Page 35 of His Possession

Rory’s jaw tightened, and a flicker of something primal darkened his gaze. “He’ll stop,” he said firmly. “Because I’ll stop him.”

There was no hesitation in his tone, no room for doubt. Rory didn’t make promises lightly, but when he did, they felt like unshakable truths. Maeve felt a pang of something she wasn’tready to name, something that stirred deep in her chest and left her feeling raw and exposed.

“What if I can’t do this?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You can,” Rory said, his hands tightening over hers. “And you will. Because you’re stronger than him, Maeve. You’ve already proved it by surviving him. And if you can’t do it for you, do it for Alexander. We’re going to finish what he started.”

Maeve swallowed hard, dropping her gaze to their entwined hands. His touch was warm, his fingers calloused, a tangible reminder of everything he’d been through, everything he’d fought for. She could feel the steady beat of his pulse beneath her fingertips, and it anchored her in a way she hadn’t realized she needed.

When she finally looked up, her eyes met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow to just the two of them. Rory’s intensity wasn’t just intimidating—it was magnetic, a force that drew her in even when it frightened her, and she wasn’t afraid anymore.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice steady now.

Rory’s lips curved into a faint smile, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Never thank me for protecting you. You are my mate and nothing will ever change that.”

The words settled over her like a balm, soothing the raw edges of her fear. For the first time in what felt like hours, she let herself breathe. She didn’t know how long they sat there, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words, but eventually, Rory rose to his feet and extended a hand.

“Come with me,” he said.

Maeve hesitated for only a second before placing her hand in his. Rory led her through the house, his grip firm but gentle, until they reached their bedroom. The space, like the rest of theabbey, had hundreds of years of stone, tapestry, and polished wood softened by muted tones, but it undeniably felt like his.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Maeve felt her pulse quicken. Rory turned to face her, his dark eyes sweeping over her with an intensity that made her breath catch. He stepped closer, his hand rising to brush a strand of hair from her face, and the tenderness in the gesture made her heart ache.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he said, his voice low. “Not here. Not with me.”

Maeve’s chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone. It was so rare to see Rory like this—his walls lowered, his guard down. She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw, and the roughness of his stubble sent a shiver down her spine.

“I don’t know how to let go,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Let me show you,” Rory said.

Before she could respond, his lips captured hers in a kiss that was slow and deliberate, each movement unhurried yet filled with purpose. Maeve melted into him, her hands sliding up his chest as she let herself be consumed by the moment. Rory’s hands traced the curve of her waist, his touch firm but reverent, as if he was memorizing every inch of her.

The kiss deepened, and Maeve felt the tension in her body begin to unravel. Rory guided her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed, and she sank onto the mattress, pulling him down with her. The heat between them was undeniable, a slow-burning fire.

Rory’s lips left a trail of kisses down her neck, his hands sliding under her shirt to brush against her skin. Maeve gasped at the sensation, her body arching into his touch. He took his time undressing her, his movements deliberate, as if savoring every moment. By the time she was naked beneath him, her skinfelt like it was burning, her panther prowling and purring with anticipation.

Rory leaned back, his gaze raking over her with an intensity that made her feel both exposed and cherished. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, his voice rough with emotion.

Maeve reached for him, her hands tugging at his shirt until he relented and pulled it over his head. The sight of him—broad shoulders, chiseled chest, the faint scars that told stories of battles fought and won—stole her breath. She traced her fingers over his skin, marveling at the contrast between his strength and the tenderness in his touch.

When Rory joined her on the bed, their bodies fit together as if they were made for each other. His hands explored her with a reverence that left her trembling, his lips finding every sensitive spot until she was a mess of gasps and moans beneath him.

He took his time, drawing out her pleasure until she was begging for more, her nails digging into his shoulders as she urged him closer. When he finally entered her, the connection was as much emotional as it was physical. Maeve clung to him, her body moving in sync with his as they found a rhythm that felt both primal and intimate.

Their lovemaking was unhurried, each touch, each kiss, a silent declaration of everything they couldn’t put into words. Maeve felt herself let go, her fears and doubts melting away in the face of Rory’s unwavering presence. He didn’t just touch her body—he touched her soul, touching her in a way she hadn’t known she needed.

As they reached their climax together, Maeve felt a sense of peace she hadn’t known in years. She lay tangled in Rory’s arms, her body still humming with the aftermath of their passion, and for the first time in a long time, she felt safe.

Rory pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice a low rumble in her ear. “Whatever comes next, we face it together.”

Maeve closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. She knew the battle ahead would test them in ways they couldn’t yet imagine, but in that moment, she believed him. They would face it together. And they would win.

CHAPTER 14

RORY

Decades of wielded power and struck deals created the private club’s atmosphere of old-world opulence. Rory stepped into the room, his presence commanding as he scanned the faces of the gathered men. Representatives from the elite of Boston’s gangster families sat around the long mahogany table, their expressions carefully neutral. They were masters of this game, and the air crackled with the tension of unspoken rivalries and fragile alliances.

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