Page 9

"I have rights."

"You gave up any rights when you left Dublin without a word. You, Declan are not a dad—you don’t get that title donating sperm, you earn it asshole."

We stand there, locked in a standoff, the air between us charged with anger, hurt. Even after all this time, after all the pain, my body reacts to him being so close. Heat coils low in my stomach, a visceral memory of what once was.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he says, his voice lower now. "Not for a single day."

"Don't."

He moves closer. "Maeve."

"I said don't." I seethe.

But he's already there, too close, his scent making me lose my mind—leather and whiskey and a scent that lingers like blood, it's only Declan. He reaches up, fingers brushing my cheek so lightly I can almost pretend it isn't happening.

"I missed you."

He kisses me before I can protest, and for one treacherous moment, I respond. My body remembers what my mind wants to forget—the feel of him, the taste, the way we fit together perfectly.

Then reality crashes back. I push him away, hard.

"No. You don't get to do that."

His eyes are dark with desire, and I hate that I can still read him like a damn romance book. I hate even more that my own body betrays my sanity.

"Get out."

"Maeve—"

"Out, Declan. Now."

The door down the hall clicks open, and we both freeze.

"Mom?" Conor calls from the hallway. "Is everything okay?"

Declan turns toward his voice, and I see hunger, desperation, and fear cross his face. I move quickly, blocking his path.

"Everything's fine, honey. Go back to your room. I'll be there in a minute."

"Who's that man?"

Before I can answer, the front window shatters. Glass explodes inward as a black thing lands on my living room floor.

Declan tackles me to the ground as the black thing begins smoking. His body covers mine as more glass breaks—the other window now.

"Conor!" I scream.

Declan leaps to his feet and rushes toward my son. He grabs Conor, shielding him as he carries him toward me.

"We need to go. Now," Declan tells me, pulling me up with his free hand.

The smoke gets thicker, burning my eyes and throat. Not just smoke bombs—tear gas.

"The fire exit," I choke out.

Declan keeps Conor tucked against his chest, one arm around my waist as he guides us through the kitchen to the service door that leads to the building's back staircase.

We stumble down the stairs, the sound of breaking glass and heavy footsteps above us. They're inside my apartment now.