Chapter 17 Maeve
MAEVE
The apartment is smaller than I expected.
Not in a bad way. It’s clean and certainly big enough for one person, although it’s shockingly without any kind of personality—all beige carpet, hardwood floors, and nothing on the walls.
The furniture is minimalistic and sparse.
It’s clear that Sean hasn’t put any thought into the space he lives in, that he eats and sleeps here, and feels no need to make it more personal than that.
It makes something in my chest ache, oddly enough.
He’s never made himself a home, and I wonder why that is.
Because he doesn’t feel that he deserves one?
Because he wonders if he’ll live long enough for it to matter?
I suppose when your life is all violence, all the time, putting effort into material things probably seems foolish.
You could leave it all behind at any time.
The nicest feature is a pair of tall windows in the living room, overlooking the Dublin streets below. After the sprawling Boston house with its endless rooms and staff always hovering nearby, this feels strangely small and close, and quiet. Peaceful, I think, the word surprising me.
There's no housekeeper waiting to take our coats. No cook preparing dinner in the kitchen. Just us, standing in the quiet entryway while Flynn and Sean carry our bags in from the car.
"It's not much," Sean says, and I realize he's watching me, trying to gauge my reaction.
"It's nice," I tell him honestly. "It’s simple. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe?—before he nods and moves deeper into the apartment. "Kitchen's through there. Bedroom down the hall. Bathroom's next to it." He pauses. "There's only one bedroom," he reminds me.
My heart does something complicated in my chest. "You said that.”
He nods, letting out a breath. "I’ll get fresh sheets on the bed, and I’ll take the couch.”
"You don't have to—" Something squirms in my chest as I remember that the last time he was here, he was an unmarried man. What did he do on those sheets? Was there another woman in that bed before he came to claim me? The thought shouldn’t really matter to me—I didn’t want this marriage, and Sean hasn’t consummated our marriage, but it does.
I can’t explain why, exactly, but I feel a hot thread of jealousy squirming through me, making me feel twitchy and uncomfortable.
"I do." His voice is firm. Final. And just like that, the distance is back between us, the same distance he's been trying to maintain since that kiss on the balcony. Since the training session this morning, where his hands were on me and I could barely breathe.
Flynn drops the last bag inside and stretches. "Right, I'm off to my own place. You two get settled. I'll be back in the morning to go over security." He winks at me. "Welcome to Dublin, Maeve. Try not to let this grumpy bastard scare you off."
"Flynn," Sean warns.
"What? I'm being friendly." Flynn grins and heads for the door. "See you tomorrow."
And then, with the click of the door closing, we're alone.
In the mansion, there was endless space for us to avoid each other. Here, there’s almost none at all. Sean runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I'm learning means he's uncomfortable. "You should rest. It's been a long day."
It has been. Between the attack last night, the training this morning, and the flight, I'm exhausted. But I'm also wired, too keyed up to sleep.
"I'm okay," I say. "Maybe I'll just... look around?"
He nods. "Make yourself at home."
The words should be welcoming, but they sound stiff. Formal. Like he's talking to a guest, not his wife.
I watch him retreat to the bedroom, and something in me aches.
The apartment doesn't take long to explore. There’s the living room with a couch and TV, a small dining area, and the kitchen. Down the hall, there's a bathroom that's clean and masculine—no frills, just function. And at the end of the hall, the bedroom.
I push the door open slowly. Sean is tossing sheets in a hamper, and that feeling squeezes my chest again.
The room is sparse but comfortable. There’s a large bed with dark sheets, a dresser, and a closet. The windows look out over the city, lights twinkling in the gathering dusk. It smells like Sean—something clean and masculine, his cologne and his shaving soap.
Sean looks at me, clearly on edge. “I’ll let you get comfortable,” he says, nodding to where he set my bag down. “I’ll just go get the couch set up, and…” He pauses, as if thinking of something else to say, and then leaves without another word.
I sit on the edge of the bed and let myself feel everything I've been pushing down since last night. The terror of the explosion. The gunfire. Sean's body covering mine, protecting me without hesitation. The training this morning, his hands on me, the tension so thick I could barely breathe.
That kiss.
I bury my face in my hands. What am I doing? A month ago, I didn't know this man existed. Now I'm in a foreign country, in his apartment, married to him, and all I can think about is how it felt when he kissed me. How much I want him to do it again.
I'm so confused. About him, about us, about what I want.
There’s less physical space between us than ever, but I’ve never felt so alone.
—
I don't sleep well. The bed is comfortable, but it's not mine. The city sounds outside are different from Boston—different accents in the voices drifting up from the street, different sirens, different rhythms. And I'm hyperaware that Sean is just down the hall, probably not sleeping either.
By morning, I'm exhausted and restless.
I find Sean in the kitchen, already dressed, coffee in hand. He looks like he didn't sleep at all.
"Morning," I say quietly.
"Morning." He gestures to the coffee pot. "Help yourself."
I pour a cup and add cream, painfully aware of the awkward silence. This shouldn't be so hard. We're married. We already live together. But every interaction feels loaded, weighted with everything we're not saying. The sudden lack of space feels palpable.
"I have to go out for a few hours," he says. "Flynn will be here soon. Don't leave without him."
I nod. "Okay."
"Maeve." He sets his mug down and looks at me. "I mean it. Don't leave. It's not safe."
"I understand."
He looks like he wants to say something else, but then he just nods and leaves.
I stand in the kitchen, listening to the door close behind him, and fight the urge to cry.
Flynn arrives an hour later with pastries and a cheerful smile. "Morning, Mrs. Flannery,” he says teasingly, exaggerating the surname. “How was your first night in Dublin?"
"Fine," I lie.
He gives me a knowing look but doesn't push. "Sean's got you on lockdown, I take it?"
"He said not to leave without you."
"Good man. Though I doubt anyone knows you're here yet." He settles at the dining table and opens the pastry box. "Come on, eat something. You look like you need it."
I sit with him and pick at a pastry, not really hungry. Flynn chatters about Dublin, pointing out the window at various landmarks I can see from here, trying to make me feel welcome. It's kind of him.
"He's not always this difficult, you know," Flynn says eventually, his tone more serious.
I look up. "What?"
"Sean. He's not usually this..." He waves a hand. "Closed off. Well, actually, he is. But not like this. This is different."
I frown. "I don't know what you mean."
Flynn laughs. "Sure you don't." He leans forward. "He cares about you, Maeve. More than he wants to. More than he knows what to do with. It scares the hell out of him."
My throat tightens. "He has a funny way of showing it, then."
"Yeah, well. Sean's not great at feelings. Never has been." Flynn's expression softens. "Give him time. And maybe don't give up on him just yet."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod and take another bite of pastry I don't taste.
—
Sean doesn't come back until late afternoon.
By then, I've unpacked, explored every corner of the small apartment three times, and worked myself into a state of nervous energy.
I need to do something. Be useful. Be...
something other than a burden he's protecting.
An idea forms as I pace the apartment for a fourth time while Flynn is checking on things outside.
I'll make dinner.
How hard can it be? I've watched our cook in Boston dozens of times. People do this every day. Surely I can manage something simple.
I go to the kitchen and start opening cabinets. There's not much—some pasta, canned tomatoes, garlic, onions. Okay. Pasta with sauce. I can do that.
I find a pot and fill it with water, set it on the stove. While it's heating—or is it boiling? How do you tell?—I start on the sauce. I remember the cook chopping onions, so I grab one and a knife.
The knife is sharp, and the onion is harder to cut than I expected. It rolls away from me, and I chase it around the cutting board, finally managing to hack it into uneven chunks. My eyes are streaming from the onion fumes, and I'm pretty sure I'm doing this wrong.
The garlic is even worse. I can't figure out how to peel it, and by the time I do, my fingers smell terrible, and the cloves are crushed into a paste.
I dump everything into a pan with some olive oil and turn on the heat. How hot? I have no idea. I turn the dial to medium and hope for the best.
The water on the other burner is making noise now. Is that boiling? I think that's boiling. I dump the pasta in and stir it with a wooden spoon.
The onions and garlic are sizzling loudly. Maybe too loudly? I turn the heat down a little and add the canned tomatoes, splashing red sauce across the stovetop in the process.
This is fine. I'm fine.
I try to remember what else the cook added. Herbs? I find a bottle labeled "Italian Seasoning" and shake a generous amount into the sauce. Then some salt. Then more salt because the first amount didn't seem like enough.