Page 8

He fills my tiny apartment with his presence, too large, too wild, too... everything. I take a step back, needing space.

"Why are you in Dublin?" I ask.

"My father died."

"I heard."

His eyes narrow. "You keep up with Donovan news?"

"Hard not to in this city."

Declan looks around my apartment, taking in the modest furniture, the photos on the wall, most of Conor. His gaze lingers on a shelf of books.

"You still read those romance novels."

"Why are you here, Declan? At my apartment?"

He turns back to me. "I think you know."

"If you're asking me if Conor is yours, yes. He is."

He runs a hand through his hair—still too long, still falling into his eyes the way it did when we were young.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

The question ignites a rage I've kept banked for years. "Tell you? How exactly was I supposed to do that when you disappeared without a trace? When your brothers refused to tell me where you'd gone?"

"You could have?—"

"What? Sent a message through the Dublin criminal grapevine? 'If anyone sees Declan Donovan, tell him he's going to be a father? Smoke signals maybe? Fuck off Declan, you made damn sure no one could find you.'"

He flinches at my tone. Good.

"I didn't know I was pregnant when you left." I cross my arms, a barrier between us. "And by the time I found out, you were gone. I thought you were dead, if I am being honest. Your fucking family were so shady about it, Cormac told me to let it go. He really had me convinced he’d killed you for a while."

"Maeve—"

"No. You don't get to show up after seven years and question me. You left us, remember? You chose to run away from Dublin, from your family... from me."

The pain flashes in his eyes. "I had no choice."

"We all have choices, Declan. I chose to raise my son alone rather than have him live with the noose of your name around his neck. You will not come and fuck it all up now."

"Our son," he corrects, and the possessiveness in his voice sets off alarm bells.

"My son," I insist. "The boy you've never met, never supported, never even knew existed because you walked away."

Declan steps closer. I refuse to back away again.

"I want to meet him."

"No."

"Maeve, he’s, my son."

"Biologically, yes. In every way that matters? No. I put the guy who mopped the gym floors down as his father on the birth certificate."

His jaw tightens, that familiar stubbornness I once found charming. Now it terrifies me because I know what Declan is capable of when he wants something.