And then I see him. Brennan, hanging back in the shadows, watching like the coward he is. Our eyes meet across thewarehouse, and I see a smirk on his lips. He came here, I realize, to watch me die.
I’m not going to give him what he fucking wants.
I fight my way toward him, leaving a trail of broken bodies in my wake, and the smirk disappears from his lips. He runs for a back exit, and I try to follow, but my body isn't cooperating anymore. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, and the pain is catching up with me.
I make it to the exit, but Brennan's already gone, disappeared into the maze of alleys through the warehouses. I hear the squeal of tires, and let out a heaving breath, toppling toward a shipping container and grabbing it with one hand on the frigid metal. I could try to track him, but I'm losing blood, and the world is starting to tilt dangerously.
I need to get back to the apartment. Need to make sure Maeve is safe. Need to…
The thought of Maeve is what keeps me moving. I stumble through the docks, keeping to the shadows, my hand pressed against the worst of the bleeding. Every step is agony, my ribs grinding together, but I force myself forward.
I don't remember hailing a cab, but suddenly I'm in one, the driver giving me nervous looks in the rearview mirror. I must look like hell.
I manage to get out the address to my apartment, before feeling as if I fade out for a moment. Maybe more than just a moment, because I hear the driver asking if he should be taking me to a hospital, and then we’re in front of my building and I'm forcing myself out of the cab, dropping too much money on the seat before stumbling toward the entrance. The stairs are a nightmare, each step sending fresh waves of pain through my body, but I keep climbing.
I have to get to Maeve. Have to make sure she's safe. Have to…
The apartment door is in front of me. I fumble for my keys, my hands slick with blood, and somehow manage to get the door unlocked.
I stumble inside, using the wall for support, and try to arrange my face into something that won't terrify her. "Maeve?" My voice comes out rough, strained, but I'm hoping she won't notice. "I'm back."
I take another step into the apartment, and the world tilts sideways. I catch myself against the wall, leaving a bloody handprint, and that's when I see her.
She’s sitting on the couch with Flynn, looking at something on a computer screen, laughing together. My vision washes red, and all I can see is that smile on her face for someone else, a glimpse of the future after she leaves me.
After she no longer smiles like that for me.
23
SEAN
She’s sitting close—too fucking close—to Flynn. They're bent over his laptop, and she's laughing at something he's saying, her hand on his arm, her face lit up with genuine amusement. Flynn's grinning at her like she's the most entertaining thing he's seen all week, and there's an ease between them that makes something dark and ugly twist in my gut. Even in my current state, I can recognize it.
Jealousy.
Raw, irrational, consuming jealousy.
I know it's ridiculous. Flynn is my oldest friend. He's practically a brother. And I know—intellectually—that he would never cross that line, never touch what's mine. But seeing Maeve smile at him like that, seeing her relaxed and happy she’s only recently been with me—before I pushed her away again—makes me want to put my fist through his face.
They haven't noticed me yet, too absorbed in whatever they're looking at on the screen, and I use the moment to try to wrestle my emotions under control. I'm being irrational. I'm injured, and exhausted, and I failed to put an end to Brennan, and I'm taking it out on the wrong person.
But I can't stop staring at Maeve's smile.
I close the door behind me, harder than necessary, and they both look up. Flynn's smile fades immediately when he sees me.
"Jesus Christ, Sean?—"
I ignore him, stalking past the couch toward the bathroom. I need to get cleaned up, need to patch myself up before Maeve sees how bad it is. Need to get away from the image of her smiling at Flynn before I do something stupid.
"Sean?" Maeve's voice follows me, concerned now. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," I bite out, not looking back.
I make it to the bathroom and kick the door shut behind me, immediately regretting it when the motion sends pain shooting through my ribs. I brace myself against the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I look like hell—blood soaking through my shirt, a cut above my eyebrow that's still bleeding, bruises already forming on my jaw and cheek.
But it's the look in my eyes that stops me. Dark and wild and possessive. Dangerous. I'm losing control. Over the situation, over my emotions, over everything. And I hate it.
I pull my shirt off with a grunt of pain, assessing the damage. The worst is a knife wound on my side, deep enough that it probably needs stitches. There are various other cuts and scrapes, the beginnings of purpling bruises, and when I probe my ribs gently, the pain that lances through me confirms at least one is cracked.
