Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
RORY
T he metallic tang of blood hung in the air as Rory stepped into the darkened warehouse. The sharp crack of a fist meeting bone echoed against the concrete walls, punctuated by the grunts of men in pain. Rory’s polished shoes clicked on the floor as he crossed the room, his posture calm, controlled. But beneath the surface, his panther raged.
Malachy turned at his approach, his knuckles streaked red, and nodded toward the bound man slumped in a chair under a flickering light. “He’s one of Kelleher’s boys. Caught him sniffing around the docks.”
Rory stopped in front of the man, his dark eyes sweeping over him with quiet disdain. Blood trickled from the corner of the man’s mouth, his face bruised and swollen, but the defiance in his eyes hadn’t dimmed. Even though it was misplaced, Rory respected the man’s defiance.
“Name,” Rory said, his tone flat.
The man glared up at him, spitting blood onto the floor. “Go to hell.”
Rory didn’t react. He turned to Malachy and gestured with a subtle tilt of his head. The enforcer didn’t need further instruction. Malachy’s fist drove into the man’s ribs, the dull crack of bone followed by a strangled cry of pain.
The primal satisfaction of it tugged at Rory’s restraint, his panther stirring just beneath the surface. It wanted more. Blood. Submission. The complete destruction of anyone who dared to challenge his authority. He took a slow breath, forcing the beast back into its cage.
“Try again,” Rory said, his voice calm, almost conversational. “Name.”
The man coughed, wheezing as he tried to draw in air. When he finally looked up again, some of the fight had drained from his eyes. “Gerald,” he muttered. “Gerald Duffy.”
Rory nodded, his gaze steady. “Why were you at the docks?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Gerald said, but his voice wavered, betraying him.
Rory crouched in front of him, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator sizing up its prey. “You’re lying, Gerald,” he said, his tone soft but sharp as a blade. “And lying to me is a very bad idea.”
The man’s breath hitched, his fear rolling off him in waves that Rory’s panther drank in. It wanted to surge forward, shift, rip the man apart, tear through the fragile flesh and bone until there was nothing left. But Rory held back, his restraint like iron bands around his chest.
“Tell me what I want to know,” Rory continued, his voice dropping to a low growl, “and maybe I’ll let you leave here with all your limbs intact.”
Gerald’s resolve crumbled, his shoulders slumping. “Tadhg sent me,” he admitted. “Said to watch your shipments. Report back if anything looked... vulnerable.”
Rory rose to his full height, towering over the man. Vulnerable. The word burned in his chest. The Kellehers thought they could challenge him, test the O’Neills control. It was a mistake they wouldn’t make twice.
“Malachy,” Rory said, without looking away from Gerald. “Send him back to Tadhg with a message.”
Malachy grinned, his teeth bared like a wolf’s. “What kind of message?”
Rory’s gaze flicked down to Gerald, who flinched under its intensity. “The kind they’ll remember.”
Satisfied, Rory turned and strode out of the warehouse, the sounds of Gerald’s screams fading behind him as he stepped into the cool night air. The beast in him purred with satisfaction, but it wasn’t enough. Not yet. He needed to see this through, to ensure the Kellehers knew exactly what they were up against.
Back at the club, Cormac was waiting in Rory’s office, a glass of whiskey already in hand. The older man looked up as Rory entered, his sharp eyes taking in the tension still coiled in Rory’s shoulders.
“You handled it?” Cormac asked, though it wasn’t really a question.
“They’ll think twice before testing us again,” Rory replied, pouring himself a drink and settling into the chair across from Cormac.
The older man nodded, but his expression remained serious. “The Kellehers aren’t the only threat you need to consider.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. “Maeve.”
Cormac leaned back, his gaze steady. “She’s an O’Connell. That makes her both an asset and a liability.”
“She’s not like them,” Rory said, his voice hard. “She’s not tied to her father’s business.”
Cormac raised a brow. “Maybe not directly. But bloodlines matter, Rory. You know that better than anyone. The O’Connells will see her as a way in, whether or not she wants to be.”
Rory drained his glass, the heat of the whiskey doing little to ease the frustration building inside him. He knew Cormac was right. Maeve’s connection to the O’Connells complicated everything. But it didn’t change how he felt or that she was his mate. The fire in her eyes, the steel in her spine—she was unlike anyone he’d ever met. And that made her dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with her family.
“I don’t think she’s the pawn her family might think her to be,” Rory said finally. “And I won’t treat her like one.”
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. A file 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.
“This isn’t about living your life, it’s about controlling it,” Rory said, his voice low and intimate. “It’s about protecting what’s yours. What you’ve built. And whether or not you want to admit it, you’re stronger with me in your corner than without me.”
Maeve’s breath hitched, her gaze locked on his. For a moment, he thought she might push him away, might tell him to leave and never come back. But then her lips parted, as if she were about to say something—something that never came.
Instead, she stepped back, putting space between them once more. “You don’t know me, McMahon,” she said, her voice quieter now, almost uncertain. “You think you do, but you don’t.”
He let her retreat, though every instinct in him wanted to pull her closer. “Then let me get to know you,” he said simply.
The words hung in the air, heavy and unresolved. Maeve turned away, her back to him as she gripped the edge of the workbench. Rory watched her for a moment longer before stepping back, the energy still thrumming in his veins.
“This conversation isn’t over,” he said as he headed for the door. “Think about what I’ve said.”
Maeve didn’t answer, and Rory didn’t press her. But as he left the studio, his mind was already racing with what needed to come next. She was stubborn, fierce, and independent to a fault, but he knew she wasn’t invincible. And if Michael O’Connell came looking, Rory would be ready.
That night, alone in his penthouse, the day settled heavily on Rory’s shoulders. He poured himself a glass of whiskey, the burn doing little to quiet the restless energy coursing through him. His thoughts returned to Maeve, to the fire in her eyes and the steel in her voice. She was unlike anyone he’d ever met, and that was exactly why she consumed him.
He closed his eyes, the glass still in his hand, as images of her filled his mind. Her defiance, her vulnerability, the way she challenged him at every turn. His panther roared to life, its primal hunger tearing through his control. In the privacy of his own mind, he let himself indulge the fantasies he’d kept at bay.
He imagined her surrender—not broken, but willing, her strength meeting his in perfect balance. The thought of her body against his, her breath mingling with his as they pushed each other to the edge, was enough to make his pulse race. He could almost feel her beneath him, her nails dragging down his back as she gave herself over to him completely.
Rory’s grip tightened on the glass, his breathing uneven as the fantasy spiraled further. But even in his most vivid imaginings, one thing remained constant: Maeve was never his to own. She was a wildfire, untamed and unyielding, and he didn’t want to extinguish her. He wanted to burn the world down with her.
He opened his eyes, the tension in his body refusing to fade. Rory knew he would face her again. He would find a way to convince her she was stronger with him by her side. And if that didn’t work, he’d take what was his.
But tonight, as the city stretched out before him, all Rory could think about was the woman who had already set his world on fire.