"Ignore it," Maeve breathes, her hands in my hair, trying to pull me back to her.
I want to. God, I want to. But the phone rings a third time, and I know that it’s not something I can ignore. If someone keeps calling me, then it’s important enough to pick up.
"Fuck," I growl, pulling away from her. "I'm sorry. I have to?—"
"It's okay," she says, but I can see the disappointment in her eyes, the flush of arousal still coloring her skin.
I grab my phone from where I'd tossed it on the nightstand, and the name on the screen confirms my suspicions. Liam Fitzgerald.
"What?" I answer, not bothering to hide my irritation.
"We need you," Liam says, his voice clipped. "Now. There's been a situation."
"I'm busy."
"I don't care if you're fucking the Queen of England, Flannery. Get your arse down here. We've got a problem that needs your particular skill set."
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to throw the phone across the room. "Where?"
He gives me an address, and I memorize it, already running through what I'll need. "I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Make it ten," he says, and hangs up.
I stand there for a moment, phone in hand, looking at Maeve on the bed. She's pulled the sheet up to cover herself, and there's understanding in her eyes mixed with disappointment.
"You have to go," she says, and it's not a question.
"I'm sorry." I grab my shirt, pulling it back on. "I wouldn't if it wasn't?—"
"I know." She sits up, the sheet clutched to her chest. "It's okay, Sean. Really."
But it's not okay. I can see it in the way she won't quite meet my eyes, in the way her shoulders have hunched slightly, like she's trying to make herself smaller. I've disappointed her, again, and I hate myself for it. I can see the worry in her face, and I know what she’s thinking—that by the time I come back, I’ll have changed my mind.
The worst part of it is that, even now, hard and aching for her, I can’t say for sure that won’t be the case. That I won’t come to my senses and remember why this is a terrible idea.
"I'll be back as soon as I can,” I tell her, drawing in a breath. “I’ll let security know to keep an eye on you, add an extra man or two until I can get back.”
She nods, and I force myself to leave, grabbing my jacket and my gun on the way out. As I head down to the street, I'm already planning. I'll handle whatever shit the Council needs me for as quickly as possible, and then I'm coming back here. Back to Maeve. Back to the life I'm starting to think I might actually deserve.
The night air is cold against my skin, and I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the phantom touch of her hands on my body. I've never wanted to kill someone for interrupting me before, but right now, I'm seriously considering it.
I flag down a cab and give the driver the address, and as we pull away from the curb, I look back at my building. Maeve is waiting for me up there. My wife. The woman I don’t deserve and nearly had tonight.
I could have her, still, when I get back. If I don’t fuck it up.
If I don’t remember all the reasons why I should never have let it get this far.
21
MAEVE
I'm still awake when Sean returns four hours later. I'd tried to sleep, curled up in his bed wearing one of his T-shirts, but every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on me, his mouth, the weight of his body pressing me into the mattress. The ache between my legs hasn't faded, and neither has the hope that maybe, finally, something has changed between us.
I hear the front door open and close, the sound of him moving through the apartment. My heart starts racing, anticipation and nervousness tangling together in my chest. I sit up, pulling the sheet around myself, waiting.
He appears in the doorway, and my stomach drops. Something is wrong. I can see it in the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he won't quite meet my eyes. There's blood on his shirt—not much, but enough to notice—and his knuckles are raw.
"Are you okay?" I ask, my voice small in the quiet room.
