Chapter 19 Sean
SEAN
I'm still holding her when she finishes talking, her words hanging in the air between us. She's told me everything—about her family, about how they treated her, about the marriage her father tried to arrange. About feeling like she never mattered.
And something in my chest cracks wide open.
I've killed men. I've hurt people without remorse.
I've done things that would make most people sick.
But hearing the pain in Maeve's voice, seeing the vulnerability on her face, knowing that the people who should have protected her instead made her feel worthless—it touches something in me that I didn't know existed.
Something that wants to hunt down every person who ever made her feel less than she is and make them pay for it.
Except most of them are already dead.
She’s got that look on her face again—the one that I know is the precursor to me doing something fucking stupid, like kissing her again.
The look that makes me want to unravel her, to finish what we started on the balcony at that goddamned party, that makes me want to make her mine in reality.
And when she asks why in that plaintive voice, with that sound of need that makes my chest ache and my cock throb, I can’t stop myself.
I should say something. Should tell her not to want me, that I'm not worth it, that she deserves better. But the words won't come because I'm looking at her—at this brave, broken, beautiful woman—and all I can think is that I want her.
I want her so badly, it's consuming me.
Before I can stop myself, before I can think about all the reasons this is a terrible idea, I kiss her.
She makes a soft sound of surprise… and then her hands are fisting in my shirt, and she's kissing me back with a desperation that matches my own. Her mouth is soft and warm, and she tastes like salt from her tears and the sweetness that I'm already addicted to.
My hand slides into her hair, tilting her head so I can deepen the kiss. She gasps against my mouth, and I swallow the sound, my other hand moving to her waist, pulling her closer.
This. This is what I've been fighting since the moment I saw her picture in that file. This overwhelming need to possess her, to claim her, to make her mine in every way possible.
We move—I'm not sure who initiates it—and then we're shifting on the couch, and if I don't stop this right now, I won't be able to stop at all. She tastes so good, and she’s so soft, so perfect in every way. I want her more than I’ve ever wanted any woman, more than I thought it was possible to want, and it feels like I’ll die if I don’t bury myself inside of her now, tonight.
But I’ve been fighting it this long. And this isn’t a battle I should allow myself to lose.
I pull back, breathing hard. "Maeve. Wait."
Her eyes flutter open, dazed and dark with want. "What's wrong?"
Everything. Nothing. I don't know anymore.
"We can't do this." I force the words out, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to shut up and kiss her again.
"Why not?" She's still so close, her lips swollen from my kiss, her hair mussed from my hands. There’s that pleading in her eyes. “Sean—”
"Because..." I struggle to find words that make sense. "Because once we start this, I won't be able to stop. And you deserve better than being fucked on a couch by a man who doesn't know how to give you anything else."
She flinches at my crude words, and I hate myself for putting that look on her face. But it's the truth. I don't know how to do this—how to be tender, how to be gentle, how to be anything other than what I am.
"What if I don't care about that?" she asks quietly. “What if I want you? If that’s you…”
"You should care."
"Stop telling me what I should want, Sean." There's fire in her voice now, under the hurt. She pulls back, disentangling herself from me, and I can feel her shutting down. I should be glad, but instead, I feel like I’m cracking into pieces. "Stop deciding for me what I can handle."
My jaw tightens, and I feel a rush of frustration. Good. That I can handle better than this unrelenting need. "I'm trying to protect you."
"From what? From having something good? From being happy?" She pushes away from me, standing up. "Or are you just protecting yourself?"
The words hit too close to home, and I look away. "Maeve—"
"No. You know what? I'm tired." She wraps her arms around herself. "I'm tired of fighting for something you're not willing to give. I'm tired of being pushed away. I'm just... tired."
She walks down the hall to the bedroom, and a moment later, I hear the door close. Not a slam—that would be easier. Just a quiet, definite click that somehow feels worse than if she'd screamed at me.
I sit there on the couch, my head in my hands, and try to figure out how I managed to fuck this up so completely.
—
I feel as though I’ve been sitting there for a long time when I hear Flynn let himself in. I look up to see him striding into the living room.
"Figured you might need this," he says, holding up a bottle of whiskey.
I grunt in response, and he settles into the chair across from me, pouring two glasses. "Want to talk about it?" he asks.
"No."
"Tough. We're talking about it anyway." He takes a sip. "What happened?"
Letting out a sigh, I tell him, since I know he won’t shut up about it until I do, anyway. I tell him about the Council meeting, about Maeve standing up for me, about her breaking down and telling me about her family. About the kiss and how I stopped it.
Flynn listens without interrupting, which is unusual for him. When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment.
"You're an idiot," he says finally.
I glare at him, tossing back the whiskey and pouring more. "Thanks. Very helpful."
"I'm serious, Sean. You're being a complete and utter idiot." He leans forward. "That girl is falling for you. Hell, she's probably already in love with you. And you're pushing her away because... why, exactly?"
I give him a look. "Because I'll hurt her."
"Bullshit."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me. Bullshit." Flynn sets down his glass. "You won't hurt her. You'd die before you hurt her, and we both know it. So what's the real reason?"
"I don't know how to do this," I admit, the words dragging out of me. "I don't know how to be what she needs. I don't know how to be... soft. Gentle. All the things she deserves."
Flynn shrugs. "So learn."
"It's not that simple." I stare at him as if he’s lost his mind. “I can’t just change who I am.”
"It is exactly that simple." Flynn's voice is firm. "Sean, you've spent your entire adult life being the Council's weapon. Being cold and efficient and alone. But you're not just a weapon. You're a person. And that person deserves to be happy."
"I don't deserve—"
"Don't." He cuts me off. "Don't finish that sentence. You've done bad things, yeah. So have I. So has everyone in our line of work. But that doesn't mean you don't deserve good things too."
"She's too young. Too innocent." I toss more whiskey back. “She’s twenty years younger than me.”
"She's a grown woman who knows her own mind. And she's not as innocent as you think—she's survived her entire family being murdered, Sean. She's survived multiple attempts on her life. She's stronger than you're giving her credit for." Flynn shakes his head. “You’ve told her that yourself.”
I know he's right. I saw that strength today when she stood up to the Council. I’ve seen it in her before. But knowing it and accepting it when it comes to this are two different things.
"What if I fuck it up?" The question comes out quieter than I intended. "What if I'm too damaged, too broken, and I end up hurting her anyway?"
"Then you apologize, and you try to do better." Flynn's expression softens. "That's what people do, Sean. They fuck up, and they fix it. But you have to actually try first. You can't just give up before you've even started."
"I've been alone for a long time. I know how to do alone."
"Just because you know how to do something doesn't mean it's good for you." Flynn pours more whiskey. "What I'm saying is, maybe stop fighting this so hard. See where it goes. Let yourself be happy for once in your miserable life."
"And when Brennan comes for her? When someone else decides she's a target? When she gets hurt because of what I am?"
"Then you deal with it. Together." He holds my gaze. "You're not alone anymore, Sean. You have her. You have me. You have people who give a shit about you. Stop acting like you're still that fifteen-year-old kid with nothing to lose."
His words settle over me, heavy and uncomfortable. Because he's right. I'm not that kid anymore. I haven't been for a long time. But I've been acting like it, keeping everyone at arm's length, refusing to let anyone in.
Refusing to admit that maybe I'm tired of being alone.
I think about how my chest tightens when I see her. How I can't stop thinking about her. How the thought of something happening to her makes me want to burn the world down. How cooking with her in my kitchen felt more intimate than sex ever has with anyone else.
“I want her,” I admit quietly.
Flynn rolls his eyes. "Then tell her, you fucking eejit."
I glare at him. "It's not that simple."
"It is exactly that simple!" Flynn throws his hands up. "Go in there right now and tell her how you feel."
"She's asleep."
"Then tell her tomorrow."
"What if—"
"No more what ifs." Flynn stands up, apparently done with this conversation.
"Here's what's going to happen. Tomorrow, you're going to wake up and pull your head out of your arse.
You're going to have an actual conversation with your wife about what you both want.
And you're going to stop sabotaging the one good thing that's happened to you in all these years. Got it?"
I want to argue, but I'm too tired. Too worn out, completely and to the bone from… everything. "Got it," I mutter.
"Good." He heads for the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth, Sean? She's good for you. You're different with her. Less... dead inside."
"Gee, thanks."
"I'm serious. You smile more. You're less of a miserable bastard. And I've seen the way you look at her when she's not watching. Like she's the only good thing in a very dark world." He opens the door. "Don't fuck this up."
And then he's gone, and I'm alone with my thoughts and the last of the whiskey.
Maybe I am damaged, but Maeve doesn't care. Maybe that's what this feeling is—not love, because I don't know what love feels like, but something close to it. Something that makes me want to be better. Something that makes me want to try.
I down the last of my whiskey and head to the bedroom door. It's closed, and I can't hear anything from inside. She's probably asleep by now. I should leave her alone, let her rest.
I don’t know if there’s a future for this, a real one, anyway. We’re bound together regardless, but maybe I could try… something. Something to see if we could fit together in a way that I’ve never tried to fit with anyone else.
I go back to the couch and lie down, but sleep doesn't come. Instead, I stare at the ceiling and think about tomorrow. About what I'm going to say to her. About whether I can actually do this—let someone in, let myself feel something, let myself want something beyond just survival.
Or if it’s too late for me, after everything that I’ve done, and everything that I’ve had to let myself become.