I shouldn't care. If I was any kind of a decent man, I’d be glad that someone can make her smile, that she's not spending every moment terrified and miserable. I should be relieved that Flynn's presence might take some of the pressure off me, might give her someone else to talk to besides her cold bastard of a husband.
Instead, I want to commit murder.
Mine.
The word echoes in my head again, dark and possessive. She's mine. My wife. Mine to touch, mine to protect, mine to fuck when I finally work up the nerve to go through with it.
No one else.
I pace the room, trying to work off the adrenaline flooding my system. This is insane. I've never been possessive over a woman in my life. Never cared who they talked to, who they smiled at, who they fucked when we were done. Women were a convenience, a physical release, nothing more.
But Maeve…
I didn’t want her as a wife. But now that we’re married, I can’t stop feeling like I’ll kill anyone who looks at her in the smallest fraction of a way that I don’t like.
I sit down and force myself to focus on work. I check in with my contacts in Dublin, go over property deals and business contracts, and review security protocols. Anything to stop thinking about Maeve taking Flynn around the estate, about him making her laugh.
It doesn't work.
I swear at one point, I can hear them—Flynn's deep laugh, and then Maeve's softer voice, hesitant at first but growing more confident as the conversation continues with the easy rhythm of two people getting to know each other.
I should be grateful. Flynn will keep her safe. Him being close to her is a good thing. No one will get to her with him guarding her.
Instead, I want to put my fist through the wall every time I think about it.
—
The next twodays are absolute hell.
Flynn throws himself into his work, systematically reviewing every aspect of the building's security, installing additional cameras, running background checks on every staff member and neighbor. He's thorough and professional, and I can't fault his work. But every time I turn around, he's talking to Maeve.
There’s nothing about it that’s inappropriate. He asks her about places for cameras in the mansion, since she’s lived here all her life—she certainly knows better than I do. He goes over the new security protocols, just as I asked him to. Let's me know he installed a panic button in her bedroom, and shows her how to use it. But every conversation has a hint of flirtation in it, because Flynn can’t fucking help himself. I know he’d never actually touch her—he’s my best friend, and the Council would have him killed if he did… although they wouldn’t have to. I’d get to him first.
But hearing the tone he takes in every interaction sets my teeth on edge, especially two afternoons after he arrived, when I walk into the sitting room to see Flynn finishing up with one of the cameras as Maeve sits on the sofa, drinking tea.
“The maids can’t stop talking about you,” she teases, her voice lighter than it’s ever been with me. “Every time I turn around, they’re looking at you and whispering.”
“It’s my rugged charm,” Flynn says, tossing a grin over his shoulder. “You’re the only one who hasn’t noticed, lass.”
“Well, I’m married,” she says with a prim laugh, and Flynn chuckles.
“Aye, to that grumpy bastard. My apologies.”
He’s clearly joking, trying to make light of the bad situation. But the rational part of my brain isn't in control right now.
I walk in abruptly, clearing my throat. Both of them turn to look at me. "Flynn," I say, my voice cold. "A word. In private."
Flynn's eyebrows rise, but he follows me down the hallway to my office. I close the door behind us and turn on him. "Stop," I say flatly.
"Stop what?" He has the audacity to look innocent.
"You know what. Stop flirting with my wife."
"I'm not—" Flynn stops, reading my expression. "Christ, Sean. You can't be serious. It's harmless."
"I don't care. Stop."
Flynn studies me for a long moment, and I can see the gears turning in his head. Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by something that looks like amusement.
