Page 13 of His Possession

Maeve turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in her peripheral vision. “And what about you, McMahon? Are you above all that?”

He leaned against the rail beside her, his eyes fixed on the city below. The sharp lines of his jaw caught the moonlight, his expression unreadable. “I don’t need to be seen. I already own the room.”

The quiet certainty in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. McMahon didn’t just say things; he meant them, every word underpinned by a power that demanded obedience. But Maeve wasn’t the kind of woman to fall in line. Not anymore.

“That’s the problem,” she said, turning to face him fully. “You think you can own everything. Everyone.”

His dark eyes flicked to her then, sharp and assessing. “Do you really believe that?”

“Don’t I have a reason to?” Maeve shot back, her voice rising. “Look at where we are, McMahon. Everything about this—about you—screams control.”

“And you don’t like being controlled,” McMahon said, his voice low and calm, though the intensity in his gaze told a different story.

“No, I don’t,” Maeve said, the words coming out harder than she’d intended. “I didn’t fight to get out of one lion’s den just to walk into another.”

McMahon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his posture shifting as he stepped closer. He was taller than her, broader, his presence filling the space like an unspoken challenge. “You think I want to hurt you?”

“Maybe not in your view, but all I see is another ruthless man who wants to cage me and hope that if the gilding is thick enough, I won’t notice.”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I? Then what else would you call this?” Maeve asked, gesturing toward the party inside. “This... arrangement. The gallery, the attention, the whispers about what I owe you. It doesn’t feel like freedom, McMahon. It feels like a leash.”

The energy between them was a live wire, electric and dangerous. Maeve’s heart hammered in her chest, her cougar instincts flaring as she met his gaze. He didn’t look angry, but there was something in his eyes—something dark and unyielding—that sent a thrill through her even as it made her breath catch.

“I don’t want to control you, Maeve,” McMahon said, his voice soft but edged with steel. “I want to protect you.”

“Ah, but then who would protect me from you?” she asked, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.

He stepped closer until there was barely a breath of space between them. “You would never need to be protected from me.”

“I don’t need your protection,” she stated with finality.

“No? Then why are you here?”

The question hit her like a blow, her breath catching as she tried to find an answer. She wanted to say it was for Sabella’s gallery, for her career, for all the logical reasons she’d convinced herself of. But the truth was far more complicated, and it burned in the pit of her stomach.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, you do,” McMahon said, his hand lifting to brush a stray curl from her face. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt of heat racing through her veins. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

Her throat tightened as she stared up at him, the weight of his gaze overwhelming. She could feel the pull between them, the magnetic force that drew her closer even as she tried to resist. Her cougar stirred, restless and wild, caught between fear and desire.

“McMahon,” she said, her voice trembling. “This isn’t?—”

Before she could finish, he moved. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as his mouth captured hers in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was fierce and consuming, a clash of wills and passions that left her reeling.

Maeve’s hands found his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his suit as she tried to find solid ground. But there was no resisting McMahon’s kiss, no safe harbor in the maelstrom he unleashed. His lips moved against hers with a hunger that matched the fire in her own blood, his body pressing her back against the cold marble of the column.

She should have pulled away. Every rational part of her mind screamed that this was dangerous, that McMahon was the last man she should give in to. But her body betrayed her, leaning into him, her own passion rising to meet his.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips with a possessiveness that sent a shiver through her. The heatbetween them was unbearable, their breath mingling as the kiss deepened, spiraling out of control. She felt the rough scrape of his stubble against her skin, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, and it made her dizzy with want and need.

But then the reality of it hit her, sharp and cold, cutting through the haze of desire. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was a surrender. And Maeve wasn’t ready to give up the pieces of herself she’d fought so hard to reclaim.

She tore herself away, her breath ragged as she stumbled back, putting space between them. McMahon’s dark eyes burned with unspoken questions, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to compose himself.

“I can’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “I can’t do this.”

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