Page 14 of His Possession

McMahon didn’t move. His gaze locked on hers. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t lose myself to you… in you,” she said, the truth spilling out before she could stop it. “I’ve worked too hard to get here, to be free. And you... you scare me, McMahon.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped back, his expression unreadable. “You’re not afraid of me, Maeve. You’re afraid of what you feel… what you know to be the truth.”

Her gut twisted at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. But she couldn’t stay. Not with the heat of his touch still burning on her skin, not with the way her heart ached as she turned and fled down the stairs as the clock struck midnight.

McMahon’s voice echoed in her mind as she ran, his words a promise she wasn’t sure she could escape.

“You’re mine, Cinderella. Don’t worry about your shoe, I’ll bring it with me the next time I see you.”

CHAPTER 6

RORY

The cemetery was quiet, the soft rustle of the wind through the trees the only sound as Rory stood before the simple headstone. His mother’s name was etched into the granite—elegant and understated, just like she’d been. A bouquet of blood-red roses rested at the base, their petals stark against the cool gray stone. Rory stared down at the grave, the memories clawing at the edges of his mind.

He’d been twelve when his mother died. Twelve when the last scream echoed through the house, cutting through the darkness like a blade. Twelve when his father’s rage finally consumed her, leaving Rory to bear the burden of the aftermath. He remembered the bruises, the silences, the moments she’d tried to shield him from a horror she couldn’t escape.

Now, standing here, Rory felt the ghosts of his past pressing in. His father’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and cruel, demanding obedience, control, submission. Rory clenched his fists at his sides, the old anger and shame rising like bile in his throat. He’d sworn never to be like that man, never to let his dominance turn to destruction.

And yet, he could feel the beast inside him, restless and wild. Every time he thought of Maeve, it roared to life, demandingmore. He wanted her in ways he couldn’t name—wanted to possess her, to claim her, to protect her from every threat that dared approach, but who would protect her from him? The intensity of it frightened him, though he’d never admit it aloud.

“Am I him?” Rory muttered under his breath, his voice low and bitter. “Is this what I’ve become?”

The wind carried no answer, and he hadn’t expected one. His gaze lingered on the headstone for a moment longer before he turned and walked away, the scrunch of the fallen leaves under his shoes rooting him to the present. He had too much to do to get lost in memories.

By the time Rory arrived at the club, the sharp edge of his emotions had dulled, replaced by the cold clarity that always guided him in times of crisis. Cormac was waiting in his office, a glass of whiskey in hand and a stack of documents spread out on the desk.

“We have a problem,” Cormac said, his tone grim.

Rory shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of his chair as he sat down. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Cormac slid a file across the desk, his expression serious. “The Kellehers are moving faster than we anticipated. They’ve been meeting with new suppliers, expanding their reach into areas that should be ours.”

Rory opened the file, his eyes scanning the reports and photos inside. Grainy images of Kelleher men shaking hands with shadowy figures at the docks, crates being unloaded under the cover of darkness, maps marking key locations. The pieces were falling into place, and the picture wasn’t a good one.

“They’re testing us,” Rory said, his voice calm but laced with steel. “Pushing to see how far they can go before we push back.”

“Exactly,” Cormac said. “And there’s more. Michael O’Connell’s men have been spotted in Galway. He’s asking questions about Maeve.”

“Men other than her brother?”

“I’m afraid so. A couple of O’Connell’s higher placed goons.”

Rory’s grip on the file tightened, the mention of Maeve’s name sparking a surge of protectiveness he struggled to contain. He’d known this was a possibility, but hearing it confirmed set his nerves on edge.

“What questions?” he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

“Nothing direct yet,” Cormac said. “But he’s watching. And you know O’Connell—he won’t stop until he gets what he wants.”

Rory’s jaw clenched, the thought of Maeve in Michael O’Connell’s sights igniting a fire in his chest. He couldn’t let that happen. Whatever it took, he’d keep her safe.

“There’s one more thing,” Cormac said, hesitating slightly. “David Foster. He’s working with the Kellehers.”

The words hung in the air like a dark cloud. Rory leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. David had been a trusted associate, his connections in the art world invaluable to the syndicate’s operations. The betrayal cut deep, but it also made a twisted kind of sense.

“He’s been feeding them information,” Cormac continued. “About our shipments, our operations... and Maeve.”

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