I glance at Sean as we drive back to the house. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. He's staring at the mansion ahead of us like he can make us get there faster through sheer force of will.
"Sean?" I say hesitantly.
He looks at me, and the intensity in his piercing eyes makes my breath catch.
"Thank you," I say again, because I don't know what else to say. I need him to know that what he did today mattered. That it changed something in me.
His jaw works like he's struggling with something. Then he says, "You don't need to thank me for treating you like you're capable of learning. That's the bare minimum."
"Maybe," I say softly. "But no one's ever bothered with that before."
Sean parks the car and gets out quickly, like he needs to put distance between us. I follow more slowly, my legs tired and sore.
"Get cleaned up," he says without looking at me. "I'll let Mrs. Brady know that we’ll want dinner a little early, so you can get some rest.”
Then he's gone, disappearing down the hall.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, trying to understand what just happened. The training, the closeness, the way he looked at me—it all swirls together in my mind, confusing and exciting and terrifying.
I don't understand Sean. Don't understand why he pushes me away one moment and then teaches me with infinite patience the next. Don't understand why he says he wants me too much but won't touch me except when he has something to teach me. I don't understand the tension that crackles between us, the way my body responds to his nearness.
But I do understand one thing: I want more of this. More of feeling capable, of his hands on me, even if it's just to adjust my stance or correct my grip. More of that look in his eyes when I hit the target, like I've done something well.
More of feeling like I matter.
I head to my room and strip off my sweaty clothes. In the shower, I let the hot water wash away the physical exhaustion while my mind keeps replaying moments from the training session. Sean's hands on my hips. His body pressed against my back. His voice in my ear, low and instructive, and somehow intimate despite the clinical nature of his words.
This is dangerous, I think as I dry off and change into clean clothes. I'm starting to want things from Sean that he's made clear he can't give me. Softness. Tenderness. Something more than this cold arrangement we're trapped in.
But after today, after feeling what it's like to be seen by him, to be encouraged and praised and treated like I'm capable of more than I ever imagined—I don't know how to stop wanting it.
I don't know how to make myself small again when Sean makes me feel like I could be something more.
15
MAEVE
The following weekend brings a challenge that I hadn’t anticipated, though after years of being in the mafia’s social circle, I probably should have.
Dinner parties and charity galas are a thing that the mafia elites and the families allied with them often have to attend. All mafia families have legal interests and legitimate businesses that cover up the more criminal aspects of our wealth, and charities, real estate, and other deals are an excellent way to wash that money clean. The thing is… I’ve almost never attended any of these.
When Siobhan was alive, I didn’t need to. She sucked up all the air in every room, leaving no space for me, and with her making the socialite route, my presence wasn’t necessary. I was always just fine with that.
After her death, our family was in mourning. And everything else fell apart too quickly for me to need to take my older sister’s place in attending functions. But now…
Now I’m a married woman. The wife of Sean Flannery, the man who now controls all the wealth and connections of what used to be the Connelly empire. And so, both of our attendanceis required at the next function where all of the Boston elite will be in attendance.
Three hours before we’re supposed to be there, I find myself staring at the dress hanging in front of my closet. It’s like nothing I’ve ever worn before—a rich sapphire blue, with a drop-waist bodice, a full skirt, and thin straps at the shoulders. It’s not overly sexy, but it’s fancier than anything I usually wear, and I can’t quite picture myself with it on.
When I slip into it, my reflection looks entirely foreign to me.
The addition of sapphire jewelry that used to belong to my mother, a pair of high heels, and light makeup only makes me feel even more unlike myself. I’ve managed to pull my ginger-red hair up in an elegant twist, secured with the same pearl-tipped pins I used at my wedding, and I look like someone who belongs at a gala with Boston's elite.
I don't feel like that person at all.
I glance at the clock, seeing that I’m supposed to meet Sean downstairs in a few minutes. My heart beats rabbit-fast against my ribs, and even though the dress is perfectly fitted and not too tight at all, I feel a little as if I’m having trouble breathing.
The last thing I want is to go out in public with Sean, smile and make small talk and pretend to eat dinner, dance with him and act as if everything is fine. Despite the last week of what feels like a truce between us, everything isnotfine.
