Chapter 5
CHAPTER 5
MAEVE
T he glittering lights of the gala cast a warm glow over the grand ballroom, illuminating the sea of sharp suits and elegant gowns. Laughter and the clink of champagne glasses filled the air, but Maeve could feel the undercurrent of something darker beneath the polished facade. Her cougar instincts bristled, sensing the predators hidden in plain sight.
She adjusted the strap of her midnight-blue dress, the silky fabric clinging to her curves in all the right places. Sabella had insisted she wear it, calling it ‘the perfect combination of alluring and untouchable.’ Maeve wasn’t sure she succeeded at the latter. Not tonight. Not here.
The most powerful citizens of Galway filled the room, and, rightly or wrongly, they counted Rory McMahon among them. Power radiated from the crowd—the kind that came from old money, ruthless ambition, and blood spilled in darkened alleys. It wasn’t the first time Maeve had been in a room like this, but tonight, it felt suffocating. The walls seemed to close in on her with every step she took, every polite smile she forced.
Sabella’s gallery had become a sensation practically overnight, and everyone here knew it. Buyers, investors, and critics alike had flocked to Galway to be here, their attention to her sculptures flattering but laced with ulterior motives. She should have felt triumphant. Instead, a feeling of being trapped overwhelmed her.
Her gaze darted across the room, searching for McMahon. She hadn’t seen him since she arrived, but his presence was everywhere. The way people spoke in hushed tones, their eyes flicking toward the staircase as if expecting him to descend at any moment. He wasn’t just the host of this event—he was its center of gravity, pulling everyone into his orbit.
Maeve’s fingers tightened around the stem of her champagne flute as she took a steadying breath. She needed to keep her head clear, to remember why she was here. McMahon’s protection had catapulted her career and that of the gallery, but it came at a cost. Her sculptures weren’t entirely hers anymore, and every whispered word about her connection to McMahon and the O’Neill Syndicate felt like another link in the chain wrapping around her—ever tighter.
“Enjoying the party?”
The deep, smooth voice sent a shiver down her spine. Maeve turned, her heart skipping as she found herself face-to-face with McMahon. He stood just inches away, his dark eyes sweeping over her like a touch. His tailored suit was black as midnight, his presence commanding without effort.
“I was,” Maeve replied, her voice steady despite the way her pulse quickened. “Until now.”
McMahon’s lips curved slightly—not a smile, but something quieter, more dangerous. “Careful, Maeve. People might think you don’t appreciate all I’ve done for you and your friend.”
Her jaw tightened, her chin lifting as she met his gaze. “As I recall, I didn’t ask, nor did I want, your patronage. Is that why I’m here? To show my appreciation?”
“You’re here,” McMahon said, his voice low, “because this is your world now. Whether or not you like it.”
The words hung between them, heavy and unyielding. Maeve felt the heat of his presence, the pull of his dominance wrapping around her like a velvet rope. It was infuriating, how effortlessly he could unsettle her.
“I never asked for this,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended.
“No,” McMahon replied, his gaze never wavering. “But you earned it.”
Before she could respond, McMahon stepped closer, his hand brushing against her elbow as he leaned in. The faint scent of his cologne—woodsy and dark—clouded her senses, making her head spin.
“Walk with me,” he said, his voice soft but leaving no room for argument.
Maeve hesitated, her instincts screaming at her to refuse. But something in the way he looked at her, the quiet command in his eyes, made her legs move before her mind caught up. He guided her toward a set of double doors that led to the balcony, his hand resting lightly at the small of her back.
The cool night air was a welcome reprieve as they stepped outside. The distant hum of the city below provided a soothing backdrop, the chaos of the gala muted by the thick glass doors. Maeve gripped the railing, her fingers brushing the cold metal as she tried to steady herself.
“You’re not used to this,” McMahon said, breaking the silence. His voice was quieter now, but no less intense.
“No,” Maeve admitted, her gaze fixed on the skyline. “And I don’t think I want to be.”
He moved closer, his presence a shadow that loomed behind her. “Why not? You belong here.”
Maeve let out a short, bitter laugh. “Do I? Because it feels like I’m just a pawn in someone else’s game.”
McMahon’s hand came to rest on the railing beside hers, his fingers brushing against her own. She froze at the contact, her breath catching as the heat of him seeped into her skin.
“You’re not a pawn,” McMahon said, his voice low and steady. “You’re a queen. But even queens need protection.”
She turned to face him then, her heart hammering in her chest. “Protection,” she repeated, her tone laced with defiance. “Is that what you call this? Because it feels a lot more like control.”
McMahon’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening as he leaned in. The space between them vanished, his proximity overwhelming. “Do you think I’d waste my time just trying to control you, Maeve? You’re too wild for that. Too dangerous.”
Her breath hitched, the intensity of his gaze pinning her in place. She could feel the charged energy thrumming between them, a current that made her skin tingle. Her cougar instincts roared, torn between the urge to retreat and the desire to close the gap between them.
“Then what do you want from me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
McMahon’s hand lifted, his fingers brushing against her cheek. The touch was soft, almost reverent, but it carried the weight of his unspoken claim. “I want to see what happens when the fire inside you burns free.”
Maeve’s chest tightened, her body betraying her as heat coiled low in her belly. She hated how much he affected her, how easily he unraveled her defenses. But she couldn’t deny the pull, the magnetic force that drew her to him even as she fought against it.
“You’re dangerous,” she said, her voice trembling with something she couldn’t name.
“So are you,” McMahon replied, his gaze dropping to her lips.
For a moment, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them on that balcony, suspended in all that had been building between them since the moment they’d met. Maeve could feel the force of his control, the power he wielded with such precision. But she also felt the cracks in his armor, the vulnerability he tried so hard to hide.
It would be so easy to let herself fall, to give in to the fire that burned between them. But Maeve wasn’t sure if she’d survive the flames.
“I should go back inside,” she said, her voice unsteady.
McMahon stepped back, giving her the space she needed, but keeping his gaze locked on hers. “Think about what I said.”
Maeve nodded, though she wasn’t sure what she was agreeing to. As she turned and slipped back into the gala, her heart still raced, her skin still tingling from his touch.
But even surrounded by the crowd, she couldn’t shake the feeling that McMahon had left his mark on her—and she wasn’t sure if she wanted it to fade.
The cool night air wrapped around Maeve as she slipped away and stepped out onto the front steps, the hum of Galway’s streets offering a momentary reprieve from the glittering bedlam of the gala. She leaned against the marble columns, her palms pressing against the cool stone as she tried to steady herself. The party was too loud, the intensity of the stares in the room greater than she could take. Even here, away from the crowd, she felt as though his eyes were upon her.
She didn’t have to turn to know McMahon had followed her. His presence was a force in itself, a storm rolling in with silent inevitability. Her cougar instincts stirred, restless and alive, torn between the primal need to confront him, the overwhelming urge to flee or to surrender to him completely.
“Running away already?” His voice came low and quiet, the kind of tone that could slip under your defenses before you realized it was there.
“I needed some air,” Maeve said, her tone clipped. She didn’t look back. She wasn’t ready to face him yet, to see the knowing look in his eyes that always seemed to strip her bare.
The sound of his footsteps was measured, deliberate, as he closed the distance between them. She felt the heat of him before he even touched her, the distinctive scent of him wrapping around her like a second skin. When he spoke again, his voice was closer, intimate.
“It’s hard being in there with all those people trying to climb over each other to be seen,” he said.
Maeve turned her head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of him in her peripheral vision. “And what about you, McMahon? Are you above all that?”
He leaned against the rail beside her, his eyes fixed on the city below. The sharp lines of his jaw caught the moonlight, his expression unreadable. “I don’t need to be seen. I already own the room.”
The quiet certainty in his voice sent a shiver down her spine. McMahon didn’t just say things; he meant them, every word underpinned by a power that demanded obedience. But Maeve wasn’t the kind of woman to fall in line. Not anymore.
“That’s the problem,” she said, turning to face him fully. “You think you can own everything. Everyone.”
His dark eyes flicked to her then, sharp and assessing. “Do you really believe that?”
“Don’t I have a reason to?” Maeve shot back, her voice rising. “Look at where we are, McMahon. Everything about this—about you—screams control.”
“And you don’t like being controlled,” McMahon said, his voice low and calm, though the intensity in his gaze told a different story.
“No, I don’t,” Maeve said, the words coming out harder than she’d intended. “I didn’t fight to get out of one lion’s den just to walk into another.”
McMahon’s eyes narrowed slightly, his posture shifting as he stepped closer. He was taller than her, broader, his presence filling the space like an unspoken challenge. “You think I want to hurt you?”
“Maybe not in your view, but all I see is another ruthless man who wants to cage me and hope that if the gilding is thick enough, I won’t notice.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I? Then what else would you call this?” Maeve asked, gesturing toward the party inside. “This... arrangement. The gallery, the attention, the whispers about what I owe you. It doesn’t feel like freedom, McMahon. It feels like a leash.”
The energy between them was a live wire, electric and dangerous. Maeve’s heart hammered in her chest, her cougar instincts flaring as she met his gaze. He didn’t look angry, but there was something in his eyes—something dark and unyielding—that sent a thrill through her even as it made her breath catch.
“I don’t want to control you, Maeve,” McMahon said, his voice soft but edged with steel. “I want to protect you.”
“Ah, but then who would protect me from you?” she asked, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them.
He stepped closer until there was barely a breath of space between them. “You would never need to be protected from me.”
“I don’t need your protection,” she stated with finality.
“No? Then why are you here?”
The question hit her like a blow, her breath catching as she tried to find an answer. She wanted to say it was for Sabella’s gallery, for her career, for all the logical reasons she’d convinced herself of. But the truth was far more complicated, and it burned in the pit of her stomach.
“I don’t know,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Yes, you do,” McMahon said, his hand lifting to brush a stray curl from her face. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt of heat racing through her veins. “You just don’t want to admit it.”
Her throat tightened as she stared up at him, the weight of his gaze overwhelming. She could feel the pull between them, the magnetic force that drew her closer even as she tried to resist. Her cougar stirred, restless and wild, caught between fear and desire.
“McMahon,” she said, her voice trembling. “This isn’t?—”
Before she could finish, he moved. His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair as his mouth captured hers in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs. It wasn’t soft or tentative—it was fierce and consuming, a clash of wills and passions that left her reeling.
Maeve’s hands found his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his suit as she tried to find solid ground. But there was no resisting McMahon’s kiss, no safe harbor in the maelstrom he unleashed. His lips moved against hers with a hunger that matched the fire in her own blood, his body pressing her back against the cold marble of the column.
She should have pulled away. Every rational part of her mind screamed that this was dangerous, that McMahon was the last man she should give in to. But her body betrayed her, leaning into him, her own passion rising to meet his.
His hands slid down her sides, gripping her hips with a possessiveness that sent a shiver through her. The heat between them was unbearable, their breath mingling as the kiss deepened, spiraling out of control. She felt the rough scrape of his stubble against her skin, the taste of whiskey on his tongue, and it made her dizzy with want and need.
But then the reality of it hit her, sharp and cold, cutting through the haze of desire. This wasn’t just a kiss—it was a surrender. And Maeve wasn’t ready to give up the pieces of herself she’d fought so hard to reclaim.
She tore herself away, her breath ragged as she stumbled back, putting space between them. McMahon’s dark eyes burned with unspoken questions, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to compose himself.
“I can’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “I can’t do this.”
McMahon didn’t move. His gaze locked on hers. “Why not?”
“Because I can’t lose myself to you… in you,” she said, the truth spilling out before she could stop it. “I’ve worked too hard to get here, to be free. And you... you scare me, McMahon.”
For a moment, he said nothing. Then he stepped back, his expression unreadable. “You’re not afraid of me, Maeve. You’re afraid of what you feel… what you know to be the truth.”
Her gut twisted at his words, the truth of them cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. But she couldn’t stay. Not with the heat of his touch still burning on her skin, not with the way her heart ached as she turned and fled down the stairs as the clock struck midnight.
McMahon’s voice echoed in her mind as she ran, his words a promise she wasn’t sure she could escape.
“You’re mine, Cinderella. Don’t worry about your shoe, I’ll bring it with me the next time I see you.”