Chapter 11: The Confession of a Stranger
The air in Maeve’s cottage was thick with the smell of peat smoke, strong tea, and simmering familial tension. Seated around the scarred wooden table, Aisling twisted a strand of her dark hair around her finger, her eyes slightly glazed. Brigid, ever the diligent student, took notes on a legal pad. Fergus, for once, was trying his best to be quiet and supportive, though his large frame seemed to fill half the room. Maeve presided, her bony fingers tracing the contours of a well-worn missal.
Father Brennan, his kind face creased with a patient smile, tapped his notes. “So, the flowers will be from Mrs. O’Toole’s garden, the choir has agreed to learn ‘Panis Angelicus,’ and young Ronan has assured me the ring is safe with his brother.” He beamed. “It’s coming together beautifully.”
“Lovely,” Aisling said, her voice a bit thin.
“Perfect,” Brigid echoed, giving her cousin’s hand a squeeze under the table.
Jan watched a fly buzz against the leaded glass window. It was a slow, drugged circle. Her own magic, a restless warmth in her belly, hummed in sympathy. Talk of hymns and hydrangeas felt like a gentle smothering. She pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the flagstones. “Need some air,” she announced, not waiting for a response from her mother, whose sharp glance she could feel boring into her back.
Outside, the late afternoon sun painted the village of Ballymore in gold and green. The silence was a living thing, broken only by the distant bleat of a sheep and the rustle of the ancient yews surrounding St. Brigid’s church. And then, a more solid sound: the heavy thunk of wood on wood.
She followed the noise around the side of the church to the small, cobbled alley where the pub’s deliveries were made. A man was loading empty whiskey barrels onto a flatbed cart. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair damp with sweat at the temples. The muscles of his back and arms shifted beneath his simple gray shirt with each lift, a study in unthinking, masculine grace.
Jan felt the hum within her shift, purring into a low, inviting thrum. She leaned against the mossy church wall, letting him finish hefting the last barrel before she spoke. “Looks like hard work.”
He turned. His face was open, handsome in a rugged way, with a smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes—a smile she recognized, somehow. Ronan’s smile, but older, more assured. “It pays,” he said, his voice a warm baritone with the soft lilt of the county.
“I bet.” She sauntered closer, the tiny enchanted stones in her pouch buzzing against her thigh. She let a thread of her power unwind, not a compulsion, but an enhancement—an amplification of the natural curiosity and attraction humming in the air between two strangers. She reached out, pretending to brush a bit of dust from his sleeve. Her fingers lingered on the solid curve of his bicep. “You could use a break.”
His eyes, a clear, sharp blue, held hers. The knowing smile returned, deeper this time. He didn’t question her sudden presence, her intimate touch. He simply read the invitation as clearly as if she’d shouted it. His hand came up, catching hers, his thumb stroking her palm. “A short one,” he agreed, his voice dropping.
He didn’t lead her; they moved together, as if pulled by the same string, into the deeper shadow of the alcove where the old Archimedes altar stood crumbling. The moment they were hidden from view, his demeanor shifted from warm to fiercely direct. He pushed her back against the cold, rough stone of the church wall, his body pinning hers. One hand tangled in her short red hair, tilting her head back. The other slid down her side, over her hip, and grabbed a handful of her skirt, yanking the fabric up to her waist.
Jan gasped, the chill of the stone against her bare backside a shocking contrast to the heat flooding her core. He made quick work of her underwear, tearing the thin cotton aside. She fumbled with the button of his trousers, her fingers clumsy with urgency. He sprang free, thick and already fully hard, the head flushed and wet. She guided him to her, wet and open.
“Fuck me,” she moaned, her head falling back against the stone. “I don’t even know your name.”
He didn’t answer with words. He drove into her in one long, brutal stroke, filling her utterly. A ragged cry was torn from her throat. It was savage, unadorned. He fucked her with a powerful, relentless rhythm, his hips slamming her against the wall. Each thrust jolted through her, the friction delicious and rough. The only sounds were their ragged breaths, the wet, rhythmic slap of their bodies meeting, and the soft scuff of his boots on the cobbles.
“Jesus, you’re tight,” he grunted, his breath hot against her ear. His hands gripped her hips, fingers digging into her flesh, holding her in place for his piston-like drives. “Take it. Take all of it.”
Jan could only cling to him, her nails scraping against his shirt. The sensation was overwhelming—the stretch of him, the raw, primal force of his movements, the illicit thrill of being taken against a church wall. Her climax built not as a slow wave but as a sudden, seismic rupture. It shattered through her without warning, a violent, clenching spasm that milked his cock deep inside her. She screamed, the sound echoing off the stone, her body convulsing around him.
Her release triggered his. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt and pulsed, jet after hot jet of cum flooding her depths. He held there, shuddering, his forehead pressed to her shoulder.
For a long moment, they stayed joined, breathing heavily in the damp, moss-scented air. He slowly pulled out, the aftermath dripping down her thigh. He adjusted his clothes with pragmatic efficiency, then gently tugged her skirt back down. He smoothed her hair, his touch unexpectedly tender.
“I should get back,” he said, that smile playing on his lips again. He leaned in, kissed her softly, a stark contrast to what they’d just done. “See you at the church, Jan O’Connor.”
Then he was gone, pushing the cart down the alley, whistling a tune.
Jan slid down the wall to sit on the cool ground, legs trembling. He knew her name. She’d never learned his. A slow, satisfied smile spread across her face. It might be nice to find him again later.
An hour later, the O’Connor contingent approached St. Brigid’s. The setting sun stained the stained-glass windows fiery gold. Inside, the pews were filled with the people of Ballymore and extended family.
Fergus, puffing out his chest in a new suit, stood with Brigid and a breathtaking Aisling in the vestibule, waiting for their cue to walk down the aisle. Aisling gripped Brigid’s arm. “Do I look mad?”
“You look perfect,” Brigid whispered, adjusting her cousin’s veil.
Sarah, in a demure dress she’d borrowed from Maeve, stood close to Johnny, playing the part of his casual girlfriend for the sake of village gossip. Will, looking earnest and slightly overwhelmed, waited to be seated as Brigid’s guest.
Shiv, Mara, and Jan slipped into a pew on the bride’s side. Shiv nodded tersely at distant cousins, her posture rigid. Mara smoothed her tailored dress, scanning the crowd with a lawyer’s eye.
Jan settled in, the pleasant, aching throb between her legs a secret souvenir. She glanced idly toward the front of the church.
Her breath caught. Her heart gave a single, hard slam against her ribs.
There, standing beside a beaming, nervous Ronan, was her mystery man. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, a crisp white shirt, a smile of quiet support for his brother. The best man.
Father Brennan took his place at the altar. “Please rise for the bride.”
The organ swelled. All eyes turned to the back. But Jan’s were locked on the man at the front. Peter Byrne. Ronan’s brother. The successor to the inn.
As Aisling began her walk on Fergus’s arm, Peter’s gaze drifted across the congregation. It found Jan. Held. And he winked, a slow, deliberate, utterly complicit gesture.
Heat flooded Jan’s face, a blush so deep and violent she felt it in her toes. He’d known. The entire time. He’d known exactly who she was when he had her bent over against his family’s church. The humiliation was sharp, but it was instantly gutted by a surge of pure, undiluted lust, twice as potent as before.
Next to her, Mara’s phone, silenced, buzzed in her clutch. With a discreet move, she unlocked it under the cover of her hymnal. The screen glowed in the dim light. A single message, finally punched through the mystical interference.
FATIMA: Lancet team hit Mike & Casey’s last night. Contained. No B. involved. All secure. Details later.
Mara’s jaw tightened. Her eyes flicked to Brigid, serene and beautiful at the front, then to Jan, who was staring fixedly at the best man with a look of scandalized arousal. She looked at Shiv, a pillar of tense propriety, and at Maeve, radiating stern satisfaction from the front row.
The processional music filled the stone vault. Aisling reached Ronan, her face radiant.
Mara deleted the message, locked her phone, and placed her hands in her lap. She fixed a gentle smile on her face and watched the young couple take each other’s hands. The crisis, whatever it was, could wait. This moment, fragile and real, would not be poisoned. Not by Lancet Men, not by magical chaos, not by the secret, filthy grin currently being exchanged between the best man and the redheaded witch in the third pew.
The ceremony unfolded, a delicate tapestry of whispered promises and ancient ritual. Shiv’s gaze remained fixed on her youngest daughter, a sharp, fierce pride cutting through her usual vigilance. Brigid stood beside Aisling, a pillar of calm in her cobalt blue dress, the severe lines of the fabric somehow making her look both regal and kind. Shiv knew that heart. Knew its capacity for forgiveness was a well deeper than her own, or Jan’s, or even Johnny’s. A forced body swap, a betrayal of trust—Shiv’s own temper would have forged a permanent gristle of resentment. Yet Brigid’s great heart had not only forgiven but had woven Aisling into the family fabric with steady, unshowy grace. Yes, Shiv considered, the warmth in her chest a private, reluctant thaw. It could only have been Brigid.
Her eyes then flicked to Jan, who was ostensibly watching the couple at the altar. The direction of her sister’s focus, however, was a line of pure heat aimed at the best man’s profile. Peter Byrne stood stoic, but Shiv saw the minute tightening of his jaw, the almost imperceptible shift of his weight. She saw Jan’s tongue wet her lips. Shiv closed her eyes for a brief second, a silent, exasperated plea heavenward. Jan Siobhan.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” Father Brennan’s voice boomed, rich with genuine joy. “You may kiss your bride!”
Ronan needed no further invitation. He cupped Aisling’s face and kissed her with a tenderness that silenced the last of the gossiping aunties. The church erupted. Cheers, laughter, the ringing of the small bell by the altar server. Arm in arm, the new Mr. and Mrs. Byrne practically floated down the aisle, beaming through a shower of rice and rose petals.
The congregation began to spill out into the churchyard, a river of good wool and loud voices heading for the reception at the inn. Mara moved with purposeful grace, snagging Jan’s elbow as she tried to drift toward the front pews. “A word,” Mara murmured, steering them behind a massive, ancient yew tree, its gnarled roots breaching the soil like bones.
“What? I was going to congratulate the groomsmen,” Jan said, her attempt at innocence ruined by the glow on her cheeks.
“Save it.” Mara’s voice was low, urgent. “Get your horny self under control for five minutes. Fatima finally got a coherent message through the static.”
Jan’s playful demeanor evaporated. “What happened?”
“Lancet Men. They hit Mike and Casey’s house in Chicago last night. They were looking for Brigid.”
Jan’s breath hitched. Her hand went instinctively to the small pouch at her belt. “Are they—?”
“They’re fine. Apparently, Stacy and that demon-cat of theirs handled the intruders with extreme prejudice. The situation was contained.” Mara’s eyes were hard. “But the message ended with a warning. If some of that team are unaccounted for, Ballymore could be next on their list. They know she’s here.”
The festive sounds from the churchyard seemed to warp, becoming distant and threatening. Jan’s mind, moments ago preoccupied with the memory of Peter’s hands on her hips, now snapped into a different, colder clarity. Her friends had been attacked. Her sister was a target. The warm, post-coital ache between her legs turned to a chill.
She leaned back against the rough bark of the yew, letting out a long, frustrated breath that clouded in the cool air. Her lower lip pushed out in a genuine, petulant pout. “Goddamn it. I really wanted to fuck Peter again.”
Mara stared at her. Then she pinched the bridge of her nose. “Unbelievable. Even now.”
“What? It’s a valid emotional response! A mix of outrage and thwarted desire.” Jan pushed off the tree, her green eyes now sharp, scanning the milling crowd. The lust was still there, but it was now channeled, fused with a protective ferocity. “Fine. No more fun for now. Where’s Mam? Where’s Nana? We need to cordon Brigid off without spoiling the wedding. And I need to find Johnny.”
“He was near the gate with Sarah a minute ago,” Mara said, falling into step beside her, their crisis rhythm established.
“Okay. You go to Mam. Be subtle. I’ll get Johnny and we’ll do a perimeter whisper. A gentle one.” Jan’s fingers brushed the smooth river stone in her pouch, feeling for any dissonant magical signatures. The hum from the Féth Fiada beneath the village was a constant, low thrum, making precise detection difficult.
They split up, melting back into the celebration. Jan’s smile returned, broad and false, as she accepted a glass of whiskey from a beaming villager. Her eyes, however, scraped over every unfamiliar face, every shadowed corner of the churchyard. The threat was a splinter under her skin, but the wedding was a living, breathing entity around her. She had to protect both.
She spotted Johnny by the lychgate, looking tousled and out of place in a slightly too-small jacket. Sarah stood close, her arm tucked in his. Jan sidled up, bumping her brother’s shoulder.
“Hey, time-wizard,” she said, her voice a singsong whisper. “We need a quiet little bubble. Just a whisper. Lancet Men might be shopping for our baby sister.”
Johnny’s blue eyes, usually vague, focused with sudden, alarming intensity. He didn’t ask questions. He simply nodded, his hand slipping into his pocket. “A whisper,” he agreed. “From now until she’s behind the inn’s threshold.”
“Perfect.” Jan turned, her gaze lifting automatically, searching for dark hair and a broad set of shoulders in the crowd. She saw him. Peter Byrne was laughing, clapping his brother on the back, the picture of Gaelic charm. He felt her stare and looked over.
His wink this time was slower, a promise laced with a question.
Jan gave him a tight, regretful smile and a small shake of her head. She mouthed two words: Later. Trouble.
His smile didn’t fade, but it changed. The amusement shifted into something sharper, more alert. He gave a single, nearly imperceptible nod. He understood. The game had changed.
Jan turned back, the pulse of potential danger syncing with the frustrated beat of her own blood. The reception awaited, a fortress of music and light. And somewhere in the soft Irish twilight, an enemy might be drawing a map.