Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
MAEVE
T he scent of clay and metal filled Maeve’s studio, grounding her in its familiar comfort. It was her sanctuary, her escape from the hustle and bustle of the world. The noise in her brain. But tonight, even the steady rhythm of her hands working the clay couldn’t quiet the storm inside her.
Rory McMahon.
The man’s presence lingered in her mind like a shadow, refusing to be banished no matter how hard she tried. She pushed her fingers into the pliable surface of the clay, forcing the material to bend to her will. Her cougar stirred, restless and raw, as her thoughts spiraled back to him.
She hated how he’d gotten under her skin so quickly. McMahon wasn’t the first dangerous man she’d encountered, but he was the first who had looked at her like that—as if he saw past her walls and straight into the core of who she was. And the feeling of being disoriented… that intensity, the sheer force of his focus, had unsettled her in a way she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, quite name.
Maeve wiped her hands on a rag, her movements jerky with frustration. She’d come to Galway to escape men like Rory. Men who wielded power like a weapon, who took what they wanted without asking. Yet here she was, feeling the pull of a man she knew she should avoid at all costs.
The clang of the studio door broke her thoughts. Maeve glanced up as Sabella strode in, her heels clicking against the concrete floor. Her friend was a sharp contrast to the industrial disorder of the studio—polished, poised, and perpetually concerned.
“You’re working late,” Sabella said, her gaze flicking to the half-formed sculpture on the table. “Or is this your way of avoiding reality?”
Maeve sighed, setting the rag down. “It’s how I stay sane. What’s your excuse for being here?”
Sabella didn’t answer right away. Instead, she perched on a stool and crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. Maeve knew that look—it was the one Sabella used when she was about to drop a bombshell.
“What?” Maeve prompted, already bracing herself.
“The O’Neills want to invest in the gallery.”
The words hit Maeve like a punch to the gut. Her fingers clenched against the edge of the table, the rough surface digging into her palms. “What?”
“David Foster reached out to me,” Sabella continued, her tone measured. “He said they’re interested in supporting the gallery. Apparently, Rory McMahon himself wants to be involved.”
Maeve’s stomach churned at the sound of his name. She turned away, pretending to busy herself with the tools scattered across her workstation. “And you’re okay with that?”
“I’m cautious,” Sabella said, her voice firm. “But this could be an enormous opportunity for us.”
“So now it’s okay to deal with McMahon and the O’Neill Syndicate because there’s money involved?”
“It’s not like I’m getting involved with them personally. The O’Neills have money, connections, influence. With their backing, the gallery could expand. We could host bigger shows, attract international clients?—”
“And become another cog in their machine,” Maeve interrupted, her voice rising. She faced Sabella, her eyes flashing with anger. “You think this is about art? They don’t care about what we’re creating here. To them, this is just another way to launder money.”
Sabella’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do,” Maeve snapped, “and so do you. I know men like McMahon and O’Neill. They don’t give without expecting something in return.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Sabella’s gaze softened slightly, and she leaned forward, her tone more careful. “Maeve, I know this scares you. But think about what this could mean for your career… for my gallery… for both of us. We’ve both worked so hard to get where we are, and this could take things to the next level.”
Maeve shook her head, the frustration bubbling up again. “I’ve worked hard to build something that’s mine. Taking their money... It would taint everything I’ve fought for.”
“Or it could be the push you need to go even further,” Sabella countered. “You don’t have to say yes right away. Just... think about it.”
“Why are you even talking to me about this? It’s your gallery. I’m just one of the artists.”
Sabella paused as if looking for the right words. “Because Foster made it very clear that without you as a kind of resident artist, there was no deal to be had.”
Maeve didn’t respond. Instead, she turned back to her sculpture, her hands finding the clay once more. The cool, pliable material gave her something to focus on, something to steady her as the enormity of the conversation settled on her shoulders.
Sabella didn’t press further. After a moment, she stood and smoothed her skirt. “I’ll leave you to it. But think about it. Opportunities like this don’t come around often.”
Maeve didn’t look up as Sabella left, the click of her heels fading into silence. Her chest felt tight, her mind spinning with everything her friend had said. McMahon’s name echoed in her thoughts, tangled up with the image of his intense gaze and the low timbre of his voice.
She could still feel the heat of his presence, the way he’d looked at her as if he was daring her to defy him. It had been thrilling in a way she hated to admit, but it also terrified her. McMahon devoured people whole, and Maeve, having fought too long for her freedom, would not let him consume her.
But Sabella wasn’t wrong. The gallery, and Maeve’s art, were thriving, but it wasn’t invincible. The thought of losing everything she’d built, of watching both of their dreams crumble because she couldn’t swallow her pride, sent a cold spike of fear through her.
Maeve’s hands faltered on the sculpture, her movements slowing as the conflict warred within her. She wanted to reject the offer outright, to walk away from the O’Neills and their money without a second thought. But the logical part of her mind wouldn’t let her ignore the potential benefits. This wasn’t just about her—it was about Sabella’s gallery, Maeve’s art, and both of their futures.
The thought made her heart hurt. Rory’s involvement was the complication she couldn’t get past. His presence was like a storm, unpredictable and dangerous, pulling her toward him even as her instincts screamed to stay away.
Maeve stepped back from the sculpture. Her reflection stared back at her from the smudged glass of a nearby window, her expression tight with frustration. She hated feeling trapped, cornered by forces she couldn’t control.
And yet, part of her wondered if this was what she’d been searching for all along. Not the danger, but the fire. The thrill of something bigger, something that pushed her beyond the limits she’d set for herself.
Maeve’s fingers brushed against the edge of her worktable, her gaze drifting to the unfinished sculpture. The bound hands stared back at her, frozen in their eternal struggle. She could feel the significance of the choice before her, the lines between freedom and captivity blurring in ways she hadn’t expected.
Rory McMahon was a risk. A temptation. But he was also a challenge—a force that refused to be ignored. And Maeve wasn’t sure how she wanted to handle him… or herself.
She exhaled slowly, the decision still out of reach. For now, all she could do was wait. Wait, and hope that when the moment came, she’d have the strength to choose the right path, but the question remained, which was the right path?
The steady tap of Maeve’s sculpting tool against the clay echoed through the studio, a rhythmic sound that usually helped her focus. Tonight, it did little to calm the turmoil swirling in her chest. The raw edges of her latest piece jutted upward like jagged teeth, unfinished and untamed—much like her own thoughts.
She exhaled sharply, wiping her hands on her apron as she stepped back to study the work. The bound hands were there again, their fingers stretched as if clawing for freedom. The symbolism wasn’t subtle, but subtlety wasn’t her strength. She created what she felt, and lately, she felt like she was suffocating.
A knock at the door broke her focus. Maeve frowned, glancing at the clock. It was late, and Sabella had left. She wasn’t expecting anyone—not at this hour. Still, she crossed the room, her hand hesitating on the handle for a moment before pulling it open.
Rory McMahon filled the doorway.
Her breath caught as she took him in. The sharp cut of his suit, the dark glint in his eyes, the sheer force of his presence—it was overwhelming, the way he seemed to command the space without effort. His gaze swept over her, taking in the streaks of clay on her hands and the faint smudge of charcoal on her cheek. She felt exposed, as if he were cataloging every detail, every flaw.
“Miss O’Connell,” he said smoothly, his voice low and rich like the whiskey she imagined he drank.
“Mr. McMahon,” she replied, forcing her tone to stay steady. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door, though she didn’t step back. “What brings you to my studio at this hour?”
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking past her to the sculptures scattered throughout the space. “I thought it was time we spoke. In private.”
Maeve hesitated. Her instincts screamed at her to slam the door in his face, but there was something about the way he said it, the quiet authority in his tone, that made her pause. Against her better judgment, she stepped aside, letting him in.
McMahon’s presence filled the studio like dark clouds gathering on the horizon, quiet but menacing. He moved slowly, deliberately, his eyes scanning the room as if he were assessing every detail. Maeve crossed her arms, leaning against her worktable as she watched him.
“You could have made an appointment,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. “I’m sure Sabella would have been happy to arrange something.”
“I’m not a man who waits for appointments,” he replied, his gaze locking onto hers. “When something needs to be done, I do it.”
Maeve raised a brow, ignoring the way her heart skipped at the weight of his attention. “And what, exactly, needs to be done?”
He stepped closer, the space between them shrinking with every deliberate movement. “The O’Neills are prepared to invest in your friend’s gallery and in you. Generously.”
Her stomach twisted at his words, her mind flashing to Sabella’s earlier warning. She straightened, her chin lifting in defiance. “Why? What do the O’Neills want with Sabella’s gallery or my sculptures?”
McMahon’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It was a predatory expression, one that made her nerve endings tingle. “I recognize potential when I see it, Miss O’Connell. Your work has value. We’re offering you an opportunity to reach heights you and your friend couldn’t achieve on your own.”
“And what do you get in return?” she challenged, her voice laced with suspicion. “A front for your operations? A way to clean your money?”
His expression darkened, and for a moment, she thought she might have pushed too far. But instead of anger, there was something else in his eyes—respect, maybe, or the faintest hint of amusement.
“You think I need your gallery for that?” he asked, his voice soft but cutting.
His words stung, but Maeve refused to let it show. She uncrossed her arms, stepping away from the table and closer to him, her cougar instincts stirring. “Then why are you here, McMahon?”
Using his last name hung in the air between them, a minor act of defiance that made his gaze sharpen. He stepped closer, the heat of him radiating across the narrow space. She could feel the tension crackling, thick and charged, and her breath hitched as he leaned down, his voice low and intimate.
“Because I see something in you,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “Something that calls to me in a very primitive way, and I think you see it too.”
Her heart thundered in her chest, her throat tightening as his words wrapped around her. There was no denying the pull between them, the magnetic force that had been there from the moment they’d locked eyes at the gallery. It terrified her, the way her body reacted to him, the way her cougar clawed at the edges of her control, wanting to get closer.
“You’re wrong,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I don’t need or want your help.”
McMahon’s hand brushed against hers, his fingers curling around her hand. The barest contact, but it was enough to send a jolt of heat racing through her veins. He tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes gleaming as he studied her.
“I don’t believe you,” he murmured. “You may think you don’t need my help, but if you’re going to be honest with yourself, at least admit you want it.”
Maeve’s breath caught, her cheeks flushing with a mix of anger and something far more dangerous. She yanked her hand away, stepping back to put distance between them. “You know nothing about me.”
“I know enough,” he replied, his voice as steady as ever. “Enough to know you’re not afraid of me.”
Her lips parted, the denial on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Because it wasn’t fear that coursed through her when he looked at her like that—it was fire.
“I think you should leave,” she said finally, her tone sharper than she intended.
McMahon studied her for a moment longer, as if weighing his options. Then he stepped back, giving her the space she desperately needed to breathe. But even as he turned toward the door, his presence lingered, an unshakable shadow that filled the room.
As he reached the door, he paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder. “Think about my offer, Maeve. You know where to find me.”
And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him. Maeve exhaled shakily, her body still humming from the encounter. She pressed a hand to her chest, willing her racing heart to slow.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t ignore the heat he’d left behind. Or the fire he’d ignited.