Page 2 of His Possession

She took a step back, needing space to breathe. “I don’t know what you mean.”

McMahon’s smile was faint but cold. “Don’t you?”

Before she could answer, Sabella Dwyer appeared at her side, her expression tense. “Maeve,” she whispered, her hand brushing Maeve’s arm. “A word?”

Maeve seized the opportunity to escape, excusing herself without looking back at McMahon. But as she followed Sabella toward the bar, she couldn’t shake the memory of the intensity of his gaze. Even with her back turned, she felt it—a heat that burned through the crowd and settled in her chest.

The gallery was alive with motion and murmurs, the kind of energy that made Maeve’s skin prickle. She moved through the room, her fingers brushing the cool stem of her champagne flute like an anchor. Every piece of sculpture on display tonight represented a fragment of her soul, but the nervous energy racing through her veins had little to do with the art. There were whispers circulating, low and urgent, rippling through the crowd like a storm brewing just out of sight.

“Any idea what McMahon wants?” Sabella murmured. Her voice was soft but laced with meaning.

Maeve arched a brow, glancing at her friend. “None whatsoever. Why would I care?”

Sabella shot her a look, the kind she reserved for moments of utter disbelief. “Because Rory McMahon is practically royalty in Galway. They say he runs the city for the O’Neill family. And you know what kind of business the O’Neills are in.”

Maeve sighed, turning her attention back to the crowd. She did know who McMahon and the O’Neill Syndicate were. But wanting to stay off their radar was important to her. “Sabella, I don’t have the energy for rumors and tales of bogeymen tonight.”

“Bogeymen?” Sabella’s laugh was humorless. “They’re not some mythical bogeymen invented to scare children, Maeve. They’re gangsters. Predators. You think they invest in galleries out of the goodness of their hearts? The O’Neills are laundering money through art, using places like this to clean their dirty profits.”

Maeve’s grip tightened on her glass, but she didn’t respond. She wasn’t naïve—she’d grown up surrounded by men like Rory McMahon. Wealthy. Dangerous. Untouchable. But she’d left that world behind when she’d left Boston. Or so she’d thought.

“Look at me,” Sabella insisted, tugging lightly at Maeve’s arm. “If he’s here for you—if he even looks at you the wrong way—you tell him no. Walk away.”

Maeve smiled faintly, but there was no humor in it. “And then what, Sabella? Men like that don’t take no for an answer. Not in the way you mean.”

Sabella hesitated, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “Then run. Far and fast.” With a final look at McMahon, Sabella went to mingle with her other guests.

Maeve didn’t answer. Her feet felt rooted to the floor, her instincts tightening like a spring coiling deep inside her chest. It was absurd—he had done nothing wrong, or even intimidating, but she could feel the tension in the air. From the moment he entered the building, there’d been a shift in her consciousness, as though something primal and predatory was pulling at the edges of her awareness.

She scanned the room, her gaze moving over elegant suits and designer dresses until she found him again. His dark eyes fixed on her—a gaze that made her stomach clench. He didn’t look like a criminal; he looked like a king or a prince at least. His suit was immaculate, tailored to his powerful frame, and the faintest shadow of stubble traced his angular jaw. But it was theway he carried himself—controlled, deliberate, as though every move he made could shape the surrounding room.

Maeve could feel his pull, hot and undeniable. Her heartbeat quickened as his gaze locked with hers. There was no mistaking the challenge in his eyes, a spark of recognition that ignited something deep inside her. It wasn’t just attraction; it was a collision of forces, magnetic and dangerous.

Her skin flushed as he stepped forward, his movements unhurried, calculated. People shifted aside instinctively, as though they could sense the power emanating from him. Rory McMahon didn’t ask for attention—he commanded it. And he didn’t break eye contact with her, not for a second.

Maeve swallowed hard, willing herself to hold her ground. Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she cursed the way her body betrayed her. Heat simmered low in her belly, spreading like wildfire under her skin. She wanted to look away, to sever whatever spell he was weaving over her. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

When he finally reached her, the space between them felt charged, as though the air itself had thickened. He said nothing at first, just studied her with those sharp, unreadable eyes. Up close, he’d was even more arresting—his presence almost overwhelming and yet elusive, like smoke on the water.

A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Your friend seems to have wanted you to know who I am.”

“I already knew,” Maeve said, tilting her head slightly. “It’s hard not to.”

His smile widened, just enough to reveal a hint of teeth. “Good. Then we can skip the meaningless small talk.”

There was something dangerous in his casual tone, like a blade hidden behind velvet. Maeve’s cougar instincts roared at her to move, to put distance between them, but she held her ground.

Rory’s gaze flicked over her shoulder to reexamine the sculpture behind her. He stepped closer to examine it, and Maeve’s breath hitched at the way his body moved—graceful, predatory.

“Interesting piece,” he murmured, tracing the air just above the sculpture’s jagged edges. “You said it represented obligation and freedom, which I found intriguing. What inspired it?”

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “The chains we carry,” she said, her voice steady despite the heat coursing through her body.

“Ah.” He turned to face her, his dark eyes glittering. “Interesting.”

Something in the way he said it made her stomach flip. He wasn’t just talking about the sculpture—he was talking about her. He saw her too clearly, and she hated it. Or maybe she liked it too much.

“I suppose you’d know a lot about that,” she said, a hint of sharpness in her tone. It was a gamble, testing him, but Maeve had never been good at backing down.

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