Chapter 20
SEAN
Flynn is sprawled at the kitchen table when I wake up the next morning, looking far too comfortable for someone who's supposed to be on security detail.
He's got his laptop balanced on his knees and a cup of coffee in his hand, and he glances up at me with a knowing smirk that makes me want to throw him out the window.
"Morning, sunshine," he says, far too cheerful for this early in the day. "Sleep well?"
I grunt in response and head for the kitchen, needing caffeine before I deal with whatever shit he's about to give me.
The apartment feels smaller with him here, more crowded, and I'm hyperaware of Maeve still asleep in my bed. My bed. Where I could be with her, right now, if I wasn’t such a fucking coward.
"You know," Flynn continues, because he's never known when to shut up, "for a man who just kissed his wife for the first time since that party, you look remarkably miserable."
I pour coffee with more force than necessary, the dark liquid splashing against the sides of the mug. "Don't you have somewhere to be? A patrol to do?"
"Nope." He takes a sip of his own coffee, still watching me with that irritating expression. "Security's covered. Which means I have plenty of time to tell you what an absolute idiot you're being."
I turn to face him, leaning back against the counter. "I'm not in the mood, Flynn."
"Yes, you are." He holds up a hand, cutting me off.
"And before you give me some shite about how you're too old for her, or too damaged, or whatever other excuse you've been feeding yourself and have probably convinced yourself of again since our conversation last night, let me remind you that she's your wife.
She's already yours. The only thing standing between you and actually being happy is your own stubborn pride. "
I stare at him, my hands gripping the edge of the counter hard enough that my knuckles go white. "You don't understand."
"I understand that you've been alone your entire life because you're terrified of losing someone the way you lost your ma.
" His voice is gentler now, and that somehow makes it worse.
"But Maeve isn't going anywhere, Sean. Not unless you push her away so hard she has no choice. And even then, you’ll still be married, because you have to be. You’ll just be married to a stranger who hates you. "
“If I fuck this up, she’ll hate me anyway.”
Flynn shrugs. “At least you will have tried.”
The truth of his words settles in my chest like a stone.
I think of Maeve last night, the way she looked at me after I kissed her, the vulnerability in her eyes mixed with something that looked almost like hope.
I think of how I pulled away from her, again, because I'm too much of a coward to face what I feel.
"What am I supposed to do?" The question comes out rougher than I intend, and I hate how lost I sound.
Flynn grins, taking a long sip of his coffee. "Take her out. On a proper date. Show her you're not just some brooding bastard who only knows how to kill people. Show her the man I know you can be."
I want to argue, to tell him it's a terrible idea, that I'll only fuck it up. But the thought of spending time with Maeve, of seeing her smile, of maybe making her happy for once instead of just scaring her or pushing her away, is too tempting to resist.
And I told myself last night I would try. Flynn is right, of course, the bloody bastard—I woke up managing to convince myself that agreeing to any of this last night was a mistake. But now, I’m remembering why I said I’d try in the first place.
"Fine," I say, and Flynn's grin widens.
"That's my boy. Now go wake up your wife and tell her you're taking her out tonight."
I flip him off, but there's no heat in it. He laughs and returns to his laptop, and I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell I'm doing.
Taking Maeve on a date. Like we're a normal couple. Like I'm not a killer, and she's not a girl who was forced to marry me.
I finish my coffee and head to the bedroom.
Maeve is still asleep, her ginger hair spread across my pillow, and something in my chest tightens at the sight of her.
She looks peaceful, every bit as young as her eighteen years, and I feel the familiar guilt creep in.
She should be with someone her own age, someone who hasn't spent the last twenty years killing for a living.
But she's not. She's here, in my bed, and Flynn's right. She's already mine.
I sit on the edge of the bed, and the movement makes her stir. Her eyes flutter open, showing a sliver of light blue, and for a moment, she looks confused. Then she sees me, and a faint blush colors her cheeks.
"Morning," she says softly, her voice still rough with sleep.
"Morning." I clear my throat, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager instead of a man pushing forty. "I was thinking... would you like to go out tonight? I could show you some of Dublin."
Her eyes widen slightly, surprise flickering across her face. "Like... a date?"
The word feels strange on my tongue, but I nod. "Yeah. Like a date."
A slow smile spreads across her face, and it's like watching the sun come out from behind clouds. "I'd like that."
"Good." I stand before I can do something stupid like kiss her again. "We'll leave around six."
I leave her there, feeling her eyes on my back as I go, and try to ignore the way my heart is pounding in my chest like I'm heading into a firefight instead of just taking my wife out for the evening.
—
The rest of the day passes in a strange blur of anticipation and dread.
I catch myself checking the time more often than I should, watching the hours tick by with an impatience I haven't felt in years.
Flynn notices, of course, and spends most of the afternoon giving me shit about it, but I barely hear him.
I'm too busy thinking about Maeve. About the way she smiled this morning. About the kiss last night, the way she felt in my arms, soft and warm and perfect. About all the ways I could fuck this up.
By the time six o'clock rolls around, I'm wound tight as a spring. I've changed my shirt twice, which is ridiculous, and I catch Flynn watching me with barely concealed amusement.
"You look fine," he says. "Stop fussing like a nervous bride."
"Fuck off," I mutter, but there's no real anger in it.
Maeve emerges from the bedroom, and I forget how to breathe.
She’s wearing jeans and a soft-looking sweater in a chocolate brown.
Her hair is down in loose waves around her shoulders.
She's not wearing much makeup, just enough to highlight those blue eyes, and she looks beautiful.
Not in the polished, untouchable way of the women at that gala, but in a way that's softer, more real.
"Is this okay?" she asks, a hint of uncertainty in her voice, and I realize I've been staring.
"You look perfect," I say, and I mean it.
Her cheeks flush pink. She smiles, and I think maybe Flynn was right. Maybe I can do this.
We leave the apartment, Flynn calling out something about not waiting up, and I lead Maeve down to the street. The evening air is cold and wet, carrying the scent of rain and the river, and Dublin is coming alive around us with the energy of a Friday night.
"Where are we going?" Maeve asks as we walk, and I'm acutely aware of how close she is, how easy it would be to reach out and take her hand.
"There's a pub I like," I say. "Nothing fancy. But the food's good, and it's quiet."
She nods, and we walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes. I notice the way she looks around, taking in the city with curious eyes, and I try to see it through her perspective—the narrow streets and old buildings, the mix of modern and ancient that makes Dublin what it is.
"It's beautiful," she says softly, and I glance at her in surprise.
"You think so?"
"Yes." She looks up at me, and there's something in her expression I can't quite read. "It feels... real. Like it has history. Like it's lived."
I think about that, about the centuries of blood and struggle that have soaked into these streets, and I suppose she's right.
Dublin has lived. It's survived. Maybe that's why I've always felt more at home here than in Boston, where everything felt too clean, too new, too full of memories I'd rather forget.
We reach the pub, a small place tucked away on a side street, and I hold the door open for her.
Inside, it's warm and dimly lit, with dark wood and the smell of beer and greasy food.
There are a few other patrons scattered around, but it's not crowded, and I lead Maeve to a booth in the back corner where I can keep my back to the wall and watch the door. Old habits, and all of that.
She slides into the booth across from me, and I order us both drinks when the server comes by. Maeve asks for a hard cider, and I get a Guinness, and when we're alone again, there's a moment of awkward silence.
"I've never really done this before," Maeve says suddenly, her fingers tracing patterns on the worn wood of the table.
"Done what?"
"This. A date." She looks up at me, and there's vulnerability in her eyes.
"My father never let me go out much. And after he died, Desmond was even more protective.
I think I went to maybe three social events in the last two years, and they were all with family watching me like a hawk.
Not that I really wanted to go to any of them, anyway," she adds with a shrug.
The thought of her locked away in that big house, isolated and alone, makes something dark and angry stir in my chest. "Your family shouldn’t have treated you that way," I say, and her eyes widen slightly at the vehemence in my tone.
"Keeping you sheltered like that. You're not some fragile thing that needs to be locked away. "