Page 10 of His Possession

Cormac studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Just be careful. The Kellehers are one thing. The O’Connells... They don’t play by the same rules.”

Rory didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His focus was already on Maeve, the memory of her sharp words and defiant gaze replaying in his mind. She’d challenged him, pushed him in a way few people dared, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

His panther growled, restless and impatient. It wanted to claim her, to take what it knew was already his. But Rory couldn’t afford to lose control. Not with Maeve. She deserved more than that, and for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, he wanted to give it to her.

The thought made his chest tighten, a mix of desire and frustration that he couldn’t shake. She was in his blood now, a fire he couldn’t extinguish. And the more he tried to push her away, the stronger the pull became.

Rory leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to the city lights beyond the window. Maeve was a risk, a dangerous temptation that could either burn him alive or ignite something greater than he’d ever known.

But one thing was certain: he couldn’t walk away.

The low hum of Rory’s car engine filled the air as he steered through Galway’s winding streets, his thoughts a tumultuous whirl that even the quiet power of the machine couldn’t calm. Afile sat on the passenger seat, its contents weighing heavier than any cargo he’d carried before. David Foster had delivered it that morning, his words calm and clinical, but what Rory had learned about Maeve O’Connell’s past had lit a fuse inside him.

Boston. Her gilded but suffocating childhood made her family name both a privilege and a prison. The details were stark: a domineering father, an escape to Dublin, and a string of events that hinted at a woman who had clawed her way to freedom with grit and ferocity. But there was something else in the file that had tightened Rory’s chest: evidence that her father, Michael O’Connell, hadn’t given up on reclaiming her.

Rory clenched the wheel tighter, his knuckles pale against the leather. The thought of Maeve being dragged back into that world, into the hands of a man like Michael O’Connell, made his blood burn. And yet, he knew he wasn’t exactly offering her a sanctuary. He wasn’t a hero—he wasn’t even close—but he couldn’t ignore the pull she had on him. She wasn’t just another piece in a game; she was a force of nature, one he couldn’t resist. And she was his fated mate.

His destination loomed ahead: her studio. Tonight, it wasn’t about power plays or syndicate politics. Tonight, he needed answers. And he needed to see her.

Rory stepped inside the studio without knocking, the door creaking slightly as it swung open. The smell of clay, metal and solder materials greeted him—earthy, metallic and raw—a sharp contrast to the polished spaces he was used to. Maeve was at her workbench, her back to him, the curve of her spine visible through the thin fabric of her shirt. She didn’t startle—didn’t even turn around—but he saw the tension in her shoulders as she registered his presence.

“You have a habit of showing up uninvited,” she said, her tone sharp but steady.

Rory crossed the room slowly, his footsteps measured. “I prefer direct conversations to wasted time.”

She turned then, wiping her hands on a rag, her blue eyes sharp as cut glass. “What do you want, McMahon?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let his gaze sweep over her—her flushed cheeks, her hands still smudged with clay, the faint defiance in the set of her jaw. Even when clearly annoyed, her captivating nature shone through.

“We need to talk,” he said finally, his voice calm but firm. “About your art. About you.”

Maeve raised a brow, leaning against the workbench. “What about me?”

Rory stepped closer, the heat between them sparking like a live wire. “You’ve worked hard to build something for yourself. I respect that. But I also know what it’s like to have people try to take it away.”

Her expression flickered, the faintest crack in her armor, but she recovered quickly. “If this is about your investment offer, I already told you?—”

“This isn’t just about the gallery or your sculptures,” Rory interrupted, his voice low. “It’s about your family. Boston. Your father, Michael O’Connell.”

Her entire body went rigid, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “How do you know about that?”

“I have my ways,” Rory said, his tone softening slightly. “And I know your father isn’t the type to let go. He’s watching Maeve. Waiting. Your brother…”

“Leave Alexander out of this.” She stepped back, putting the workbench between them like a barrier. “Why do you care? What does this have to do with you?”

Rory met her gaze, unflinching. “Because you’re in my world now. Galway. And whether or not you like it, that makes you my responsibility.”

Maeve let out a short, bitter laugh. “I don’t need anyone to take care of me, least of all you.”

“Correction,” Rory stated quietly but firmly. “You don’t think you need me. You’re wrong, and that means I’m not walking away.”

The air between them felt charged with a tension that seemed to coil tighter with every passing second. Maeve’s eyes flashed with a mix of anger and something else—something Rory couldn’t quite place. Her cougar instincts were flaring; he could feel it, the subtle shift in the room's energy.

“You think you can just walk in here and tell me how to live my life?” she demanded, her voice rising.

Rory stepped around the workbench, closing the space between them with deliberate ease. “I think you’re smarter than to let pride impede survival.”

Maeve glared at him, but she didn’t move as he stopped just inches from her. He could feel the heat radiating off her, see the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she tried to steady her breathing. His panther stirred, its possessiveness surging to the surface.

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