Chapter 10 Maeve
MAEVE
The next morning, nothing feels better in the slightest.
I didn’t see Sean again until dinner. He informed me that a representative from the Council had come to check on my well-being, and refused to say anything else. The moment he was finished eating, he got up and left, and I haven’t seen him since.
I lay awake for a long time last night, thinking about what happened yesterday. About our fight, about how I finally let out a fraction of what I was feeling… and what happened after. How for a few moments, Sean looked at me like he wanted me. Or at least… what I think that would look like.
I thought he was going to kiss me. And I had the strangest feeling that if he did, I… wouldn’t have hated it.
And then the moment was shattered, and I remembered exactly how much of an absolute asshole I’ve been forced to marry.
Mrs. Brady brings breakfast to my room. I tell her I'm tired, that I need rest, that I'm still adjusting. She just smiles and nods and pats my hand, and makes me promise to come down for lunch later, so that I get out of my room.
I spend the morning in my window seat, staring out at the garden where I finally stood up for myself for the first time in my life, told Sean a fraction of what I thought of him and this situation. I press my forehead against the cool glass and close my eyes.
I don't know what I expected from this marriage.
Despite everything—despite knowing it was arranged, despite Sean's coldness, despite the wedding night disaster—some stupid, na?ve part of me hoped we might find some kind of understanding.
Some way to exist together that didn't involve this constant push and pull.
But after yesterday, after seeing the way he looked at me in the garden—like he wanted me and hated himself for it—I don't know what to think anymore.
A knock on my door makes me jump.
"Come in."
It's Claire, one of the housemaids. She's young, maybe twenty, with dark hair and nervous hands that twist in her apron.
"Miss—I mean, Mrs. Flannery. There's a man at the front door.
He's asking for Mr. Flannery, but he's not answering when I knocked on the study door, so I thought that I should fetch you instead. "
I frown. "What kind of man?"
"I don't know, ma'am. But he seems… angry."
My stomach tightens. "Where's Patrick? Or Mrs. Brady?"
"Patrick went to get supplies. Mrs. Brady is in the kitchen." Claire shifts uncomfortably. "Security let him pass, so he must have been here before. The man said it's urgent. About debts."
Debts? I frown. My father was meticulous about money, at least as far as I was aware from what I overheard at dinner table conversation. He would never have left unpaid debts. Unless…
Unless there's something I don't know about. Something else my family kept from me.
"All right." I stand, smoothing down my dress. "Tell him I'll be down in a moment."
Claire hesitates. "Are you sure, ma'am? Maybe we should wait for Mr. Flannery—"
"I can handle it." The words sound more confident than I feel. "Go on."
She leaves, and I take a moment to steady myself. If Sean doesn’t want to handle things, if he wants to disappear, then maybe it’s time that I stand up and take some small measure of control. I’m not a frightened orphan any longer; I’m a married woman.
Even if everything about this house, this marriage, this life feels uncomfortable.
I check my reflection in the mirror. I’m too pale, with dark circles under my eyes from not sleeping well, but my hair is brushed, and the dark green sweater dress I put on this morning is fine for guests. I take a deep breath and head downstairs.
The man is waiting in the foyer.
He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a suit that’s not cheap, but isn’t the quality someone from my family would wear. He has a scar through one eyebrow, and his eyes are cold as they take me in.
"Mrs. Flannery." His voice reminds me of Sean’s without the accent, cold and unforgiving. "Where's your husband?"
"He's not available." I keep my voice steady. "I understand you have business with him?"
"Business." The man laughs. “Desmond Connelly owed me money. Now he’s dead, and I can’t collect from him. So your husband needs to answer for it. Unless you’d rather.” He gives me an appreciative once-over, and my stomach turns.
“What kind of debt?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.
“That’s between your husband and me. If you’ll be so kind as to get him.”’
“My husband,” I repeat it slowly, trying to understand what’s going on.
How this man could have walked into the estate so easily—clearly known to the guards—and stand here insulting me.
The last thing I want to do is go involve Sean in more of my family’s drama, and a sweeping wave of anger washes over me at Desmond, who is somehow managing to fuck things up further even from the grave.
“Yes.” The man speaks slowly, as if he’s talking to an idiot now, which sends a flare of anger through me. “Sean Flannery. The Wolf of Dublin. We know who you married, Mrs. Flannery. And we know the Council gave him control of everything that was your family’s. Which means he can pay what's owed."
"I'll speak to him about it. If you leave your information—"
"No." He moves closer still, close enough that I can smell a waft of cigarette smoke. "That's not how this works. We're done waiting. Done being polite. Your brother's debt is now your husband's debt. And it needs to be paid. Today."
My heart is racing. "That's not possible. Even if the debt is legitimate, I can't just hand over—"
“Well, if you’d rather pay a different way—”
"Get out." My voice shakes, but I hold my ground. "Get out of this house right now, or I'll call security—"
He laughs. “I have men of my own that can be here quick as a flash. You want a fight, sweetheart? I intend to get what’s mine. One way or another—”
“Get the fuck away from my wife.”
Sean's voice cuts through the foyer like a blade. I turn, and the relief that floods through me is immediately replaced by a fear that’s deeper and colder than anything I’ve felt before.
The man standing in the doorway doesn't look like the Sean I've briefly known and married. The cold, distant, angry husband who pushes me away and can barely stand to look at me.
This Sean looks like a predator.
His eyes are fixed on the man, and his expression is utterly blank. Which somehow makes it worse. There's no anger, no emotion at all. Just a cold, flat stare that makes the temperature in the room drop. The man doesn’t move.
"I said," Sean's voice is soft, deadly, "get away from my wife."
The man releases me immediately, but doesn't back down. "You must be Flannery. We need to talk about—"
He doesn't get to finish the sentence.
Sean moves so fast I barely see it. One moment he's in the doorway, the next he has the man by the throat, slamming him back against the wall hard enough that a painting falls and crashes to the floor.
"You came into my house." Sean's voice is still soft, still controlled, but there's something underneath it now. Something violent and barely leashed. "You threatened my wife. You scared her."
"I was just—" the man chokes out.
"I don't care." Sean's grip tightens. "I don't care about your reasons. I don't care about your employer, if that’s what you were about to start explaining. I don't care about anything except the fact that you came near what's mine."
The man's face is turning red. "Can't… breathe..."
"Good,” he snarls, and another wave of cold washes over me. My wife. What’s mine. The possessive violence in Sean’s voice and face is terrifying—but I feel that strange sensation washing through me, too, something dizzying and unsettling that I don’t understand.
"Sean—" I start, but he doesn't even glance at me.
"Go upstairs, Maeve."
"But—" My voice quivers.
"Go. Upstairs." Each word is clipped, final. "Now."
I should listen. Should leave. But I can't seem to move.
Sean drags the man away from the wall, toward the front door. The man tries to fight back, swinging wildly, but Sean moves effortlessly, every step controlled and lethal. He blocks the punch easily and drives his fist into the man's stomach hard enough that I hear the air rush out of him.
Then he's hauling him out the door, down the front steps, toward the driveway. And I'm following, despite my husband’s orders.
I don't even think about it, my feet carrying me after them even as my brain is screaming at me to stay inside, to let Sean handle this, to not see whatever is about to happen.
But I can't stop.
I need to know who it is that I really married.
I reach the edge of the driveway just as Sean throws the man to the ground.
"Please—" the man gasps, holding up his hands. "I was just doing my job—"
Sean kicks him in the ribs. Hard. The sound it makes—bone and flesh and impact—turns my stomach.
"Your job." Sean's voice is conversational now, which somehow makes it worse. "Your job was to collect a debt. Not to threaten my wife. Not to invade her space. Not to suggest that she could pay in ways that don't involve money."
He punctuates each point with another kick. The man curls into a ball, trying to protect himself, but Sean is relentless.
"Sean!" I don't recognize my own voice. "Sean, stop!"
He doesn't hear me. Or he doesn't care. The look on his face is feral, animalistic. Violence oozes from him. Even if I hadn’t known anything about Sean at all, I would know he’s a killer, seeing this.
He crouches down, grabbing the man by his collar and pulling him up. Blood is streaming from the man's nose, his mouth. One eye is already swelling shut.
"You're going to go back to your employer," Sean says, his voice still terrifyingly calm, "and you're going to tell him that Desmond Connelly's debts died with Desmond Connelly.
That if he has a problem with that, he can take it up with the Council.
And if anyone—anyone—comes near my wife again, I will kill them. Do you understand?"