Chapter 13 Sean #2
I should be grateful. Flynn will keep her safe. Him being close to her is a good thing. No one will get to her with him guarding her.
Instead, I want to put my fist through the wall every time I think about it.
—
The next two days are absolute hell.
Flynn throws himself into his work, systematically reviewing every aspect of the building's security, installing additional cameras, running background checks on every staff member and neighbor.
He's thorough and professional, and I can't fault his work.
But every time I turn around, he's talking to Maeve.
There’s nothing about it that’s inappropriate.
He asks her about places for cameras in the mansion, since she’s lived here all her life—she certainly knows better than I do.
He goes over the new security protocols, just as I asked him to.
Let's me know he installed a panic button in her bedroom, and shows her how to use it. But every conversation has a hint of flirtation in it, because Flynn can’t fucking help himself.
I know he’d never actually touch her—he’s my best friend, and the Council would have him killed if he did…
although they wouldn’t have to. I’d get to him first.
But hearing the tone he takes in every interaction sets my teeth on edge, especially two afternoons after he arrived, when I walk into the sitting room to see Flynn finishing up with one of the cameras as Maeve sits on the sofa, drinking tea.
“The maids can’t stop talking about you,” she teases, her voice lighter than it’s ever been with me. “Every time I turn around, they’re looking at you and whispering.”
“It’s my rugged charm,” Flynn says, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “You’re the only one who hasn’t noticed, lass.”
“Well, I’m married,” she says with a prim laugh, and Flynn chuckles.
“Aye, to that grumpy bastard. My apologies.”
He’s clearly joking, trying to make light of the bad situation. But the rational part of my brain isn't in control right now.
I walk in abruptly, clearing my throat. Both of them turn to look at me. "Flynn," I say, my voice cold. "A word. In private."
Flynn's eyebrows rise, but he follows me down the hallway to my office. I close the door behind us and turn on him. "Stop," I say flatly.
"Stop what?" He has the audacity to look innocent.
"You know what. Stop flirting with my wife."
"I'm not—" Flynn stops, reading my expression. "Christ, Sean. You can't be serious. It's harmless."
"I don't care. Stop."
Flynn studies me for a long moment, and I can see the gears turning in his head. Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something that looks like amusement.
"You actually care about her," he says, wonderingly. "Holy shit. The Wolf of Dublin has fucking feelings."
"Fuck off."
"No, this is fascinating." Flynn leans against the wall, arms crossed. "I've known you for ten years, and I've never seen you give a damn about any woman. But this one—your unwanted Council-mandated bride—she's got you all twisted up."
"She's my wife," I say through gritted teeth. "That's all. I don't want you confusing her."
"Confusing her how? By being nice to her? By making her laugh?" Flynn's amusement fades, replaced by something sharper. "When's the last time you made her laugh, Sean? When's the last time you said a kind word to her?"
The accusation hits too close to home. I know I’ve barely said a kind word to her since the wedding. I certainly haven't made her laugh. I haven't done much of anything except try to avoid her and hate myself for wanting her.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?" Flynn asks. "You don't want her, but you don't want anyone else to do so much as have a conversation with her? That's fucked up, even for you."
I grit my teeth. He's right, and I know I’m overreacting. But I can't seem to stop the possessive rage that floods through me every time I see them together.
"Just stay away from her," I say finally. "That's an order."
Flynn’s eyebrows rise sharply. “I’m here as your friend, Sean. If you’re going to try being more of a dick to me than usual, I can go back to Dublin.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the tension thick enough to cut. Finally, Flynn shakes his head.
"Fine. I'll try to rein in my natural charm.
But you need to figure your shit out, because you're going to drive yourself insane at this rate.
" He heads for the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth?
She's not interested in me. She barely looks at me.
But you—every time you walk into a room, she looks at you like all she wants is for you to give her a moment of your time.
The barest scrap of humanity. So maybe instead of being a jealous prick, you should actually talk to your wife. "
He leaves before I can respond. And I stand there in the silence of my room, Flynn's words echoing in my head.
—
I make it another day before I see them together again.
I’m headed back after going over some of the new security protocols with Jake and Eddie—whose attitude I swear is fucking worse since the debacle after the shooting—and I hear voices from the living room.
Maeve's laugh again, bright and genuine.
And then Flynn's voice, low and teasing.
I instinctively move toward the sound.
They're on the couch together. Not touching, but closer than they need to be. Maeve is curled up in the corner, her legs tucked under her, holding a book. Flynn is next to her, leaning over to look at what she's reading.
"Poetry?" he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Should’ve expected you’d be the romantic type."
“I remember my mother reading me Yeats when I was little,” Maeve says, her voice uncharacteristically soft. I realize with a start that I have no idea where her mother is, if she’s still alive, or if she died before the rest of Maeve’s family did.
Probably something you should know about your fucking wife, I castigate myself, but my focus is still mostly taken up by the two of them. There’s nothing intimate about it, even I can see that. It’s friendly. But it still makes me see red.
"Ah, a fellow appreciator of Irish literature." Flynn's voice is warm. "Did you know Yeats wrote his best work because he was hopelessly in love with a woman who wouldn't have him? Maud Gonne. Obsessed with her his whole life."
Maeve’s mouth twists. "That's sad.”
"Or romantic, depending on how you look at it." Flynn shifts closer, and I can see him reading over her shoulder. "What's this one? 'When You Are Old'? Christ, that's a depressing one. 'How many loved your moments of glad grace...' Here, let me show you a better one."
He reaches for the book, his hand too fucking close to hers, and something inside me snaps.
"Maeve." My voice cuts through the moment like a blade. "Come here."
She looks up, startled, her eyes wide. There's color in her cheeks, and she looks more alive than I've seen her since the wedding. Happy, almost. Her expression falls when I speak, and I realize I’ve just ordered her to me like a dog, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
The sight of her flushed and smiling because of another man makes the possessive rage worse.
"Now," I add when she doesn't move immediately.
Flynn sits back, his expression carefully neutral.
Maeve sets the book down and stands, smoothing her hands nervously over her jeans, and I see spots of red on the high points of her cheeks, now, like that day in the garden.
She’s angry with me, I realize… and she’s right.
I shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. But I can’t seem to back down.
"Excuse me," she murmurs to Flynn, then follows me down the hallway.
I lead her to the smaller sitting room—what would have been a parlor back when this house was built, I suppose—and close the door behind us. Maeve steps past me, putting plenty of room between us, her arms wrapped around herself. She looks small and uncertain.
"Did I do something wrong?" she asks quietly.
Yes. No. I don't fucking know.
"I want you to stay away from Flynn," I growl, my voice harsher than I intend.
Her eyes widen. "What? Why?"
"Because I'm telling you to."
"That's not an answer." Her eyes flash, with anger, maybe, or frustration. "He's been nothing but kind to me. He's the only person besides Mrs. Brady who actually talks to me like I'm a human being instead of—"
"Instead of what?" I step closer, and she takes an instinctive step back. "Instead of your husband who you're terrified of?"
"I'm not terrified of you." But her voice shakes when she says it, and we both know it's a lie.
"Flynn is not the kind of man you should be around," I say, forcing myself to stay calm. "He's not—he's not safe for a woman like you."
"A woman like me?" Maeve's chin lifts, and I see a spark of defiance I didn't know she had. "What does that mean?"
"You're too innocent for him." The words come out before I can stop them. "Flynn is a player. He goes through women like water, and he's not going to make an exception for you just because you're young and na?ve."
"I'm not na?ve," she says, but there's uncertainty in her voice now. "And he hasn't—he's just being friendly."
"He's flirting with you," I say bluntly. "And you're too inexperienced to see it."
Color floods her cheeks. "Even if he was—which I don't think he is—why do you care? You don't want me. You made that very clear on our wedding night."
"That's not—" I stop, struggling for words. How do I explain this without revealing too much? Without admitting that I want her so badly I can barely think straight, that I cut my own arm open rather than take what I wanted because I knew I wouldn't be able to stop once I started?
"Flynn won't touch you," I finally say. "He wouldn't dare. You're mine."
The word hangs in the air between us, possessive and primal. Maeve stares at me, her lips parted in surprise.
"Yours," she repeats, and there's something in her voice I can't quite read. "But you don't want me."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." Her eyes are bright with unshed tears. "You can barely stand to be in the same room as me. You haven't spoken to me in three days except to give orders. And now you're telling me I can't talk to the one person in this place who's been decent to me?"
She's right. Everything she's saying is absolutely fucking right. I've been a bastard to her, cold and distant and cruel. But I don't know how else to be. I have no idea how to be kind, or caring, or sensitive, or any of the things she needs. I don’t know how to let myself feel anything at all. And somewhere in the back of my head, I’m beginning to wonder how much I’ve dammed up over the years, and what would happen if I let the floodgates crack for her.
Nothing good, I’m sure of that.
"Just stay away from him," I say, my voice low. "That's all I'm asking."
"That's all you're asking?" A bitter laugh escapes her. "You ask for nothing, Sean. You demand. You order. But you never ask."
She moves toward the door, and without thinking, I reach out and grab her wrist. She freezes, her pulse racing under my fingers.
"Don't," I say, and I'm not even sure what I'm telling her not to do. Don't leave. Don't talk to Flynn. Don't look at me like I'm something she should be afraid of.
"Let me go," she whispers.
I should. I know I should. But my hand tightens on her wrist instead, pulling her closer.
She gasps, and I stop. I can see her breathing quicken, and hot lust rolls through my blood, lighting my body up as I fight the urge to bring her in and devour her.
To lock the door behind us and fuck her on the first surface I can lay her down on.
"You want to know why I left on our wedding night?" The words come out rough, scraped raw. "You want to know why I can barely stand to be near you?"
I think she nods. She’s beginning to tremble, so it’s hard to tell. Her lips are parted, and I can feel the tension in her arm.
"It’s not that I didn’t want you. It’s that you were fucking terrified, and despite that, I wanted you anyway.
" The confession tears out of me. "If I'd stayed in that bed with you, I wouldn't have been able to stop.
I would have taken you, consequences be damned, and I would have hurt you in the process. "
Her lips part, shock written across her face.
"You're eighteen years old," I continue, my voice harsh. "A virgin who's never been touched. And I'm—I'm not gentle, Maeve. I'm not the kind of man who knows how to make love. I fuck. Hard and rough and possessive. And you deserve better than that for your first time."
"Sean—"
"So yes, I want you to stay away from Flynn.
Not because he's dangerous to you—he wouldn't dare touch you because you're mine—but because watching him flirt with you, makes me want to break every bone in his body.
" My jaw tightens. "I've never felt this possessive about anything in my life, and I don't understand it—why the thought of anyone else touching you makes me homicidal. But I’m going to fucking beat the life out of my best friend if he doesn’t stop looking at you like that. "
She’s trembling in earnest now. "I don't want Flynn," she whispers. "I want—"
“Don’t.” I bite the word out harshly, because if she says she wants anything from me that I could give her, anything that would end with my body over hers, against hers, in hers, I’m not going to be able to fucking stop myself. “Just stay away from him.”
Then I turn and walk out, leaving her there, alone again.
If I stay, I'm going to claim her. And once I start, I won't be able to stop.
The possessiveness, the desire—it's growing stronger every day.
Every time I see her, every time I catch the scent of her perfume or hear her voice, it gets worse.
I've never felt anything like this. Never wanted to own someone so completely, never felt this primal need to mark and claim and possess.
It should terrify me.
Instead, it just makes me want her more.