Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
RORY
T he low hum of the bass reverberated through the walls of the club, a rhythmic pulse that blended with the faint clink of glasses and the murmur of voices below. Rory leaned back in his chair, the soft leather creaking under his weight. The view from his private office offered a bird’s-eye perspective of the nightclub floor—a kingdom of neon lights, shifting shadows, and carefully curated chaos.
But the woman kneeling between his legs with her mouth around his cock provided another thing on which to focus. “Suck me harder pet, I don’t have all night.” The words sent a shudder through her—fear or desire, he wasn’t sure but didn’t much care. What he did care about was that she did as she was told.
Her lips wrapped more firmly around his length. He could feel himself pulsate in her mouth. Her tongue swirled all around him, tasting him, exploring him. Rory groaned slightly as he realized that it wasn’t the woman before him he wanted—it was Maeve O’Connell. How he craved a connection with her—her submission, his possession and the intimacy such a relationship would provide him, not to mention a meaningful and valuable tie to her father in Boston. Rory wondered if her father knew she was in Galway—doubtful.
Rory's hands gripped the back of the woman’s head, guiding her movements, shoving his cock to the back of her throat, making her gag. Harder and harder he began to thrust until he felt his cock begin to swell, getting ready to shoot his cum down into her belly. She didn’t offer him any resistance; she accepted he would use her the way that pleased him. He pressed in hard and felt the sweet release he’d been looking for, but it wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. She swallowed every bit of his cum before he withdrew.
“That was nice, pet. Thank you.”
“It is my pleasure to serve you, Sir.”
A well-trained sub. She actually looked as though she meant it. It didn’t really matter to him one way or another. She rose from her knees and left him in peace. The submissives who frequented the club knew what it meant to be summoned to his office. Although no one forced them, none of them refused.
He controlled the club; it was his domain, a space where he reigned supreme, and he left nothing to chance. Yet, tonight, Rory’s thoughts weren’t on the seamless operation below. His attention had been captivated by a single sculpture—a twisting creation of bound hands—and the woman who stood beside it, defiant and unshaken.
Even thinking about her felt like she was there challenging him—sharp on the tongue, but impossible to forget. Rory closed his eyes, trying to banish the image of her fierce blue gaze. She’d met his scrutiny without flinching, her spine straight, her expression daring him to look closer. Most people cowered when faced with his intensity. Maeve hadn’t even blinked.
And her art—it wasn’t just art. It was a declaration, raw and unfiltered. Those bound hands reaching for freedom struck a chord Rory hadn’t expected, a reminder of the chains he carried as much as a reflection of her own struggles. He didn’t need to know her story to see it in the jagged edges of the metal and the desperation carved into every line.
His panther stirred, restless beneath his skin. Rory let out a slow breath, his grip tightening on the crystal glass in his hand. The animal inside him had recognized something in Maeve, a pull that went beyond instinct. She was a challenge, yes, but also something more—something he couldn’t quite name.
The soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. Malachy stepped inside, his presence as rough and unpolished as ever. The enforcer didn’t bother with pleasantries; he dropped a folder onto the desk and crossed his arms.
“Kelleher’s moving again,” Malachy said. His voice was a growl, low and edged with frustration. “Picked up one of our boys near the docks. Sent him back with a message.”
Rory raised a brow, leaning forward to flip open the folder. Inside were photos of Tadhg Kelleher’s men, their faces half-lit by grainy streetlights. One photo showed a bruised McMahon enforcer slumped against a wall, his face bloodied but alive. A warning, not an execution. Tadhg was playing games again.
“Make sure our man is taken care of—physically and financially.”
“Already done,” said Malachy.
“What was the message you sent?” Rory asked, his voice calm but laced with steel.
“Stay out of the North End.”
Rory’s jaw tightened. The North End wasn’t just a valuable piece of real estate—it was a challenge to his, and more importantly, Con’s, authority. For years, the Kellehers had been testing the O’Neill grip on Galway, probing for weaknesses like vultures circling a dying beast. But Rory wasn’t dying. Not even close.
“And the docks?” he asked, keeping his tone even.
“Quiet for now, but we’re watching. They’re not stupid enough to touch our shipments.”
Rory nodded, filing the information away. Malachy was good at his job, but he wasn’t subtle. He preferred fists to strategy, a trait Rory both valued and managed carefully. There was no room for loose cannons in the O’Neill organization.
“Keep eyes on them,” Rory said, closing the folder. “But don’t move unless they cross the line.”
Malachy hesitated, his brow furrowing. “You sure? You don’t feel like that’s,” he said, pointing at the folder, “crossing the line? Feels like we should hit back now, show them who’s in charge.”
Rory’s gaze sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. “And play into their hands? No. Let them make the first mistake. Then we’ll finish it.”
The tension in the room crackled for a moment before Malachy nodded, grudging respect in his eyes. “Understood.”
As Malachy turned to leave, Rory picked up the folder again, skimming through the photos with practiced precision. His gaze caught on a separate set of images toward the back, and his grip on the paper tightened. It wasn’t Kelleher this time—it was Maeve.
The first photo showed her walking out of the gallery, a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. The next, an image of her laughing with a man Rory didn’t recognize. But the third... The third stopped him cold.
It was Maeve with Alexander O’Connell.
Rory’s jaw clenched as he studied the image. Alexander stood close to her, his hand resting lightly on her arm in a way that suggested familiarity. Family. Rory recognized it now—he had the O’Connell look, the sharpness of their features, the way they carried themselves. Maeve’s brother knew where she was, and if he knew how long before her father knew, if he didn’t already?
It complicated things. Hell, it complicated everything. The O’Connells had been a thorn in the O’Neill Syndicate’s side for years, their reach extending from Boston to Dublin. He believed Maeve had completely alienated herself from her family. If she hadn’t, it wasn’t just inconvenient—it could be dangerous.
Rory tossed the folder onto the desk, his thoughts racing. He’d been circling her since the gallery, drawn to her fire and defiance. But this... This wasn’t just an attraction anymore. It was a liability. And liabilities had no place in his world.
But even as the thought crossed his mind, Rory knew he wouldn’t walk away. He’d spent years mastering control—over his business, his family, his instincts. Yet Maeve had slipped past his defenses, her presence burrowing into the spaces he’d kept carefully guarded. His panther growled, a low, insistent rumble that demanded he act.
A knock on the door distracted him, but only for a moment.
He couldn’t ignore her. Not now. Not when she’d already become a thread in the web of his life.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. “Everything all right?” Cormac Kelly asked as he stepped inside, his expression calm but curious. The Galway consigliere was the only person who would have opened the door without waiting for permission to enter.
Rory leaned back, running a hand over his jaw. “Depends on your definition.”
Cormac’s gaze flicked to the folder, his brows lifting slightly. “Something I should know?”
Rory didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he picked up the photo of Maeve and Alexander, holding it out for Cormac to see. The consigliere took it, his expression tightening as he studied the image.
“Alexander O’Connell,” Cormac said quietly, the word heavy with meaning.
“Maeve’s brother,” Rory confirmed. His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of something darker.
“I thought she was estranged from her family.”
“It seems she’s closer to them than we originally thought.”
Cormac nodded slowly, his mind already working through the implications. “This changes things.”
“It doesn’t change her,” Rory said, his tone sharp enough to make Cormac look up. “She’s still mine.”
The words hung in the air; the meaning between the lines was unspoken but undeniable. Rory’s claim wasn’t one he made lightly, and Cormac knew better than to question it. Instead, he set the photo back on the desk and folded his arms.
“Then you’ll need to decide how far you’re willing to go,” Cormac said, his voice measured. “Her father isn’t likely to let go of her that easily.”
“Especially to an underboss of the O’Neills.”
Cormac didn’t respond, just continued to stand quietly and solemnly.
Rory’s mind was already spinning with possibilities, plans forming and dissolving in rapid succession. Her differences drew him to Maeve. They’d known who her family was, but her meeting with her brother added another layer—a layer he couldn’t ignore.
“She’s worth it,” Rory said finally, his voice low but resolute.
Cormac studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Then we’ll handle it.”
As the door closed behind Cormac, Rory turned his attention back to the nightclub floor. The music thumped steadily, the crowd below moving like a single organism under the shifting lights. It was a world he controlled, every piece carefully orchestrated.
But Maeve wasn’t a piece on the board. She was something else entirely—something wild and untamed, a force of her own making. Rory’s grip on the desk tightened as his panther stirred again, restless and impatient.
The pull toward her wasn’t just primal; it was inevitable. And Rory McMahon had never been one to deny himself what he wanted. Whatever the cost, he meant to have her.
The next evening, the steady rhythm of footsteps echoed down the corridor as Rory McMahon strode toward his private office. He loosened his tie and slung his suit jacket over his shoulder as the hum of his nightclub faintly buzzed beneath his feet. The bustling operation of the O’Neill Syndicate's legitimate front thrived below, but Rory’s mind wasn’t on the numbers tonight, competing with the scale of their illicit revenue streams.
He stepped into the office, the thick oak door clicking shut behind him. The dim light cast shadows across the room, softening the hard edges of the leather couch and the polished mahogany desk. Rory tossed his jacket onto the chair and headed straight for the small bar in the corner. The whiskey poured smooth and sharp, burning his throat as he leaned against the counter and stared out at the city below.
It wasn’t the syndicate’s growing power or the looming threat of the Kellehers that occupied his thoughts. It was Maeve O’Connell. The artist with the striking blue eyes, the fiery spirit, and a defiance that made his blood simmer.
Rory didn’t have time for distractions, and yet Maeve had taken up residence in his mind since the moment their eyes met. She wasn’t the kind of woman he could ignore, and his panther knew it. He’d tried to ignore the dizziness and feeling of disorientation that had accompanied being in her presence, but ignoring it changed nothing. Maeve O’Connell was his fated mate. He felt his panther stirring, restless and insistent, clawing at his control every time he thought of her.
The knock on the door came precisely at nine. David Foster, one of Rory’s more polished associates, entered with his usual calm demeanor. David was sharp, reliable, and deeply embedded in the art world—his connections invaluable for the syndicate’s laundering operations.
Rory nodded toward the chair across from his desk. “What do you have for me?”
David set down a slim folder, the glossy sheen of photographs catching the light. “Dwyer Gallery’s newest acquisition is a gold mine,” he said smoothly. “Maeve O’Connell’s pieces have already attracted high-profile buyers. Her work has a reputation for being controversial—raw, evocative. The kind of thing that turns heads.”
Rory’s jaw tightened at the mention of her name. “Go on.”
David flipped through a few of the photos, showing off images of Maeve’s sculptures. “The gallery’s taking a cut of every sale, of course. But with her work gaining traction, it could become a prime asset. Buyers trust a gallery like Dwyer to legitimize high-value transactions. It’s exactly the kind of operation we could expand into.”
Rory leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he studied the photos. They were of her work, not her—but it didn’t matter. Every jagged edge of twisted metal reminded him of Maeve herself. Complicated. Beautiful. Sharp enough to cut anyone who dared get too close.
“She’s O’Connell blood,” Rory said evenly, his eyes never leaving the photos. “That’s a complication.”
David’s lips pressed into a thin line. “True. But it could also be an opportunity. The O’Connells don’t have a foothold here—not really—and if she’s distanced herself from the family...”
Rory didn’t need him to finish the thought. Maeve was more than an asset. She was a wild card. And Rory had always been good at playing the hand he’d been dealt.
David gathered the folder and rose to leave, sensing the conversation was over. “If you decide to move forward, I’ll arrange the necessary introductions.”
Rory nodded, dismissing him with a wave. He’d already made his own introduction—to Maeve, at least. The door clicked shut again, leaving Rory alone with the quiet drone of the city. He poured another glass of whiskey and crossed the room to the window, the distant glow of streetlights stretching into the horizon.
Maeve’s face was still vivid in his mind. The fire in her eyes. The way her voice had sharpened when she spoke to him, unafraid to challenge his authority. She wasn’t like the other women who entered his orbit—women who flattered and fawned, eager to please. Maeve was untamed, and it stirred something deep inside him.
He drained the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down with more force than necessary. His grip on the edge of the counter tightened as the animal inside him surged, restless and hungry. His panther didn’t care about her O’Connell blood or the complications she brought. It wanted her. And it didn’t take kindly to restraint.
By the time Rory reached his fifth-floor penthouse overlooking the bay, the city had settled into the quiet rhythm of midnight. The property featured a secure, key-controlled lift which accessed directly into a private entrance lobby. The open-plan kitchen and reception area boasted floor-to-ceiling windows leading to a spacious roof terrace, providing uninterrupted views of Salthill Promenade, Galway Bay, and the Clare Hills. A powder room and separate utility space completed the common area. The penthouse had three generously sized bedrooms, all with ensuite baths and outside private terrace access—two at the back and one at the front. The main bedroom also had a large walk-in wardrobe with a stack washer and dryer.
The space was modern yet held an old-world comfort with clean lines and muted tones. Rory barely noticed as he shed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt as he headed for the main bedroom. He needed to clear his head, to force the distraction out of his system before it cost him more than he was willing to pay.
He lay back on the bed, his eyes closed, the tension in his body refusing to ease. The faint scent of Maeve’s perfume lingered in his memory, floral and earthy, like a field after the rain. His mind drifted, and for the first time in years, Rory let his guard slip.
The dream came quickly, vivid and sharp, blurring the lines between fantasy and reality.
Maeve was there, standing in her studio, surrounded by metal, wood, clay and the tools she needed to sculpt. Her hair was loose, with wild curls framing her face as she turned to face him. There was no hesitation in her eyes, only fire—a burning challenge that dared him to take her.
Rory’s chest tightened as he stepped closer, the space between them charged with a kind of frenetic energy. Her breath hitched as he reached for her, his hand brushing her jaw as it slipped beneath her hair and grasped her neck, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheek. The heat of her skin burned against his palm, and her lips parted, her breath soft against his fingers.
“Maeve,” he murmured, his voice low and rough.
She didn’t answer. Instead, her hands slid up his chest, her touch igniting a fire that raced through his veins. The dream shifted, the studio fading into darkness as her body pressed against his. Her lips found his—hot and insistent, and Rory lost himself in the feel and taste of her.
His control unraveled, the animal inside him taking over as his hands explored her curves, the softness of her skin driving him to the brink. He growled her name, the sound raw and primal, as her nails raked down his back, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
The dream ended abruptly, leaving Rory gasping as he woke, the sheets tangled around his legs. His chest heaved, his skin damp with sweat as he ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breathing. But the fire hadn’t dimmed. It still burned, low and fierce, a reminder of what his panther wanted.
And it wasn’t just Maeve. It was everything she represented. Defiance. Passion. Freedom.
Rory swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, walking to his dresser and pouring himself a whiskey as he moved out onto the terrace at the front of the penthouse—the stars and Galway Bay stretched before him. He threw back the whiskey and welcomed the burn to his throat as it helped dispel thoughts of her.
Maeve wasn’t just a distraction—she was his fated mate, and that was dangerous. She wasn’t a woman he could have and walk away from. She burned like a firestorm, and he was already trapped within her orbit. He exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as he returned to his bedroom. Rory knew he needed to tamp down his more primitive thoughts and dreams. He’d never let his emotions rule him, and he wasn’t about to start now.
The problem was, as his fated mate, Maeve was more than just a passing obsession. She was a challenge. A risk. And Rory had never been able to resist a gamble.