Page 81 of His Forced Irish Mafia Bride

He didn’t move aside. “Ask,” he said. That single word stirred something in me. Not encouragement or comfort, but something colder.

I took a breath. “Patrick,” I said. The name changed the air slightly when I said it. “What really happened with you and Sean? I want the truth.”

The silence that followed was charged.

He didn’t answer at first, but it didn’t feel like hesitation. It was something else, something heavier, like the space between us had thickened and he was choosing not to step through it. The wind came through the gap behind us and into the house, moving past him. He stayed in the doorway, still holding the frame, not blocking me anymore but not letting the moment move forward, either.

“I asked you a question,” I said.

He didn’t respond. That should have made me stop, but it didn’t. I stepped fully inside anyway, and the sound of the door shutting behind me felt softer than it should have.

“You aren’t going to do this,” he said at last. His voice was controlled, low, careful in a way that made it feel like every word had been chosen before it left him.

“What are you talking about?” I asked.

“You’re not going to dig into things that aren’t your business.”

“Not my business?” I said. “You showed up here because I said I needed answers.”

“I came here because I thought you were in trouble,” he replied.

“I am in trouble,” I said.

His jaw moved slightly, just enough to show he felt it.

“I want to know what’s going on,” I said again, slower now, keeping my eyes on him. “About what happened years ago.”

“You don’t need to think about that,” he said.

My chest tightened. “You’re doing it again.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re deciding what I’m allowed to know.”

For a second something crossed his face, quick and controlled, then disappeared again before it could settle into anything readable.

“I’m not controlling you,” he said.

“Sure,” I replied. “You just had me marry someone to settle a debt that might not have been yours.”

The silence after that felt different.

“Were you responsible?” I asked. The question landed hard. “Were you guilty,” I said again, “or did you take the blame for someone else?”

His eyes stayed on mine, but they stopped searching, like everything behind them had gone silent.

“You’re not going to answer,” I said quietly. He didn’t. And I didn’t need him to.

I stepped closer until I could see him properly, close enough to notice the smallest change in his breathing. “You know,” I said. “You know you weren’t the traitor.”

Still nothing from him. Only that same controlled silence. I nodded slowly, like I was accepting something I hadn’t wanted to.

“Then why did you accept the blame?” I asked.

I knew he was afraid of what would happen if he answered. And that kind of fear didn’t come from uncertainty. It came from knowing exactly what would happen if he talked.

“Maeve,” he said finally.