"You actually care about her," he says, wonderingly. "Holy shit. The Wolf of Dublin has fucking feelings."
"Fuck off."
"No, this is fascinating." Flynn leans against the wall, arms crossed. "I've known you for ten years, and I've never seen you give a damn about any woman. But this one—your unwanted Council-mandated bride—she's got you all twisted up."
"She's my wife," I say through gritted teeth. "That's all. I don't want you confusing her."
"Confusing her how? By being nice to her? By making her laugh?" Flynn's amusement fades, replaced by something sharper. "When's the last time you made her laugh, Sean? When's the last time you said a kind word to her?"
The accusation hits too close to home. I know I’ve barely said a kind word to her since the wedding. I certainly haven't made her laugh. I haven't done much of anything except try to avoid her and hate myself for wanting her.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?" Flynn asks. "You don't want her, but you don't want anyone else to do so much as have a conversation with her? That's fucked up, even for you."
I grit my teeth. He's right, and I know I’m overreacting. But I can't seem to stop the possessive rage that floods through me every time I see them together.
"Just stay away from her," I say finally. "That's an order."
Flynn’s eyebrows rise sharply. “I’m here as your friend, Sean. If you’re going to try being more of a dick to me than usual, I can go back to Dublin.”
We stare at each other for a long moment, the tension thick enough to cut. Finally, Flynn shakes his head.
"Fine. I'll try to rein in my natural charm. But you need to figure your shit out, because you're going to drive yourself insane at this rate." He heads for the door, then pauses. "For what it's worth? She's not interested in me. She barely looks at me. But you—every time you walk into a room, she looks at you like all she wants is for you to give her a moment of your time. The barest scrap of humanity. So maybe instead of being a jealous prick, you should actually talk to your wife."
He leaves before I can respond. And I stand there in the silence of my room, Flynn's words echoing in my head.
—
I makeit another day before I see them together again. I’m headed back after going over some of the new security protocolswith Jake and Eddie—whose attitude I swear is fucking worse since the debacle after the shooting—and I hear voices from the living room. Maeve's laugh again, bright and genuine. And then Flynn's voice, low and teasing.
I instinctively move toward the sound.
They're on the couch together. Not touching, but closer than they need to be. Maeve is curled up in the corner, her legs tucked under her, holding a book. Flynn is next to her, leaning over to look at what she's reading.
"Poetry?" he says, a teasing lilt to his voice. "Should’ve expected you’d be the romantic type."
“I remember my mother reading me Yeats when I was little,” Maeve says, her voice uncharacteristically soft. I realize with a start that I have no idea where her mother is, if she’s still alive, or if she died before the rest of Maeve’s family did.
Probably something you should know about your fucking wife, I castigate myself, but my focus is still mostly taken up by the two of them. There’s nothing intimate about it, even I can see that. It’s friendly. But it still makes me see red.
"Ah, a fellow appreciator of Irish literature." Flynn's voice is warm. "Did you know Yeats wrote his best work because he was hopelessly in love with a woman who wouldn't have him? Maud Gonne. Obsessed with her his whole life."
Maeve’s mouth twists. "That's sad.”
"Or romantic, depending on how you look at it." Flynn shifts closer, and I can see him reading over her shoulder. "What's this one? 'When You Are Old'? Christ, that's a depressing one. 'How many loved your moments of glad grace...' Here, let me show you a better one."
He reaches for the book, his hand too fucking close to hers, and something inside me snaps.
"Maeve." My voice cuts through the moment like a blade. "Come here."
She looks up, startled, her eyes wide. There's color in her cheeks, and she looks more alive than I've seen her since the wedding. Happy, almost. Her expression falls when I speak, and I realize I’ve just ordered her to me like a dog, but I can’t seem to stop myself. The sight of her flushed and smiling because of another man makes the possessive rage worse.
"Now," I add when she doesn't move immediately.
Flynn sits back, his expression carefully neutral. Maeve sets the book down and stands, smoothing her hands nervously over her jeans, and I see spots of red on the high points of her cheeks, now, like that day in the garden. She’s angry with me, I realize… and she’s right. I shouldn’t have spoken to her like that. But I can’t seem to back down.
"Excuse me," she murmurs to Flynn, then follows me down the hallway.
