Page 5 of His Possession

“I thought she was estranged from her family.”

“It seems she’s closer to them than we originally thought.”

Cormac nodded slowly, his mind already working through the implications. “This changes things.”

“It doesn’t change her,” Rory said, his tone sharp enough to make Cormac look up. “She’s still mine.”

The words hung in the air; the meaning between the lines was unspoken but undeniable. Rory’s claim wasn’t one he made lightly, and Cormac knew better than to question it. Instead, he set the photo back on the desk and folded his arms.

“Then you’ll need to decide how far you’re willing to go,” Cormac said, his voice measured. “Her father isn’t likely to let go of her that easily.”

“Especially to an underboss of the O’Neills.”

Cormac didn’t respond, just continued to stand quietly and solemnly.

Rory’s mind was already spinning with possibilities, plans forming and dissolving in rapid succession. Her differences drew him to Maeve. They’d known who her family was, but her meeting with her brother added another layer—a layer he couldn’t ignore.

“She’s worth it,” Rory said finally, his voice low but resolute.

Cormac studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Then we’ll handle it.”

As the door closed behind Cormac, Rory turned his attention back to the nightclub floor. The music thumped steadily, the crowd below moving like a single organism under the shifting lights. It was a world he controlled, every piece carefully orchestrated.

But Maeve wasn’t a piece on the board. She was something else entirely—something wild and untamed, a force of her ownmaking. Rory’s grip on the desk tightened as his panther stirred again, restless and impatient.

The pull toward her wasn’t just primal; it was inevitable. And Rory McMahon had never been one to deny himself what he wanted. Whatever the cost, he meant to have her.

The next evening, the steady rhythm of footsteps echoed down the corridor as Rory McMahon strode toward his private office. He loosened his tie and slung his suit jacket over his shoulder as the hum of his nightclub faintly buzzed beneath his feet. The bustling operation of the O’Neill Syndicate's legitimate front thrived below, but Rory’s mind wasn’t on the numbers tonight, competing with the scale of their illicit revenue streams.

He stepped into the office, the thick oak door clicking shut behind him. The dim light cast shadows across the room, softening the hard edges of the leather couch and the polished mahogany desk. Rory tossed his jacket onto the chair and headed straight for the small bar in the corner. The whiskey poured smooth and sharp, burning his throat as he leaned against the counter and stared out at the city below.

It wasn’t the syndicate’s growing power or the looming threat of the Kellehers that occupied his thoughts. It was Maeve O’Connell. The artist with the striking blue eyes, the fiery spirit, and a defiance that made his blood simmer.

Rory didn’t have time for distractions, and yet Maeve had taken up residence in his mind since the moment their eyes met. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could ignore, and his panther knew it. He’d tried to ignore the dizziness and feeling of disorientation that had accompanied being in her presence, but ignoring it changed nothing. Maeve O’Connell was his fatedmate. He felt his panther stirring, restless and insistent, clawing at his control every time he thought of her.

The knock on the door came precisely at nine. David Foster, one of Rory’s more polished associates, entered with his usual calm demeanor. David was sharp, reliable, and deeply embedded in the art world—his connections invaluable for the syndicate’s laundering operations.

Rory nodded toward the chair across from his desk. “What do you have for me?”

David set down a slim folder, the glossy sheen of photographs catching the light. “Dwyer Gallery’s newest acquisition is a gold mine,” he said smoothly. “Maeve O’Connell’s pieces have already attracted high-profile buyers. Her work has a reputation for being controversial—raw, evocative. The kind of thing that turns heads.”

Rory’s jaw tightened at the mention of her name. “Go on.”

David flipped through a few of the photos, showing off images of Maeve’s sculptures. “The gallery’s taking a cut of every sale, of course. But with her work gaining traction, it could become a prime asset. Buyers trust a gallery like Dwyer to legitimize high-value transactions. It’s exactly the kind of operation we could expand into.”

Rory leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied the photos. They were of her work, not her—but it didn’t matter. Every jagged edge of twisted metal reminded him of Maeve herself. Complicated. Beautiful. Sharp enough to cut anyone who dared get too close.

“She’s O’Connell blood,” Rory said evenly, his eyes never leaving the photos. “That’s a complication.”

David’s lips pressed into a thin line. “True. But it could also be an opportunity. The O’Connells don’t have a foothold here—not really—and if she’s distanced herself from the family...”

Rory didn’t need him to finish the thought. Maeve was more than an asset. She was a wild card. And Rory had always been good at playing the hand he’d been dealt.

David gathered the folder and rose to leave, sensing the conversation was over. “If you decide to move forward, I’ll arrange the necessary introductions.”

Rory nodded, dismissing him with a wave. He’d already made his own introduction—to Maeve, at least. The door clicked shut again, leaving Rory alone with the quiet drone of the city. He poured another glass of whiskey and crossed the room to the window, the distant glow of streetlights stretching into the horizon.

Maeve’s face was still vivid in his mind. The fire in her eyes. The way her voice had sharpened when she spoke to him, unafraid to challenge his authority. She wasn’t like the other women who entered his orbit—women who flattered and fawned, eager to please. Maeve was untamed, and it stirred something deep inside him.

---