Page 17 of His Possession

When the storm finally subsided, Rory held her against him, his forehead resting against hers as their breathing slowed. The vulnerability he felt at that moment was both terrifying and liberating, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he let himself savor the quiet, the feel of her skin against his, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat.

“I won’t let you go,” he said finally, his voice low and raw. “You’re mine.”

Maeve pushed him away, smoothing down her skirt and pulling her blouse together. Shaking her head, she backed away from him. “No,” was all she said before she fled his office and made her way to her studio.

What had happened between them settled something inside him, and solidified his resolve. The threats circling them—the Kellehers, Michael O’Connell, even the shadows of his own past—he wouldn’t let them touch her.

Maeve was his. And he would destroy anyone who tried to take her from him.

CHAPTER 7

MAEVE

Maeve fled to her studio, where she kept her extra clothing. Quickly, she washed herself as best she could in the sink. Leaning against the counter, she tried to regain her composure… what had she done?

Her mobile rang, and she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw it was Sabella.

“The gallery… oh my god Maeve. Someone broke in and they’ve vandalized the place,” Sabella said without preamble. “It’s not just the building, it’s the artwork—a lot of it yours.”

“If you haven’t already, call the cops. I’m at my studio. I’ll be there as quickly as I can be.”

When she arrived, the gallery smelled of destruction. Paint, plaster dust, and the sharp tang of metal filled Maeve’s lungs as she stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the wreckage before her. Her heart sank as she stepped inside, her heels crunching over shards of glass that glittered like broken stars under the lights. It wasn’t just vandalism—it was a message.

Her newest sculpture, a twisting piece of wrought iron and bronze that had taken months to create, lay in jagged fragments on the floor. Something ripped apart the carefully welded seams, scattering the pieces like a dismembered corpse. Maeve’s chesttightened as she knelt, her hands hovering over the largest chunk of the sculpture.

The hands she had so meticulously forged—bound but reaching, defiant—were now severed, their story obliterated. A hollow ache settled in her chest, mingling with anger that burned hotter with every passing second.

“Maeve?” Sabella’s voice came from behind her, hesitant and soft.

Maeve stood, brushing her palms on her jeans as she turned to face her best friend. Sabella’s eyes darted nervously around the gallery, her fingers clutching her phone like a lifeline.

“Have you called the police?” Maeve asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

Sabella flinched. “Not yet. I wasn’t sure if—if it would help.” She hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the shattered windows. “Maeve, this wasn’t random.”

“No kidding,” Maeve said bitterly, gesturing toward the destruction. “Who would even do this?”

Sabella stepped closer, lowering her voice. “The Kellehers. Or someone working for them.”

Maeve froze, the name like a slap to her already raw nerves. She’d heard enough about the Kellehers over the years to know they weren’t people you wanted to cross. Her heart thudded painfully as she thought about what this meant.

“Why would they come after me?” she asked, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to stay calm. “I’m not part of this.”

“The entire city is gossiping about you and Rory…” Sabella said, her expression grim.

“There is no me and Rory,” Maeve lied.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. If people believe—especially his enemies—that makes you a target.”

The truth of it settled like ice in Maeve’s veins. She had never wanted to be pulled into the syndicate’s wars, but it seemed her budding connection to Rory had erased any chance of staying out of it. Her gaze drifted back to the wreckage of her sculptures, the anger building again. She didn’t want to be a victim—she’d fought too hard to let herself become one.

The sharp sound of a car door slamming outside made both women jump. A moment later, Rory strode through the gallery’s broken entrance, his dark eyes scanning the damage with a cold, calculating fury that sent a shiver down Maeve’s spine. He didn’t need to say anything to command the room—his presence alone was enough.

“Sabella,” he said curtly, his gaze briefly flicking to her before returning to Maeve. “Leave us.”

Sabella glanced at Maeve, uncertainty in her eyes, but Maeve gave her a small nod. “It’s fine. Go.”

Once they were alone, Rory stepped closer, his polished shoes crunching over the debris. The controlled menace in his movements was both terrifying and reassuring, a promise that he would make someone pay for this.

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