Page 12 of His Possession

Before she could respond, McMahon stepped closer, his hand brushing against her elbow as he leaned in. The faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and dark—clouded her senses, making her head spin.

“Walk with me,” he said, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument.

Maeve hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to refuse. But something in the way he looked at her, the quiet command in his eyes, made her legs move before her mind caught up. He guided her toward a set of double doors that led to the balcony, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back.

The cool night air was a welcome reprieve as they stepped outside. The distant hum of the city below provided a soothing backdrop, the chaos of the gala muted by the thick glass doors. Maeve gripped the railing, her fingers brushing the cold metal as she tried to steady herself.

“You’re not used to this,” McMahon said, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter now, but no less intense.

“No,” Maeve admitted, her gaze fixed on the skyline. “And I don’t think I want to be.”

He moved closer, his presence a shadow that loomed behind her. “Why not? You belong here.”

Maeve let out a short, bitter laugh. “Do I? Because it feels like I’m just a pawn in someone else’s game.”

McMahon’s hand came to rest on the railing beside hers, his fingers brushing against her own. She froze at the contact, her breath catching as the heat of him seeped into her skin.

“You’re not a pawn,” McMahon said, his voice low and steady. “You’re a queen. But even queens need protection.”

She turned to face him then, her heart hammering in her chest. “Protection,” she repeated, her tone laced with defiance. “Is that what you call this? Because it feels a lot more like control.”

McMahon’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he leaned in. The space between them vanished, his proximity overwhelming. “Do you think I’d waste my time just trying to control you, Maeve? You’re too wild for that. Too dangerous.”

Her breath hitched, the intensity of his gaze pinning her in place. She could feel the charged energy thrumming between them, a current that made her skin tingle. Her cougar instincts roared, torn between the urge to retreat and the desire to close the gap between them.

“Then what do you want from me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

McMahon’s hand lifted, his fingers brushing against her cheek. The touch was soft, almost reverent, but it carried the weight of his unspoken claim. “I want to see what happens when the fire inside you burns free.”

Maeve’s chest tightened, her body betraying her as heat coiled low in her belly. She hated how much he affected her, how easily he unraveled her defenses. But she couldn’t deny the pull, the magnetic force that drew her to him even as she fought against it.

“You’re dangerous,” she said, her voice trembling with something she couldn’t name.

“So are you,” McMahon replied, his gaze dropping to her lips.

For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them on that balcony, suspended in all that had been building between them since the moment they’d met. Maeve could feel the force of his control, the power he wielded with such precision. But she also felt the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.

It would be so easy to let herself fall, to give in to the fire that burned between them. But Maeve wasn’t sure if she’d survive the flames.

“I should go back inside,” she said, her voice unsteady.

McMahon stepped back, giving her the space she needed, but keeping his gaze locked on hers. “Think about what I said.”

Maeve nodded, though she wasn’t sure what she was agreeing to. As she turned and slipped back into the gala, her heart still raced, her skin still tingling from his touch.

But even surrounded by the crowd, she couldn’t shake the feeling that McMahon had left his mark on her—and she wasn’t sure if she wanted it to fade.

The cool night air wrapped around Maeve as she slipped away and stepped out onto the front steps, the hum of Galway’s streets offering a momentary reprieve from the glittering bedlam of the gala. She leaned against the marble columns, her palms pressing against the cool stone as she tried to steady herself. The party was too loud, the intensity of the stares in the room greater than she could take. Even here, away from the crowd, she felt as though his eyes were upon her.

She didn’t have to turn to know McMahon had followed her. His presence was a force in itself, a storm rolling in with silent inevitability. Her cougar instincts stirred, restless and alive, torn between the primal need to confront him, the overwhelming urge to flee or to surrender to him completely.

“Running away already?” His voice came low and quiet, the kind of tone that could slip under your defenses before you realized it was there.

“I needed some air,” Maeve said, her tone clipped. She didn’t look back. She wasn’t ready to face him yet, to see the knowing look in his eyes that always seemed to strip her bare.

The sound of his footsteps was measured, deliberate, as he closed the distance between them. She felt the heat of him before he even touched her, the distinctive scent of him wrapping around her like a second skin. When he spoke again, his voice was closer, intimate.

“It’s hard being in there with all those people trying to climb over each other to be seen,” he said.

---