Page 53 of The Violet Raven

“Callan, you look like a beast of a man.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad.” Bran says.

We’re down to the last two people when Marcus saunters out, his eyes set wholly on Triona.

She doesn’t seem to notice—too busy brushing a loose strand of hair from her face—but I see it. I feel it. The way his eyes linger on her like a man assessing property. Intense. Possessive. Calculated. There’s no admiration in it—no softness. Only appetite.

“And what is all of this?” Marcus asks, his tone carrying more curiosity than warmth.

“Hurling,” Triona replies, a faint blush rising to her cheeks. “And I might’ve volunteered you to join.”

I clench my fists, the sight of him staring her down making my stomach churn.

“And you, love?” His words drip with something that feels more like judgment than affection. “Are you playing as well?”

Triona gestures down at her attire with a coy grin. “Do I look ready to play a contact sport?”

He chuckles. “No, you look far too pretty and delicate to take these mongrels down. Best keep this sport to the men.”

I see it—the slight clench of her fists, the tightening of her jaw. Triona doesn’t back down easily, but she reins herself in, offering him a tight, toothless smile. By the gods’ teeth, this man’s got the gall of the devil.

“Ye’ve got the gall—” Callan starts, stealing the very words from my mind, but Triona slices through his outrage before it can catch fire.

“All right then,” she snaps, pivoting sharply and redirecting her frustration. Her glare swings to Callan. “Da, pick your forward.”

James doesn’t miss a beat, his eyes flicking over Marcus as if he’s inspecting a broken wheel. “Eamon,” he says, the choice deliberate.

With that, the sides are set. James’s team includes me as midfielder, Bran as centre-forward, and Eamon as forward. Across from us, Alex’s team is equally matched: Callan as midfielder, Casey as centre-forward, and, of course, Marcus as forward.

As we gather into position, Bran sidles up to me, leaning in with a mischievous grin. “You know, the midfielder has the best chance to take the forward down. If you needed that reminder. I personally wouldn’t mind assisting.”

He shoots me a playful wink, his expression smug as ever.

I crack a smile. “Noted.”

“All right, you lot!” Triona calls, playfulness glinting in her eyes. “Play fair, or I’ll call a foul faster than you can blink.”

James and Alex stand ready in front of their respective goals, each nodding in quiet acknowledgment. Callan and I move to midfield, the spark of competition clear between us. Bran and Casey, grinning as centre-forwards, look ready to stir up trouble, while Eamon and Marcus, stationed as forwards, tightened their grips on their hurleys.

“Let’s go, lads!” James roars.

The game is on.

Bran is quick off the mark, sending the sliotar flying toward Alex’s goal, but Alex deflects it cleanly back toward midfield. Callan intercepts, leaps, and flicks the sliotar toward Marcus, who surges forward with a smug glance in Triona’s direction.

He swings.

James dives, blocking it with a grunt. The sliotar rebounds, and Callan is already moving, barreling past me with purpose. He passes to Casey, who breaks toward the goal with wild speed.

Sweat beads down my back, muscles tight with exertion—and frustration. Even as I chase the sliotar, I can feel Marcus nearby. He’s cocky, all swagger and easy arrogance, and it grates on every nerve.

But I’m faster. And far more motivated.

Callan, usually stride for stride with me, lags—just a fraction. He glances my way, gives me a subtle nod.

“All yers,” he mutters.

All mine.