Page 1 of His Possession

CHAPTER 1

MAEVE

The gallery buzzed with energy, the hum of voices bouncing off the stark white walls. Maeve O’Connell stood near the corner, feigning calm as she scanned the room. The fingers of her free hand itched to smooth the fabric of her dress, but she resisted the urge, keeping her posture composed. Tonight, she needed to project confidence. If the whispers were true, her audience wasn’t just art collectors and critics. The O’Neill Syndicate was here.

She caught fragments of murmured conversations as she moved through the room.

“... McMahon’s in the building.”

“... front man for the O’Neill empire...”

“... don’t cross him. You don’t recover.”

Maeve clenched the stem of her champagne flute a little tighter, the cool glass offering a tactile reminder that she needed to maintain her composure and to remain in the present. Flights of fancy were the last thing she needed tonight. The O’Neill Syndicate was the subject of whispers throughout Ireland. They were legends, their presence a subtle undercurrent that flowed through Galway’s veins. She’d spent three years keeping her past buried, avoiding the entanglements that came with powerfulfamilies. And yet, here she was, in the orbit of their most infamous emissary.

She stood, gazing at her centerpiece: a twisting sculpture of bound hands crafted from reclaimed metal. The piece had been controversial even before tonight, its raw depiction of captivity and resistance striking a nerve with every viewer. The symbolism wasn’t subtle, but then, Maeve didn’t do subtle. Art was her rebellion, her way of exorcising demons she rarely named aloud.

The air shifted before she saw him. A hush rippled through the crowd, conversations faltering mid-sentence. Maeve turned instinctively toward the entrance and felt her breath catch. Rory McMahon.

He didn’t walk into the room; he claimed it. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, the tailored lines of his suit making him look effortlessly powerful. Dark hair combed back to perfection framed sharp cheekbones and an angular jaw. His presence was magnetic, pulling every gaze in the room like gravity itself.

In that moment, she wanted to flee. She knew he was a panther-shifter, but his mere presence shouldn’t have made her feel like prey. Maeve was a cougar-shifter, arguably his equal, but she didn’t feel that way. Her cougar instincts flared to life, her heart rate spiking. She didn’t need anyone to whisper his name to know who he was. His dominance radiated off him, something raw and primal lurking beneath the polished surface. He wasn’t just powerful; he was dangerous.

As McMahon moved further into the gallery, the crowd parted for him, an unspoken acknowledgment of his authority. Maeve forced herself to stay rooted in place, ignoring the irrational urge to bolt. She wasn’t prey, no matter what her instincts screamed. But when his eyes found her, a jolt shotthrough her system. Deep-set and dark, his gaze locked onto her with an intensity that made her stomach flip.

He didn’t look at her like the others. Everyone else saw McMahon as composed, his demeanor a mask of cold efficiency. But when his eyes met Maeve’s, it was as if he’d stripped her bare. A spark of fire and challenge passed between them, alive with an intensity that was hard to ignore. For a moment, she almost forgot how to breathe.

McMahon didn’t look away. Instead, he crossed the room with deliberate strides, his path direct and unyielding. Maeve swallowed hard, willing herself to hold her ground. She was no stranger to power—her father had wielded it like a blade—but McMahon’s presence was different. He wasn’t trying to intimidate her; he simply was.

When he stopped in front of her sculpture, standing beside her, Maeve felt her pulse hammer in her ears. McMahon studied the piece in silence, his head tilting slightly as he took in every detail. She couldn’t read his expression, but there was something in the way he looked at it—at her—that made her catch her breath.

“Yours?” His voice was smooth, rich with an undertone of authority that sent a shiver down her spine.

She hesitated before answering, cursing herself for the tell. “Yes. It’s mine.”

He glanced at her then, and her gut twisted under the heat of his gaze. There was no small talk in those eyes, no meaningless pleasantries. He wasn’t here to flatter her. He wanted something, and he would take his time finding out if she was worth it.

“Powerful. Tell me about it,” McMahon said, nodding toward the sculpture.

Maeve’s throat went dry. She hadn’t expected him to care. Most people didn’t—they just admired the surface and movedon. But McMahon wasn’t most people. His focus was absolute, making her feel as if she were the only other person in the room.

“It’s about... obligation,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the maelstrom raging inside her. “Family, expectations. The things that bind us even when we want to be free.”

His lips quirked, the hint of a smile more dangerous than comforting. “Obligation,” he repeated, testing the word. “And freedom.”

Maeve nodded, her fingers tightening on the glass in her hand. “Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

McMahon’s gaze lingered on her, as if he were peeling back her words to see what lay beneath. He stepped closer, the scent of his cologne—expensive, woodsy—wrapping around her. It was intoxicating, and she hated herself for how much she liked it.

“You know a lot about being bound, don’t you?” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

Maeve’s breath hitched. She didn’t know if he was talking about the sculpture or her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. But something in his tone—dark, knowing—struck a chord deep inside her. Her cougar stirred, restless and alert, caught between wanting to flee and wanting to step closer to the predator in front of her.

“It’s just a sculpture,” she said, her voice sharper than she intended. “Nothing more.”

McMahon tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “Nothing more—I doubt it. Nothing that powerful is simple,” he said, the words carrying an edge of disbelief. “I wonder, is that what you tell yourself?”

Maeve opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. There was no use lying to him; he saw through her too easily. But admitting the truth—admitting how deeply the piece was tied to her own pain and struggles—felt like giving him too much insight… too much power.

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