally follow: they all carry an agelessness, as though the ground itself holds memory. With every step, an odd sense of belonging coils in my gut, whispering that we’re moving toward a place meant for us.

Beside me, Triona strides with determined purpose. I steal another glance at the map, unsettled by how naturally I can read it—the symbols speaking to me in a language I never formally learned. As if sensing my thoughts, Triona meets my gaze, her brow creasing with concern.

“You all right?” she asks quietly.

I offer a small smile. “I suppose I am. Just... marvellin’ at everything.”

She exhales a soft laugh. “We’re both far from the people we were a week ago, let alone a month ago, aye?”

“Aye,” I echo, letting that single word convey more than a string of sentences ever could.

As the sun stretches its golden fingers across the land, the world around us shifts—rolling fields give way to a wide sweep of low hills, each one rising and falling in gentle succession until they cradle a singular rise in the distance.

The Hill of Tara.

It doesn’t tower like a mountain, nor cut the sky with jagged stone. It simply rests—majestic in its quiet, ancient in its bearing. As if the land bent to cradle it, shaped not by violence but by time itself.