Brutal Obsession

Chapter 10 Maeve #2

The man nods frantically, blood bubbling from his split lip.

"I can't hear you."

"I understand," the man chokes out. "I understand."

"Good."

Sean releases him, and the man scrambles backward, trying to get his feet under him. He manages to stand, swaying, and starts stumbling toward a car parked out front.

"Oh, and one more thing." Sean’s voice is still terrifyingly calm, as if they’re discussing the weather or a dinner later, something perfectly normal between friends.

The man stops and turns. A split second later, Sean's fist connects with his jaw with a crack that echoes across the property. The man goes down like a puppet with cut strings, hitting the pavement hard.

This time, he doesn't get up.

Sean stands over him for a long moment, breathing hard, his knuckles split and bleeding. Then, slowly, he turns and sees me.

The expression on his face shifts—surprise, then something that might be regret—but it's too late. I've already seen what he's capable of. Seen the violence he keeps locked under that cold, controlled exterior.

I’ve seen the Wolf of Dublin.

"Maeve—" he starts, taking a step toward me.

I back away.

"Don't." My voice is shaking. "Don't come near me."

Sean stops in his tracks, his jaw working as he stares at me. "He threatened you. He put his hands on you."

"So you beat him half to death?" I wrap my arms around myself, trying to stop the trembling. "Jesus Christ, Sean, you could have killed him."

He lets out a slow breath. Like an animal trying to calm itself down, I think to myself. I can see the bunched muscles in his shoulders, the slow easing of the urge for violence. It terrifies me that this man lives under the same roof as I do. "I didn't."

"But you wanted to." I stare at him, at the blood on his hands, the cold set of his jaw. "I saw it. You wanted to kill him."

He doesn't deny it. He just looks at me, his expression unreadable, as hard and angry as ever. It’s not directed at me, I don’t think, but it’s there all the same.

And while I’ve always known in the back of my head that I’ve lived all my life with violent men—my father, Desmond—I’ve never seen it so plainly in front of me.

I’ve been sheltered from it all my life.

"This is who you married." His voice is flat. Unapologetic. "This is what I am. Did you think the Wolf of Dublin was just a name? A reputation I didn't earn?"

I shake my head, backing up another step. "I knew you were—I heard the Council used you for—but I didn't think—"

"You didn't think what? That I was actually violent?" He looks down at his bloody hands, then back at me. "No one speaks to my wife like that. No one demands things from me. No one threatens what's mine."

Something trembles in my chest. My skin feels warm despite the cold, damp air outside. "I'm not yours," I whisper.

Something flashes in his eyes. "You're my wife."

"On paper. Because the Council forced us both into this." My heart is hammering so hard I can barely breathe. "But that doesn't make me your property. That doesn't give you the right to—to—"

"To protect you?" His voice rises now, the first real emotion I've heard from him since he walked in. "That man was threatening you, Maeve. He implied—Christ, do you even understand what he was suggesting?"

"I'm not an idiot!" The words burst out of me. "I know what he meant. And I was handling it. I was going to come get you—"

"So why didn’t you do it sooner? Why didn’t you tell him where I was?” Sean’s jaw is hard. “It bloody doesn’t matter, Maeve. What he said couldn’t be allowed to stand.”

"You didn't have to beat him like that. You didn't have to—" I gesture helplessly at the man still lying motionless on the ground. "Is he even alive?"

"He's breathing."

"That's not the point!" I can feel my chest rising and falling. “Sean—”

"Then what is the point?" Sean's control is cracking now, his voice rough.

"That I should have let him go after a stern warning?

That I should have called the police and let them handle it through proper channels?

This isn't that world, Maeve. This is the world your father lived in, your brother.

The world you live in. In this world, debts are collected with violence and threats, and the only thing that keeps you safe is being more dangerous than the people who want to hurt you. "

Something cracks in my chest. "I don't want to live in that world,” I whisper. And I realize, as the words slip from my lips, that it’s true. I’ve never wanted to live in a world like this, one so rough and bloody and harsh. But I’ve never been able to escape it. And now I never will.

Sean’s jaw works, the muscle there leaping. “Too bad,” he says flatly. “You were born into it, Maeve. You can’t just walk out.”

The words hang between us like a knife, ready to cut.

I stare at this man—my husband—with blood on his hands and no remorse in his eyes, and I’m reminded all over again that I don't know him at all.

The cold distance, the pushing me away, even the guilt I saw in the garden yesterday—none of that prepared me for this.

For this brutal, unapologetic violence. For the way he hurt that man without hesitation, without mercy.

For the fact that some part of him clearly enjoyed it.

"Stay away from me," I manage, my voice shaking. I meet his eyes, and a chill runs down my spine.

His lips press together. "Maeve—"

"I mean it, Sean." I back toward the house, my eyes never leaving him. "Just… stay away from me."

And then I turn and run.

Behind me, I hear him call my name, but I don't stop or look back. I just run—up the front steps, through the foyer, past Mrs. Brady, who's emerging from the kitchen with a concerned expression.

"Maeve, dear, what—"

I don't answer. I don’t think I could speak right now even if I wanted to. I just keep moving—up the stairs, down the hall, into my bedroom. I slam the door behind me and lock it, then sink to the floor with my back against it.

My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking.

I close my eyes and see it again—Sean's fist connecting with the man's face, the blood, the cold fury in his eyes. The way he moved… so fast, so controlled. Like that violence was as natural to him as breathing.

This is who you married. I can hear his voice, rattling in my head, and a sob escapes me before I can stop it.

He's right. That is who I married. Not just a man who doesn't want me, not just a cold, distant stranger forced into this marriage by the Council. But a killer… a weapon. Someone capable of brutal violence without a second thought.

The Wolf of Dublin.

I don't know how long I sit there, my back against the door, trying to process what I just saw. Trying to reconcile the man who softened, briefly, in the garden and looked at me as if he were trying to understand me for a moment—with the man who beat someone half to death in our driveway.

Eventually, I’m startled out of my thoughts by a soft knock.

"Maeve?" I hear Sean's voice, muffled through the door. "Can we talk?"

I swallow hard, shaking my head even though he can’t see me. "No."

There’s a silence, and then he speaks again. “I want to try to explain…”

Part of me thinks I should soften, open the door. Give him a chance to make this better, somehow. But how could he? And how can I risk it? How can I allow him an inch when opening myself up to trust this man in the slightest could bring me incomprehensible pain in the future?

I harden my voice. “There's nothing to explain. I saw what you are.”

There’s another pause. "I won't hurt you."

A bitter laugh escapes from between my lips. "You just almost killed a man in our driveway."

"He threatened you. That's different."

"Is it?" My voice trembles.

"Yes." His voice is closer now, like he's leaning against the door. "I don't hurt women, Maeve. I don't hurt innocents. What I did to that man—what I'm capable of—that's reserved for people who deserve it."

"And you get to decide who deserves it?"

Another pause. Longer this time.

“I take orders,” he says finally. “From the Council. So no, Maeve, I don’t usually go vigilante like that.

But…” He draws in a breath. “He threatened you. He…” Another sharp breath.

“I told you already. He walked in and demanded things from me. Treated you like shit. You’re my wife, Maeve, and this is my house now. I won’t allow that to stand.”

"I don't want to hear this." I press my hands over my ears, childish as it is. "I don't want to know."

There’s another silence. Then, "too late. You're part of this now." I can hear the frustration in his voice now, his patience waning. What there was of it in the first place, anyway.

Mine is waning, too. "I didn't ask to be!"

"Neither did I!" His voice rises, the frustration bleeding through. "You think I wanted this? To be married to a girl who looks at me like I'm a monster? To be responsible for someone who—" He stops abruptly.

"Who what?" I demand from the other side of the door. "Who's too weak? Too sheltered? Too stupid to understand your world?"

"Who deserves better than this. Better than me."

The words are so quiet I almost don't hear them.

I close my eyes, fresh tears sliding down my cheeks. "Then why did you agree to it? If you think I deserve better, why didn't you just refuse?"

There’s a short, bitter laugh, and then the silence this time is so long that I almost think he’s left. Then, he speaks again, still quietly.

“Refusal wasn’t an option, Maeve.” His hand thumps against the door, making me jump. "I know what I am, Maeve. I know I'm not good for you. But at least I'll keep you safe."

My throat tightens. "By beating people to death in our driveway?"

"If that's what it takes."

I should be horrified. I am horrified. But underneath the fear and shock, I feel something else in my chest, something I don’t want, but is growing there anyway. A sense of understanding… even gratitude, that Sean was there for me when that man showed up.

Because he's right about one thing—that man wasn't going to stop because I asked nicely. He’s right that in this world, violence is the language everyone speaks. And I'm supposed to learn it too.

"Just go away," I whisper, exhausted. "Please, Sean. Just go."

I hear him sigh through the door. Then footsteps, walking away.

Eventually, I force myself to stand. My legs are stiff from sitting on the floor, and my eyes are swollen from crying.

I move to the window seat, curling up with my knees pulled to my chest, and stare out at the garden.

Mrs. Brady brings dinner to my room around seven.

She doesn't ask questions, just sets the tray down and gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze before leaving. I don't touch the food. I can’t bring myself to eat, and once again, I wonder if starving myself to death is an option. There are easier ways to go, but I imagine I’d probably be passive even in that choice.

The thought angers me, because I don’t want to feel passive, to always be led around by the circumstances of my life rather than taking some agency for myself. But what other choice have I ever had?

Night falls, shrouding the estate outside in darkness, and the house grows quiet. I wonder where Sean ate dinner, if he went to the dining room expecting me to be there or if he decided to eat somewhere privately, too. I can't stop thinking about what Sean said.

This is the world your father lived in. The world the Council operates in. I don't know anything about the estate, the business, the world I've inherited. Just like I don't know my own husband.

The thought crystallizes into a decision. I searched my father’s office once already, and everything was locked. But now, Sean’s been in there. He might have unlocked drawers, taken out files. He might even have left some of them unlocked.

I need to take a second look.

Around midnight, when the house has been silent for hours, I slip out of my room. The hallway is dark, lit only by the moonlight streaming through the windows. I move quietly, hoping none of the old boards creak under my bare feet, and make my way downstairs.

I test the office door once I make it there, wondering if Sean locked it behind him. But it opens, and I slip inside, closing it carefully behind me.

A closed laptop is on the desk—Sean’s, probably.

But there are files sitting next to it, ones that I don’t think were there before.

I walk carefully over to the desk, sinking down into the big leather chair as I reach for the first one, keeping my ears pricked for any sound that might indicate someone has heard me and is coming to check out the noise.

The first several that I look through aren’t anything particularly interesting.

It’s all business stuff—Sean is clearly trying to get up to speed on what my father owned and how it all relates to him now.

I let out a frustrated sigh as I reach the bottom of the stack and know nothing more about Sean, just more about how much real estate and how many businesses my father owned in the city and around it.

I see another file on the edge of the desk. I reach for it, flipping it open, and flinch when I see Connor McBride’s face on the first page.

As I flip through it, I realize it’s a file on the Council members. And in the back, a series of documents on the Council’s enforcers.

There are three of them. A man named Kiernan O’Rourke, one called Brian McHenry, and then… Sean.

He looks younger in the photo, I realize. Very young—early twenties, maybe. He’s not smiling in the photo, but then again, none of them are. Below the photograph, I read: Sean Flannery. Code name: Wolf.

I flip to the next page. It’s a kill list, I realize. I hadn’t looked over the prior two, but they must have had one, as well. My stomach churns—there are so many targets. Names of people he's killed, methods used, success rates. It's all there, clinical and detailed, like a résumé for death.

Target eliminated. Clean kill. No witnesses.

Target eliminated. Collateral damage minimal.

Target eliminated. Witnesses eliminated.

I feel nauseated, looking at it. There are dozens of them. Years of kills, meticulously documented. Sean Flannery, the Wolf of Dublin, the Council's most effective weapon. I keep reading, unable to stop even though every page makes me feel sicker.

This is who you married.

I knew, but I didn’t really know. But now, after what happened today, after reading this, I can’t pretend any longer that my husband isn’t a monster. That the man I married isn’t someone who I wish I’d never met. Never known.

Never allowed to touch me.

I can’t avoid him forever. I won’t be able to keep him out of my bed forever. One day, we’re going to have to finish what he tried to start on our wedding night. And the thought terrifies me.

I’m married to a killer, and there’s no escape.