Page 4

CHAPTER 4

MAEVE

I 'm pulling the food out the oven when there's a knock at the door. I freeze, checking the clock—7:30 PM, too late for the mail carrier and too early for Mrs. O'Malley from downstairs who tends to bring up her baking at odd hours. I am not expecting a delivery either.

"Mom? Who is it?" Conor calls from the living room where he's doing his homework.

"Stay there," I tell him, putting down the hot dish and wiping my hands on a kitchen towel.

A second knock, harder this time.

I am tempted to ignore it, but the locks in this building aren't great, and I've noticed strange cars parked across the street for the past week. My mom-senses are screaming that something is not quite right about a visit at this hour.

When I look through the peephole, it's black. Someone is covering it. My heart races as I back away.

"Maeve." The voice hits me like a tidal wave.

A voice I haven't heard in seven years.

A voice I've tried to forget.

"Maeve, I know you're in there."

Conor appears at the edge of the kitchen. "Mom?"

I motion for him to stay back and take a deep breath, summoning every ounce of courage I have.

"Go to your room," I tell Conor.

"But—"

"Now, Conor."

He hears the edge in my voice and listens, though I see the confusion in his eyes—eyes so like his father's that it hurts to look at them sometimes.

When the bedroom door clicks shut, I unlock the front door but leave the security chain on. I open it just enough to confirm what I already know.

Declan Donovan is standing in my hallway, his frame filling the narrow space. Older, harder, with scars I don't recognize, but still Declan. He is still the man who broke my heart and left me to pick up the pieces. Still a monster in the dark.

"What are you doing here?" I keep my voice low, aware that Conor is just down the hall.

"Let me in, Maeve."

"No."

His green eyes, the same ones that haunt me every single time my son gets mad, darken. "Please. We need to talk."

"We have nothing to talk about."

He leans closer to the gap in the door. "I saw him, Maeve."

My blood turns to ice. Of course he did. Conor is his mirror image.

"Go away, Declan."

"He's my son, isn't he?"

The question knocks the air from my lungs. All these years of secrecy, of protecting Conor from the Donovan legacy, shattered in an instant.

"Lower your voice." I glance behind me, making sure Conor hasn't snuck out.

"Let me in." There's an edge to his voice now. "There are men watching your building. Did you know that?"

The mysterious car. The feeling of being watched. Fear slides down my spine.

I close the door, unhook the chain, and open it again. Declan steps inside before I can change my mind.

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.

"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.

"My car is around the corner," Declan says as we burst into the alley behind the building.

Conor clings to him, face buried against Declan's shoulder, terrified. The sight of my son in his father's arms—a picture I never thought I'd see—I melt a little even in the chaos.

There is a black SUV parked in the shadows. Declan unlocks it and helps Conor into the back seat.

"Get in," he tells me.

"My purse, my phone?—"

"Are not worth dying for, get in."

A shout from the building's back entrance scares me into listening. Shadows move in the doorway.

I climb in next to Conor, pulling him close as Declan jumps into the driver's seat. The engine roars to life, and we peel away from the curb, tires squealing.

"Mom, what's happening? Who is he?"

I meet Declan's eyes in the rearview mirror. In them, I see a promise of protection, but also a reckoning delayed too long.

"An old friend," I tell my son. "He's going to help us."

Declan's hands tighten on the steering wheel as he navigates through back streets, putting distance between us and whoever broke into my home.

"I'm taking you somewhere safe," he says.

I want to argue, to demand he take us to the police or to my mother's house in the countryside. But the look in his eyes and the set of his jaw tells me it would be pointless.

Just like that, Declan Donovan is back in my life, dragging danger and chaos in his wake.