Page 8 of His Possession

“Mr. McMahon,” she replied, forcing her tone to stay steady. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door, though she didn’t step back. “What brings you to my studio at this hour?”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking past her to the sculptures scattered throughout the space. “I thought it was time we spoke. In private.”

Maeve hesitated. Her instincts screamed at her to slam the door in his face, but there was something about the way he said it, the quiet authority in his tone, that made her pause. Against her better judgment, she stepped aside, letting him in.

McMahon’s presence filled the studio like dark clouds gathering on the horizon, quiet but menacing. He moved slowly, deliberately, his eyes scanning the room as if he were assessing every detail. Maeve crossed her arms, leaning against her worktable as she watched him.

“You could have made an appointment,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. “I’m sure Sabella would have been happy to arrange something.”

“I’m not a man who waits for appointments,” he replied, his gaze locking onto hers. “When something needs to be done, I do it.”

Maeve raised a brow, ignoring the way her heart skipped at the weight of his attention. “And what, exactly, needs to be done?”

He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking with every deliberate movement. “The O’Neills are prepared to invest in your friend’s gallery and in you. Generously.”

Her stomach twisted at his words, her mind flashing to Sabella’s earlier warning. She straightened, her chin lifting in defiance. “Why? What do the O’Neills want with Sabella’s gallery or my sculptures?”

McMahon’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It was a predatory expression, one that made her nerve endings tingle. “I recognize potential when I see it, Miss O’Connell. Your work has value. We’re offering you an opportunity to reach heights you and your friend couldn’t achieve on your own.”

“And what do you get in return?” she challenged, her voice laced with suspicion. “A front for your operations? A way to clean your money?”

His expression darkened, and for a moment, she thought she might have pushed too far. But instead of anger, there was something else in his eyes—respect, maybe, or the faintest hint of amusement.

“You think I need your gallery for that?” he asked, his voice soft but cutting.

His words stung, but Maeve refused to let it show. She uncrossed her arms, stepping away from the table and closer to him, her cougar instincts stirring. “Then why are you here, McMahon?”

Using his last name hung in the air between them, a minor act of defiance that made his gaze sharpen. He stepped closer, the heat of him radiating across the narrow space. She could feel the tension crackling, thick and charged, and her breath hitched as he leaned down, his voice low and intimate.

“Because I see something in you,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Something that calls to me in a very primitive way, and I think you see it too.”

Her heart thundered in her chest, her throat tightening as his words wrapped around her. There was no denying the pull between them, the magnetic force that had been there from the moment they’d locked eyes at the gallery. It terrified her, the way her body reacted to him, the way her cougar clawed at the edges of her control, wanting to get closer.

“You’re wrong,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t need or want your help.”

McMahon’s hand brushed against hers, his fingers curling around her hand. The barest contact, but it was enough to send a jolt of heat racing through her veins. He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes gleaming as he studied her.

“I don’t believe you,” he murmured. “You may think you don’t need my help, but if you’re going to be honest with yourself, at least admit you want it.”

Maeve’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous. She yanked her hand away, stepping back to put distance between them. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know enough,” he replied, his voice as steady as ever. “Enough to know you’re not afraid of me.”

Her lips parted, the denial on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Because it wasn’t fear that coursed through her when he looked at her like that—it was fire.

“I think you should leave,” she said finally, her tone sharper than she intended.

McMahon studied her for a moment longer, as if weighing his options. Then he stepped back, giving her the space she desperately needed to breathe. But even as he turned toward thedoor, his presence lingered, an unshakable shadow that filled the room.

As he reached the door, he paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Think about my offer, Maeve. You know where to find me.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Maeve exhaled shakily, her body still humming from the encounter. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her racing heart to slow.

But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ignore the heat he’d left behind. Or the fire he’d ignited.

CHAPTER 4

RORY

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