Page 6

CHAPTER 6

MAEVE

I pace the safe house living room, checking my watch for the twentieth time in an hour. Declan left five hours ago. No call. No text. Nothing. I don't even think he has my number this all happened so fast.

Through the window, I watch darkness settle over Dublin. The city lights twinkle in the distance, so normal, so peaceful. A stark contrast to the chaos in my head.

"Mom?" Conor stands in the doorway, hair tousled. "Can we go home now?"

My heart breaks at the hope in his voice. "Not yet, honey."

"When?"

"We need to wait for them to fix the windows, it might take a little while." I cross the room and smooth his hair. "Are you hungry?"

He nods, and I take him to the kitchen. The third drawer down catches my eye—the one with the gun. I steer Conor away from the drawers to the other side of the cabinets.

The refrigerator has basic staples: eggs, milk, bread, cheese. Nothing fancy, but enough to work with, and way more than we have left in ours at home. I make Conor a grilled cheese sandwich, trying to act like this is completely normal.

"Who is that man?" Conor asks through a mouthful of sandwich.

I freeze, spatula in hand. The question I don't want to answer.

"His name is Declan," I answer. "He's... an old friend."

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"No." The denial comes fast. Too fast.

"Then why are we at his house?"

I turn away, busying myself with wiping down the counter. "The windows at home are broken, we can't stay there until it's been fixed, and all the glass tidied up."

"Is he a superhero?"

I laugh. "No, honey. He's just a man."

A dangerous man. A man I once loved with every fiber of my being. A man who left me pregnant and alone. A monster.

"Do you hate him?"

I stop wiping. "Why do you ask that?"

"You look mad when you talk about him."

Out of the mouths of babes. I sit across from Conor, resting my chin on my hand. "It's complicated, sweetie."

"Grown-ups always say that."

"We say it because it's true." I reach across the table and take his hand.

"Complicated, just means you don't want to tell me stuff."

"Declan and I were important to each other, long ago."

"Before I was born?"

"Yes."

“was he your best friend?” He chews. "His green eyes are like mine."

My breath catches. Even at six, Conor notices the similarities. Of course, he does—he inherited Declan's sharp mind along with his green eyes and stubbornness.

"A lot of people have green eyes," I say lamely.

Conor shrugs, losing interest. "Can I watch TV?"

"For a little while."

He scampers off to the living room. The annoying sounds of Bluey blare and I resist the urge to go press mute, because my thoughts are loud enough without the extra noise. A click at the door has me lunging for a knife on the counter.

Conor is absorbed in cartoons, oblivious to my fear.

The door opens, and Declan walks in. Blood stains his white shirt. A bruise darkens his right cheek. His knuckles are raw.

He locks the door behind him and turns to find me holding the knife.

"Planning to use that?" he asks, voice rough. “It’s a fish knife, not very sharp.”

I lower the blade. "What happened to you?"

"I found one of the Russians. We had a chat."

The casual way he says it sends a chill through me. I know what kind of "chat" leaves a man looking like that.

"Where's Conor?" he asks.

I nod toward the TV. Declan's eyes soften when he spots our son. His son.

"Did you learn any Russian in your chat?" I ask, pulling him into the kitchen, away from Conor's ears and eyes, he's a fucking mess.

"They're after me, not you." He grabs a bottled water from the fridge, downing half of it in one go. "The Russians think taking me out will scare Cormac into doing them some favors."

"And I'm collateral damage?"

"You and Conor are leverage." He meets my eyes. "They know he's my son."

Fear slices through me. "How?"

"Look at him, how does anyone not know Maeve?"

I grip the counter to steady myself. "We need to leave Dublin. I have a cousin in Cork?—"

"No." Declan steps closer. "Running won't help. They'll find you."

"So, what, we hide here forever? Wait until they get us? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Until I deal with the threat."

I look at the blood on his shirt. "By killing them all?"

"If I have to."

His voice reminds me of what I tried to forget—Declan is a Donovan through and through.

"I don't want this life for him," I say, nodding toward the living room. "I don't want him growing up surrounded by blood and bullets. Where brothers kill brothers, Declan I won't let that happen."

"Like I grew up?"

"Yes."

Pain flashes in his eyes. "I don't want that either."

I turn away, unable to bear the raw honesty in his gaze. "You should clean up before he sees you like this."

"Maeve." He catches my arm, his touch electric on my skin. "I need to know what you have told him about his father."

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I told him his father lives far away. That's all." I pull my arm free. "I didn't want to lie, but I also didn't want him asking questions I couldn't answer."

Declan nods, accepting this. "I should tell him."

"Not yet."

"When?"

"When we are safe, and I will tell him. Not you."

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And if we're never safe?"

I have no answer for that.

"First aid kit?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Bathroom, probably. It’s your house not mine."

He moves to leave but pauses. "Cormac knows. About Conor."

My stomach drops. "You told him?"

"I had to. I need his help to protect you both."

"And what did the mighty Cormac Donovan say about his newfound nephew?"

Declan's mouth tightens. "He wants to meet him."

"Absolutely fucking not."

"Maeve—"

"No. I won't have Conor anywhere near your family. Over my dead body does Cormac get to play uncle."

"They are his family too." Like fuck they are.

We glare at each other, neither willing to back down. I hate that I still want him. That after everything, my body still remembers his.

"The safe house in Kerry," Declan says. "Cormac offered it. It's more secure than this place."

"I'm not going anywhere with your brother."

"You don't have to. I'll take you."

I laugh bitterly. "And I'm supposed to trust you? The man who abandoned me without a word? You come home looking like—this. I do not trust you, or your family."

Pain flashes across his face. "I told you why I left."

"Seven years too late."

Declan moves closer, invading my space. "I had no fucking choice, I really didn't want to die either."

"And what happens the next time you decide staying alive is more important than staying?"

"I won't leave you again." His voice drops. "Either of you."

He's too close. The scent of him—sweat, blood, and that violence that is pure Declan—it overwhelms me. My body heats in response, a traitorous reaction I can't control.

"You don't get to make promises," I say, voice tight. "Not to me. Not anymore."

"Maeve." He says my name quietly. "I never stopped loving you."

It is like a punch to the gut. "Don't." I stop him.

But he's already moving, closing the distance between us, touching my face. I should push him away. I should punch him, or shoot him. Stab him with the fucking fish knife. I should hate him.

Instead, I stand frozen, caught in his orbit, unable to get away from the force that is Declan.

"Tell me you don't feel this," he whispers.

"I don't."

"Liar."

He kisses me, and everything I've fought to suppress for seven years explodes. I grab his shirt, pulling him closer even as I hate myself for the weakness. The kiss is violent, angry, full of the pain we've inflicted on each other.

His hands tangle in my hair, moving my head to deepen the kiss. I bite his lower lip, drawing blood, wanting to hurt him the way he hurt me.

He groans, pressing me against the counter, his body hard against mine. Seven years melt away. We're twenty-two again, desperate for each other, unable to resist the pull.

"I hate you," I whisper against his mouth.

"I know." He lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my legs. "Hate me all you want, just don't stop."

His hands slide under my shirt, igniting fire everywhere he touches. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing the friction.

"Mom?"

We spring apart. Conor stands in the doorway, eyes wide.

"What are you doing?"

Declan backs away, running a hand through his hair. I slide off the counter, straightening my clothes, heart pounding.

"Nothing, sweetie," I say, voice unnaturally high. "Declan was just... helping me reach something."

Conor looks skeptical. "Why is there blood on his shirt?"

"I had an accident," Declan says. "Cut myself. I'm going to clean up now."

He leaves the kitchen, escaping the awkward moment, leaving me to face our son alone.

Conor watches Declan go, then turns his curious gaze on me. "Your face is red."

"Is it?" I touch my heated cheeks. "I'm just warm."

"Are you two fighting?"

"No." Not in the way he thinks.

"Then why do you look mad?"

I sigh, kneeling to his level. "Grown-up stuff, honey. Nothing for you to worry about."

"Is he going to help us go home?"

The innocent question cuts deep. "I hope so."

"I miss my room."

"I know." I pull him into a hug, breathing in his little-boy scent of berry-shampoo and innocence. "We'll go home soon."

But even as I say the words, I know our life will never be the same. Declan is back, and with him comes a storm I know will destroy everything I've built.

Later, after Conor is asleep, I sit in the darkened living room. Declan is still awake, I can hear the shower running.

I touch my lips, still swollen from his kisses. The taste of him lingers, a reminder of the madness that overtook us in the kitchen.

It meant nothing , I tell myself. A moment of weakness , it is just fear and adrenaline. Nothing more.

The shower stops. Footsteps move across the floor above. I wait, part of me hoping he'll come downstairs, another part praying he stays away.

The footsteps fade. A door closes.

Relief and disappointment war within me.

I curl up on the couch, pulling a blanket over me. Sleep eludes me as I stare into the darkness, my mind racing with impossible choices.

Trust Declan? The man who left me broken. Tell Conor the truth? Shatter his innocent world.

Run? Stay? Fight?