8. Declan
Declan
Maeve steps away from me before the memory of what we were becomes an excuse to repeat it.
The loss of her warmth is immediate, though my hand remains curved around the shape of her neck.
Seven years ago, I could pull her into my arms whenever an argument became too honest, and desire would consume whatever truth neither of us wanted to face.
It was effective, pleasurable, and cowardly.
Tonight, I let her retreat because a kiss will not erase the execution order bearing my name or the witness-protection documents that ensured I never followed her.
Eamon’s office processed those documents, and I cannot ignore that fact.
I also cannot condemn the man who raised me based on a trail designed by someone capable of manufacturing perfect evidence.
I made that mistake with Maeve once. Repeating it in the opposite direction would not make me wiser.
“You are thinking of reasons it cannot be Eamon.” Maeve folds her arms and watches me from the other side of the bedroom. “I recognise the expression. You wore it when you were deciding that I had betrayed you.”
“I am thinking about proof.” I retrieve my pistol from the table and secure it beneath my shirt. “A concept you might remember from the conversation in which we established fabricated evidence destroyed both our lives.”
“Evidence against me was enough for a death threat.” Her mouth twists without humour. “Evidence against Eamon earns patience and philosophical reflection. It is touching to learn your standards improve with age.”
“The documents passed through his office. Several employees could access the verification channel, and couriers handled sealed intelligence.” My temper presses against restraint, but anger will not transform suspicion into certainty.
“If I accuse him now, the real traitor may disappear before we recover Keane’s hidden files. ”
“You do not need to accuse him publicly.” Maeve comes closer, fury brightening her green eyes.
“You need to stop treating his innocence as the natural condition of the universe. Someone used your loyalty once because you refused to question what arrived beneath an official seal. Now you are refusing to question the man who taught you that loyalty.”
“He raised me after my father died.” The words leave harder than intended. “He sat beside my bed when I was ten and feverish. He taught me to shoot, to negotiate, and to recognise when men smiling across a table intended to murder me beneath it. He built half the organisation I command.”
“And I loved you.” Her voice drops, and the quiet cuts deeper than shouting. “I slept beside you, kept your secrets, and planned to tell you we had made a child. None of that protected me when a file said I was guilty.”
The truth lands exactly where she intends.
I turn toward the window because looking at her makes defence feel obscene.
Outside, guards cross the moonlit grounds while cameras sweep every entrance.
I can secure a fortress against bullets, but the woman behind me knows every unprotected place.
She always has. That was why losing her became more tolerable when I imagined she deserved my hatred.
“You want the ugliest truth?” I face her again.
“Every time I imagined finding you, I imagined revenge. I pictured dragging you out of whatever protected house the federal government had given you. I told myself I would make you answer for the men imprisoned after the raid and for every secret you carried away.”
Maeve’s expression remains cold, though hurt moves beneath it. “How romantic. No wonder you remained unmarried.”
“Revenge was easier than admitting I still wanted you.” The confession tastes like surrender, but I have spent seven years armed against a woman who was never my enemy. “Wanting the woman who betrayed me would have made me weak. Hating you allowed me to keep you without forgiving you.”
“You did not keep me.” Her gaze falls to the lighter on the table. “You kept a piece of metal and a grievance.”
“I kept everything.” I cross the space between us but stop before touching her.
“The lighter. The dress you left in my wardrobe. The book you threw at me because I interrupted the ending. I kept the last glass you drank from until the whiskey evaporated and dust settled inside it. If hatred had been enough, I would have burned the room.”
Her lips part, and for one reckless moment I think she may close the remaining distance.
I remember the taste of her, the soft sound she made when anger surrendered to hunger, and the way she used to hook one finger through my belt when she wanted me closer but refused to ask.
Desire sharpens between us, familiar enough to feel inevitable.
Yet Cillian sleeps nearby because Maeve chose fear over trusting me, and Thomas Keane lies dead because someone still controls the machinery that separated us.
Touching her now would be easy. Deserving the right to touch her again will be far more difficult.
“I am not asking you to trust Eamon.” I lower my voice. “I am asking you to let me prove which person inside my circle opened that door. When I know, blood will not protect them.”
“I heard a version of that promise seven years ago.” She moves past me toward the corridor. “This time, make certain you have the right traitor before you become the Reaper.”
Morning arrives without sleep. By eight, reports cover the desk in my study, three guards have been removed from duty, and Ronan has isolated the safe-house access records from the central system.
Callum is tracing Keane’s missing drive.
Eamon remains in his rooms under surveillance he does not know exists.
I have not confronted any of them. The trap works only while each man believes the others are trusted.
A faint scrape draws my attention toward the adjoining library.
I enter with my hand near my gun and find Cillian kneeling on a chair before the antique chess set.
He wears dark trousers, a white shirt, and two different socks.
The chipped knight rests between his fingers while he studies the board with grave concentration.
One of the pawns has been placed where no legal opening could have taken it.
Either he does not understand the rules, or he is already cheating.
Both possibilities make him an O’Rourke.
“You are supposed to wait for someone to teach you.” I approach the table and turn the misplaced pawn upright. “Chess becomes considerably easier once the pieces stop inventing their own laws.”
Cillian does not appear embarrassed. “I know some of the rules. Niamh taught me, but she says people who enjoy chess are practising to become dictators.”
“She has always possessed excellent instincts.” I sit opposite him and arrange the pieces. “White moves first.”
“You should be white.” He pushes the pale army toward me. “You own the house.”
“Ownership does not grant first move. If it did, most wars would be very short.” I rotate the board, returning white to his side. “Move.”
He opens with the king’s pawn and watches my face instead of my hands.
I answer conservatively, curious whether he notices.
After four moves, he develops both knights and threatens the centre without wasting pieces.
Niamh taught him more than the rules. By the seventh move, he sacrifices a bishop to draw my queen into a poor position.
The trap is imperfect, but the intention is ruthless enough to make pride settle warm beneath my ribs.
I take the bishop anyway and allow him to win my rook two moves later.
“You knew I would take it.” I lean back and study him. “Why?”
“You looked at the bishop twice.” Cillian advances his knight. “Mam says men tell you what they want if you wait for them to look at it.”
“Your mother has built an alarming education around my defects.” I move my queen out of danger. “Do not tell her I said that. She becomes unbearable when proven right.”
Cillian considers the board, then looks beyond me at the bookshelves. His expression changes with the suddenness children have not yet learned to disguise. “There are no pictures of me here.”
The question finds a place no weapon has touched.
Photographs of my father and Eamon occupy the shelves.
One shows me at twelve, standing beside Patrick before either of us understood that our surname was a target.
There are no images of Cillian as an infant, no first birthday, no missing teeth, no school uniform.
Six years of his life exist in photographs Maeve carried across borders while this house preserved dead men.
“I did not know you existed.” I keep my answer steady because he deserves truth without decoration. “If I had known, your photographs would be everywhere.”
“Why did Mam not tell you?” He moves a pawn without looking at the board. “She said you did not know about me. She did not say why.”
“Your mother believed I was dangerous to both of you.” I refuse to make her the villain in our son’s story, even if part of me still bleeds from her choice. “She had reasons to believe that. I made mistakes before you were born.”
“Did you not want children?” His fingers close around the chipped knight. “Niamh says some men do not.”
“I told myself I did not.” I look at the boy whose existence has exposed every lie I lived comfortably inside. “Wanting someone gives your enemies a weapon. I thought having no one would make me stronger.”
Cillian’s eyes narrow with quiet suspicion. “Do you want me now?”
The question is soft, but it strips the room bare.
Maeve stands beyond the half-open door, unseen by Cillian.
I catch the shadow of her reflection in the glass cabinet and know she has heard everything.
Seven years ago, I would have protected myself with a clever answer.
Our son deserves more than the armour that cost us his childhood.
“More than I have ever wanted anything.” I hold his gaze so he cannot mistake the truth. “I cannot recover the years I missed, but I want every year that comes next.”
Cillian studies me for a long moment, weighing sincerity with the ruthless patience he brings to the board. Then he moves his queen and takes my second rook. The boy has used emotional devastation as a tactical distraction. Pride becomes unavoidable.
“Check.” His mouth curves with restrained satisfaction. “You should watch the board when people ask difficult questions.”
“I was concerned about your feelings.” I examine the damage. “It will not happen again.”
Maeve enters carrying a tray with tea, coffee, and toast. Her eyes are brighter than they should be, but her expression remains composed.
She places the coffee near me and slides a plate toward Cillian.
The cup contains no sugar and exactly one measure of cream.
She remembers how I drink it, just as I remember she hates tea brewed longer than three minutes.
Our bodies and habits have preserved a marriage we never had.
“You appear to be losing.” Maeve looks at the board. “Fatherhood has softened you.”
“He exploited a moment of vulnerability.” I take the coffee from her. “I am considering boarding school.”
Cillian bites into his toast. “Mam says people make threats when they cannot win an argument.”
“Your mother has been conducting a smear campaign.” I move my bishop and take his queen. “Fortunately, I control the press.”
Maeve’s hand brushes my shoulder as she passes behind me.
The touch may be accidental, but it lingers half a second too long.
Heat follows her fingers through my shirt.
When I look up, she is already watching Cillian, and the softness on her face nearly destroys what remains of my restraint.
This is what someone stole from us. Not merely years, but mornings.
Coffee prepared without asking. Our child cheating at chess while sunlight reaches across the floor.
Maeve close enough to touch because she chooses to remain.
Callum enters before I can decide whether hope is courage or stupidity.
He carries a secured tablet beneath one arm, and his expression erases the warmth from the room.
I dismiss Cillian with instructions to find Niamh and finish breakfast. He gathers the captured chess pieces into his pockets until Maeve makes him return them.
When the door closes behind them, Callum activates the tablet and places it beside the board.
“We found another access event in the execution archive.” His finger moves across the screen. “Someone opened the logistics mirror forty-three minutes before Keane’s safe house was breached.”
“Whose credentials?” I examine the digital certificate. “The mirror should accept only dormant Gallagher access signatures and current Irish administrators.”
“It accepted both.” Callum enlarges a line of code marked in red. “The user entered through an old Gallagher compliance route, then used the Irish override to reach the archive. The signature belonged to Maeve.”
She goes still beside me. The record shows her former employee identification, encrypted key, and archived biometric token.
The access originated from inside my estate at one thirty in the morning, while Maeve was upstairs telling me how the original evidence against her had been manufactured.
It is perfect, immediate, and almost insulting in its lack of imagination.
Seven years ago, I saw her name attached to a betrayal and allowed rage to answer before she could. This time, I turn from the screen and look directly at the woman someone expects me to condemn.
“Tell me why your name is inside my network.”