Chapter 27 Maeve
MAEVE
For one terrible moment as they drag me toward the van, I'm too shocked to react. Then instinct kicks in, the muscle memory from all those training sessions with Sean, and I drive my elbow back as hard as I can into whoever's grabbed me.
There's a satisfying grunt of pain, and the grip on my arm loosens just enough for me to wrench free.
I spin, bringing my knee up the way Sean showed me, aiming for the groin, but there are two of them and I'm crying.
My vision is blurred and I miss. The second man catches my leg, twisting, and I go down hard on the wet pavement.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs.
I try to scream, but a hand clamps over my mouth, tasting of leather and cigarettes and making my stomach turn.
I bite down as hard as I can, feeling skin break between my teeth, and the man swears viciously in an accent I don't recognize.
He backhands me across the face, and stars explode behind my eyes.
"Fucking bitch," he snarls, and then they're hauling me up, dragging me toward the dark van with its side door already open like a waiting mouth.
I fight with everything I have, desperate to not end up there, remembering everything I’ve ever heard about not letting yourself be thrown into a car.
I kick and claw and twist, recalling every single thing Sean taught me about vulnerable points, refusing to give up.
My nails rake down one man's face, leaving bloody furrows, and he howls.
I manage to stomp on the other's instep, and for a moment I think I might actually get away.
But there are too many of them, and I'm too small, too light. No amount of training in a few short weeks could make me strong enough to fight off this many professionals.
They throw me into the van like I weigh nothing at all.
My head cracks against the metal floor, and the world tilts sideways, going grey at the edges.
Someone zip-ties my wrists behind my back, the plastic biting into my skin, and then there's a hood over my head, rough fabric that smells like oil and sweat. I can't see anything anymore.
The van door slams shut, making me think of a coffin closing.
I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter. The van lurches into motion, and I slide across the floor until I hit something solid.
My shoulder screams in protest and I cry out, biting my lip.
I can hear the men talking in low voices, but I can't make out the words over the roar of blood in my ears, the engine noise, and my own ragged breathing through the hood.
I try to calm down and think. Sean will come for me. I know he will. He has to. Even if I'm just a punishment to him, even if he never wanted me, he won't let them take me. He's too possessive for that, too protective, and I cling to that thought like a lifeline in the dark.
Even if he doesn’t want me, he has to keep me safe.
Whatever punishment he would have suffered for refusing to marry me, he’ll suffer if I’m killed by Brennan.
He hasn’t done all of this—teaching me to protect myself, guarding me religiously, looking in every corner of Boston and Dublin for Brennan—to let me die like this.
The van makes several turns, and I have no idea where we could possibly be. I don't know Dublin well enough for it to matter, and with the hood on I can't see anything anyway. Time feels as if it warps. It could be ten minutes or an hour before the van finally stops and the engine cuts off.
The side door slides open, and hands grab me again, hauling me out. My legs are numb from being curled up on the floor and from the cold, and I stumble. Someone catches me—not gently—fingers digging into my upper arm hard enough to bruise.
"Move," a voice growls, and I'm pushed forward, stumbling over uneven ground. I can hear water somewhere nearby, the slap of waves against something solid, and the cry of gulls overhead. The docks, maybe. The smell of salt and fish and diesel fuel is overwhelming even through the hood.
I hear the grinding of a door and the temperature drops as I think I’m taken inside.
The sounds change, turning echoey. We might be in a warehouse.
My footsteps and theirs ring out on concrete.
They march me forward for what feels like forever, then shove me down into a chair.
More zip ties secure my ankles to the chair legs, and then finally, mercifully, someone pulls the hood off.
I blink in the sudden light, harsh fluorescents that make my head pound where I hit it in the van.
I'm in a large, mostly empty warehouse space, all concrete and exposed beams without a window in sight.
There are maybe half a dozen men scattered around, all of them armed and watching me with expressions that range from bored to hostile.
The man I bit is glaring at me, a bandage wrapped around his hand. The one I scratched has three angry red lines down his cheek. I feel a savage satisfaction at that, even though I know it's stupid. I hurt them. I fought back. Sean would be proud.
The fact that I still care about that makes my chest tighten painfully. I’m still that stupid girl, I suppose. I still want him to be proud that I used what he taught me. That I didn’t give in without a fight.
I wonder if he’s pissed at me. If this just proves that he was right all along—that I’m a burden he should never have had to have been shouldered with.
I sit in that chair for what feels like hours, though it's probably less. My wrists ache from the zip ties, and my face throbs where I was hit. I can taste blood in my mouth from where my teeth cut the inside of my cheek. I'm cold and scared and trying desperately not to show it, because I have the feeling that showing fear to these men would be the worst thing I could do. But I can’t keep myself from shivering, both from cold and the way the looks on the men’s faces gradually turn more interested as they take in what I’m wearing.
My nipples are pebbled against the silk of the tank top, my shorts torn and riding up high on my thighs, and I feel far too exposed. Like meat in front of slavering dogs.
Once again, I’m fodder for the monsters who might want to hurt me. And my only hope is that my wolf comes to save me from the others in the dark.
Finally, I hear footsteps approaching—different from the heavy boots of the men guarding me. They’re measured and confident, the click of expensive shoes on concrete. A man walks into my line of sight, and I know immediately who he is even though I've never seen him before.
It could only be Cormac Brennan.
He’s handsome in the way politicians often are, with dark hair that’s threaded with silver and a face that was made for campaign posters.
He's wearing a dark tailored suit with a silk tie and cufflinks that catch the light.
He looks like he should be at a fundraiser or a press conference, not in a warehouse with a kidnapped girl.
He smiles at me, warm and reassuring, like we're old friends meeting for coffee.
"Maeve," he says. His voice is smooth and cultured, with just a hint of an Irish accent underneath. "I'm so sorry about all this. I know it must have been frightening."
I don't say anything. I just stare at him, my heart pounding so hard I feel sure he can see it.
He pulls up a metal chair and sits down across from me, close enough that I could kick him if my ankles weren't tied. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his expression earnest and concerned.
"I want you to know that I'm not going to hurt you," he says. "You're perfectly safe here. You're just insurance, that's all. Bait for your husband."
The way he says husband makes it clear what he thinks of Sean. There's contempt there, barely hidden under the veneer of civility.
"You don't need to be afraid," Brennan continues when I still don't respond. "I know what kind of man Sean Flannery is. I know what he does, the things he's done. You're just a girl, Maeve. A sweet, innocent girl who got caught up in something terrible through no fault of your own."
He reaches out as if to pat my hand, and I jerk away from him as much as the restraints allow. His smile doesn't waver.
"I understand," he says. "You're scared. Of course you are. But I want you to understand something. I'm not the monster here. Your husband is. The Wolf of Dublin, they call him. Do you know how many people he's killed? Do you know the things he's done?"
I do know. I've seen the files. I've seen him covered in blood after beating a man half to death in my garden. I sat in his kitchen this morning and heard him confess to the first two men he killed. I know exactly what kind of man Sean Flannery is.
Or at least… I thought I did.
"He's a killer," Brennan says, his voice dropping to something almost gentle, almost kind.
"A brutal, cold-blooded killer who works for the Irish Council doing their dirty work.
And they forced you to marry him, didn't they?
A girl your age, with your whole life ahead of you, shackled to a man like that. "
He's trying to manipulate me. I can see it clearly, the way he's framing this, trying to make himself the hero of the story. Trying to make me see Sean as the villain and him as my rescuer. But the last sentences strike at something deep in my core. That, at least, is the truth. I was forced to marry him. He was forced to marry me. Both of us shackled to a life we didn’t want.
And Sean made me think it could be real.
"When this is over," Brennan continues, "when I've dealt with your husband, you'll be free. You can go back to your life. You can find someone worthy of you, someone who won't drag you into this world of violence and death. You deserve better than Sean Flannery, Maeve. Surely you can see that."