Chapter 14 Maeve #3
"Now," Sean murmurs. "Squeeze."
With his hands guiding mine, I squeeze the trigger. The gun fires, and this time I'm ready for the recoil, braced against his solid body. When I look downrange, there's a hole in the target. Not center mass, not anywhere close to vital, but on the paper.
"You did it," Sean says, and I can hear something like pride in his voice.
He releases me and steps back, and I immediately miss his warmth. But the glow of accomplishment is spreading through my chest, bright and unfamiliar.
"Try again," he says. "On your own this time."
I feel a flash of disappointment that he’s not still touching me, and push it away quickly. I raise the gun, remembering how it felt when he was guiding me. The steadiness, the control. I breathe out slowly and squeeze the trigger.
The bullet hits the target. Not where I was aiming, but on the paper.
"Again."
I fire again. Another hit.
"Good. Keep going."
I empty the rest of the magazine, and while not every shot hits, more than half of them do. By the time the gun clicks empty, I'm breathing hard, and my arms are trembling with fatigue, but I can't stop the smile spreading across my face.
I hit the target. Multiple times. Me—clumsy Maeve who can't do anything right.
When I turn to look at Sean, he's watching me with an expression I've never seen before. Something almost like... admiration?
"I'm impressed," he says simply.
Those two words hit me harder than I expect. I'm impressed. Not "good job for a beginner" or "that's adequate." Impressed.
I duck my head, feeling heat rise in my cheeks. "I only hit it a few times."
"A few times more than most people do in their first session." Sean takes the gun from me and sets it down on the counter, then removes his ear protection. I do the same. "You did well today, Maeve. Both in the gym and here. You're stronger than you give yourself credit for."
That unfamiliar feeling is growing in my chest, warm and bright and terrifying. Pride, maybe. Or the beginning of belief that maybe I'm not as useless as I've always thought.
"Thank you," I say softly. "For teaching me. For... for believing I could do it."
Something shifts in Sean's expression. He takes a step toward me, then stops himself, jaw tightening.
"We'll train every day," he says, his voice rough. "You'll keep getting better. Keep getting stronger."
"Why?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "Why does it matter to you if I can protect myself?"
Sean is quiet for a long moment, and I think he's not going to answer.
Then: "Because you're my wife. My responsibility. And I might not always be there to protect you. I can’t be by your side every second, and I doubt that you want me to be. If you’re capable of defending yourself, you can have more freedom. "
My wife.
The possessiveness in his tone sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with that strange, confusing want that's been building since our wedding night.
And then there’s the fact that he thought to care whether or not I have freedom. That he paused to consider that I might not want him shadowing my every movement.
"Okay," I whisper.
Sean stares at me for another moment, something heated flickering in his dark eyes. Then he turns away abruptly. "Let's go. You should eat something."
I follow him back to the car on shaky legs, my mind spinning. The training session has left me exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure. My body aches in new places, my hands smell like hot metal, and I can still feel phantom imprints of Sean's hands on my hips, my arms, my hands.
I've never felt more alive.
Growing up in my sister's shadow, I learned to make myself small. To take up less space, to want less, to be less. After she died, after Dad died, I got even smaller—a ghost in my own life, going through the motions of existence without really living.
But today, for the first time since I can remember, I felt like I was more than just Siobhan and Desmond's little sister. More than just the girl no one expected anything from.
Today, I felt capable.
And the man responsible for that—the cold, dangerous man I was forced to marry—looked at me like I was someone worth teaching.
I glance at Sean as we drive back to the house. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. He's staring at the mansion ahead of us like he can make us get there faster through sheer force of will.
"Sean?" I say hesitantly.
He looks at me, and the intensity in his piercing eyes makes my breath catch.
"Thank you," I say again, because I don't know what else to say. I need him to know that what he did today mattered. That it changed something in me.
His jaw works like he's struggling with something. Then he says, "You don't need to thank me for treating you like you're capable of learning. That's the bare minimum."
"Maybe," I say softly. "But no one's ever bothered with that before."
Sean parks the car and gets out quickly, like he needs to put distance between us. I follow more slowly, my legs tired and sore.
"Get cleaned up," he says without looking at me. "I'll let Mrs. Brady know that we’ll want dinner a little early, so you can get some rest.”
Then he's gone, disappearing down the hall.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, trying to understand what just happened. The training, the closeness, the way he looked at me—it all swirls together in my mind, confusing and exciting and terrifying.
I don't understand Sean. Don't understand why he pushes me away one moment and then teaches me with infinite patience the next.
Don't understand why he says he wants me too much but won't touch me except when he has something to teach me.
I don't understand the tension that crackles between us, the way my body responds to his nearness.
But I do understand one thing: I want more of this. More of feeling capable, of his hands on me, even if it's just to adjust my stance or correct my grip. More of that look in his eyes when I hit the target, like I've done something well.
More of feeling like I matter.
I head to my room and strip off my sweaty clothes.
In the shower, I let the hot water wash away the physical exhaustion while my mind keeps replaying moments from the training session.
Sean's hands on my hips. His body pressed against my back.
His voice in my ear, low and instructive, and somehow intimate despite the clinical nature of his words.
This is dangerous, I think as I dry off and change into clean clothes. I'm starting to want things from Sean that he's made clear he can't give me. Softness. Tenderness. Something more than this cold arrangement we're trapped in.
But after today, after feeling what it's like to be seen by him, to be encouraged and praised and treated like I'm capable of more than I ever imagined—I don't know how to stop wanting it.
I don't know how to make myself small again when Sean makes me feel like I could be something more.