Page 6 of His Possession

He drained the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down with more force than necessary. His grip on the edge of the counter tightened as the animal inside him surged, restless and hungry. His panther didn’t care about her O’Connell blood or the complications she brought. It wanted her. And it didn’t take kindly to restraint.

By the time Rory reached his fifth-floor penthouse overlooking the bay, the city had settled into the quiet rhythm of midnight. The property featured a secure, key-controlled lift which accessed directly into a private entrance lobby. The open-plan kitchen and reception area boasted floor-to-ceiling windows leading to a spacious roof terrace, providing uninterrupted views of Salthill Promenade, Galway Bay, and the Clare Hills. A powder room and separate utility space completed the common area. The penthouse had three generously sizedbedrooms, all with ensuite baths and outside private terrace access—two at the back and one at the front. The main bedroom also had a large walk-in wardrobe with a stack washer and dryer.

The space was modern yet held an old-world comfort with clean lines and muted tones. Rory barely noticed as he shed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt as he headed for the main bedroom. He needed to clear his head, to force the distraction out of his system before it cost him more than he was willing to pay.

He lay back on the bed, his eyes closed, the tension in his body refusing to ease. The faint scent of Maeve’s perfume lingered in his memory, floral and earthy, like a field after the rain. His mind drifted, and for the first time in years, Rory let his guard slip.

The dream came quickly, vivid and sharp, blurring the lines between fantasy and reality.

Maeve was there, standing in her studio, surrounded by metal, wood, clay and the tools she needed to sculpt. Her hair was loose, with wild curls framing her face as she turned to face him. There was no hesitation in her eyes, only fire—a burning challenge that dared him to take her.

Rory’s chest tightened as he stepped closer, the space between them charged with a kind of frenetic energy. Her breath hitched as he reached for her, his hand brushing her jaw as it slipped beneath her hair and grasped her neck, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. The heat of her skin burned against his palm, and her lips parted, her breath soft against his fingers.

“Maeve,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.

She didn’t answer. Instead, her hands slid up his chest, her touch igniting a fire that raced through his veins. The dream shifted, the studio fading into darkness as her body pressed against his. Her lips found his—hot and insistent, and Rory lost himself in the feel and taste of her.

His control unraveled, the animal inside him taking over as his hands explored her curves, the softness of her skin driving him to the brink. He growled her name, the sound raw and primal, as her nails raked down his back, leaving trails of heat in their wake.

The dream ended abruptly, leaving Rory gasping as he woke, the sheets tangled around his legs. His chest heaved, his skin damp with sweat as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breathing. But the fire hadn’t dimmed. It still burned, low and fierce, a reminder of what his panther wanted.

And it wasn’t just Maeve. It was everything she represented. Defiance. Passion. Freedom.

Rory swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, walking to his dresser and pouring himself a whiskey as he moved out onto the terrace at the front of the penthouse—the stars and Galway Bay stretched before him. He threw back the whiskey and welcomed the burn to his throat as it helped dispel thoughts of her.

Maeve wasn’t just a distraction—she was his fated mate, and that was dangerous. She wasn’t a woman he could have and walk away from. She burned like a firestorm, and he was already trapped within her orbit. He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as he returned to his bedroom. Rory knew he needed to tamp down his more primitive thoughts and dreams. He’d never let his emotions rule him, and he wasn’t about to start now.

The problem was, as his fated mate, Maeve was more than just a passing obsession. She was a challenge. A risk. And Rory had never been able to resist a gamble.

CHAPTER 3

MAEVE

The scent of clay and metal filled Maeve’s studio, grounding her in its familiar comfort. It was her sanctuary, her escape from the hustle and bustle of the world. The noise in her brain. But tonight, even the steady rhythm of her hands working the clay couldn’t quiet the storm inside her.

Rory McMahon.

The man’s presence lingered in her mind like a shadow, refusing to be banished no matter how hard she tried. She pushed her fingers into the pliable surface of the clay, forcing the material to bend to her will. Her cougar stirred, restless and raw, as her thoughts spiraled back to him.

She hated how he’d gotten under her skin so quickly. McMahon wasn’t the first dangerous man she’d encountered, but he was the first who had looked at her like that—as if he saw past her walls and straight into the core of who she was. And the feeling of being disoriented… that intensity, the sheer force of his focus, had unsettled her in a way she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, quite name.

Maeve wiped her hands on a rag, her movements jerky with frustration. She’d come to Galway to escape men like Rory. Menwho wielded power like a weapon, who took what they wanted without asking. Yet here she was, feeling the pull of a man she knew she should avoid at all costs.

The clang of the studio door broke her thoughts. Maeve glanced up as Sabella strode in, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. Her friend was a sharp contrast to the industrial disorder of the studio—polished, poised, and perpetually concerned.

“You’re working late,” Sabella said, her gaze flicking to the half-formed sculpture on the table. “Or is this your way of avoiding reality?”

Maeve sighed, setting the rag down. “It’s how I stay sane. What’s your excuse for being here?”

Sabella didn’t answer right away. Instead, she perched on a stool and crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. Maeve knew that look—it was the one Sabella used when she was about to drop a bombshell.

“What?” Maeve prompted, already bracing herself.

“The O’Neills want to invest in the gallery.”

The words hit Maeve like a punch to the gut. Her fingers clenched against the edge of the table, the rough surface digging into her palms. “What?”

“David Foster reached out to me,” Sabella continued, her tone measured. “He said they’re interested in supporting the gallery. Apparently, Rory McMahon himself wants to be involved.”

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