Chapter 21
MAEVE
I'm still awake when Sean returns four hours later.
I'd tried to sleep, curled up in his bed wearing one of his T-shirts, but every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on me, his mouth, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress.
The ache between my legs hasn't faded, and neither has the hope that maybe, finally, something has changed between us.
I hear the front door open and close, the sound of him moving through the apartment. My heart starts racing, anticipation and nervousness tangling together in my chest. I sit up, pulling the sheet around myself, waiting.
He appears in the doorway, and my stomach drops. Something is wrong. I can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he won't quite meet my eyes. There's blood on his shirt—not much, but enough to notice—and his knuckles are raw.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice small in the quiet room.
"I'm fine." He stays in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, like he's holding himself back. "We need to talk."
Those four words land like stones in my chest. Nothing good ever follows "we need to talk." I pull the sheet tighter around myself, suddenly feeling exposed despite being covered.
"Okay," I manage.
He runs a hand through his hair, and I notice it's shaking slightly. "Tonight was a mistake."
The words hit me like a physical blow, stealing the air from my lungs.
Not again, I think, and it takes everything in me to fight back the tears that are suddenly threatening.
I feel small, used, and the ache in my chest spreads through me like wildfire.
This was exactly what I was afraid of when he left. "What?"
"This." He gestures between us, and there's something almost desperate in his expression. "All of this. The date, the kissing, almost..." He trails off, his jaw clenching. "I'm all wrong for you, Maeve."
I stare at him, unable to process what I'm hearing. Hours ago, he'd kissed me by the river and told me he wanted to try. He'd looked at me like I was something precious. And now…
"You don't mean that," I say, but my voice wavers.
"I do." He finally looks at me, and his eyes are cold, distant. The same way he looked at me those first days after the wedding. "I'm too old for you. Too jaded. Too fucking cold. You deserve someone who can give you a normal life, not a killer who drags you into danger."
"Sean—"
“I got a lead tonight,” he continues, speaking over me.
"On Brennan. I’m sure it was him. I’ll finish the job, and tell the Council that in return for taking care of him, I want you out of this.
Once I take care of it, once you're safe, we can get an annulment. You can go back to Boston, and you'll be free. Free of this marriage. Free of me." He lets out a long, shaky breath. “We haven’t consummated it. I’ll admit to that. Admit that I lied in order to get you out of this. They’ll forgive me, after I’ve taken care of Brennan, righted my wrongs.
As long as we don’t consummate, it can be annulled.
Easier than a divorce. Faster. You’ll be able to marry well again, since you’ll be a virgin still on paper as well as in reality. ”
Annulment. The word echoes in my head, and I feel something crack inside my chest. He wants to erase this. Erase us. Like we never happened. Like nothing he said to me, nothing I felt or he felt, ever existed.
"Is that what you want?" My voice comes out shakier than I wanted it to. "To pretend this never happened?"
"It's what's best for you." His voice is flat, emotionless, and that somehow makes it worse.
"Don't I get a say in what's best for me?" I'm standing now, the sheet falling away, forgotten. I'm still wearing his t-shirt, and the irony isn't lost on me. "Or do you get to make all my decisions for me, just like my father did? Just like Desmond?"
Something flickers in his expression, but it's gone before I can identify it. "This isn't the same thing."
"Isn't it?" I can feel tears burning behind my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. Not now. Not in front of him. "You're deciding what I need without asking me. You're pushing me away for my own good. How is that different?"
"Because I'm trying to protect you!" His voice rises, the first real emotion breaking through that cold facade. "From me. From this life. From everything that comes with being married to someone like me."
"I never asked you to protect me from yourself!" The words burst out of me, sharp and angry. "I asked you to let me in. To stop pushing me away. And the first time you do, the first time we have something real, you decide it was a mistake?"
"It was a mistake." But he doesn't sound convinced anymore. He sounds tired. Defeated.
I need space. I need to get away from him, from the suffocating weight of his rejection, but there's nowhere to go. The apartment is small, and I can't safely leave. I'm trapped here with him, with this pain that's threatening to tear me apart.
I push past him, heading for the living room, even though I know it won't help. Even though I know there's no escape.
"Maeve—" He follows me—of course he does—and I whirl on him.
"Don't." My voice breaks on the word. "Just don't."
"I'm doing this for you," he says, and there's something pleading in his voice now. "You have to understand that. Everything I do is to keep you safe, to give you a chance at a real life—"
"A real life?" I laugh, and it comes out bitter, edged with hysteria.
"My father is dead. My sister is dead. My brother is dead.
I've been shot at, nearly killed in an explosion, forced to marry a stranger.
And now my husband—the one person I thought might actually want me—is telling me he doesn't. That I was a mistake.
So please, Sean, tell me more about this real life you think I deserve. "
He flinches like I've struck him, and all I can think is good. I suddenly want him to hurt the way I'm hurting, and it’s the first time I’ve ever wanted something like that.
I never felt that way with Desmond or Saoirse, never wanted them to hurt just because they’d hurt me.
I hate him, suddenly, for making me feel something like that. For breaking something in me.
"I lost everything," I continue, and now the tears are falling, hot and angry down my cheeks.
"Everything. And I know it's not your fault; I know you didn't ask for this any more than I did, but I thought.
.. tonight I thought maybe something good could come from all of this.
That maybe we could be something real. But I guess I was wrong. "
"You weren't wrong." His voice is rough, broken. "Maeve… you weren't wrong."
"Then why are you doing this?" I'm crying openly now, past the point of pride or dignity. "Why are you pushing me away?"
"Because I'm nearly forty years old and you're eighteen!
" The words explode out of him. "Because I'm a killer who's spent half his life taking orders and the other half giving them.
Because when I look at you, all I can think about is how badly I want you, and how fucking wrong that is.
You should be with someone your own age, someone who hasn't seen the things I've seen, done the things I've done. Someone who deserves you."
"And you think you don't deserve me?" I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. "Is that what this is about?"
"I know I don't." He takes a step toward me, and I can see the anguish in his face now, the careful mask crumbling. "I'm covered in scars and blood and death, Maeve. I'm everything you should run from. And instead, you look at me like I'm something worth having. Christ, that terrifies me."
His hands clench into fists at his sides. "I want you so badly it keeps me up at night. The thought of touching you, of having you, makes me feel like it’s the only thing I might ever want again. And that's the most selfish thing I've ever felt."
I stare at him, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. "How is wanting me selfish?"
"Because you deserve better than a broken man who's going to disappoint you at every turn.
" He runs his hands through his hair. "Because taking what I want from you means stealing your future. It means binding you to someone who will always have blood on his hands. You’ll never get out of this marriage if we do this. If I… have you."
"You're not stealing anything," I say, taking a step toward him. "I'm offering. There's a difference."
"You don't understand what you're offering." But he doesn't move away when I get closer.
"Then explain it to me." I'm standing right in front of him now, close enough to touch. "Stop making decisions for me and just talk to me."
He looks down at me, and I can see the war playing out in his eyes, his want and fear and guilt all tangled together.
"I'm afraid I'll ruin you," he says finally, his voice raw. "I'm afraid I'll take your light and your hope and your goodness and turn them into something dark. Something like me. And I'm afraid that even knowing that, if we go on like this, I won't be able to stop myself from taking you anyway."
“What if I trust you not to do that?” The words are out before I can second-guess them. "What if I don’t think you’ll break me?”
He makes a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a curse. "Don't say things like that."
"Why not? It's true." I reach up, placing my hand on his chest, feeling his heart racing beneath my palm. "You haven’t hurt me. You say you’re this rough, broken, violent man, and I don’t doubt that’s true…
I’ve seen some of it. But you hurt yourself rather than keep scaring me on our wedding night.
You haven’t done anything to me that I haven’t wanted.
Yes, I’m terrified of you sometimes, but you scare everyone else, too… so maybe that’s not a bad thing.”