Page 150 of Override

Movement. The dark outline of the SUV. Two figures.

Maeve.

Everything inside me goes cold. Then I run faster.

Chapter 31

Maeve

The instant Ronan’s hand falls away, mine replaces it.

My palm presses against my throat as though I can erase the memory of his fingers by covering the place they were. Air rushes into my lungs, too fast and too shallow, every breath scraping over something tender that hadn’t been there moments ago.

He isn’t touching me anymore. I know that.

I can see the distance between us. Barely three feet of polished concrete, but it feels wider than the entire house. His arms hang at his sides. His chest rises and falls beneath the perfectly tailored jacket he chose for tonight, the fabric still smooth and unwrinkled despite what just happened.

Everything about him looks the same. That may be the most terrifying part.

There should be some visible difference between the man I married and the one whose grip had closed around my throat. Something obvious enough that I can point to it and understand exactly when one became the other.

There isn’t.

Ronan still has the same carefully styled hair. The same expensive watch. The same mouth that kissed my forehead this morning before reminding me what time I needed to be ready.

Only his eyes are different.

They move over my face as though he’s searching for something he can say to pull the last few minutes back inside himself. His gaze drops to the hand I’m holding against my neck before falling to his own.

His fingers flex. A flicker of disbelief passes over his face, and for the briefest moment, I think he truly doesn’t understand what they’ve done.

“Maeve.” My name emerges quietly, almost reverently, as if speaking softly can change the fact that those same lips had been forming angry words while his fingers tightened.

I take a step away from him. I don’t decide to do it. My body moves before my mind catches up, my heel scraping across the garage floor as every instinct I have tries to create more space.

His face collapses. I flinched from my husband. The realization settles between us, heavy enough that neither of us can pretend not to feel it.

“No.” He shakes his head, taking one reflexive step toward me before stopping himself. “No, sweetheart. I didn’t—”

“Don’t.” My voice barely carries through the garage, but it stops him more effectively than a scream ever could.

I can’t scream.

The knowledge sits beneath the panic, cold and practical. Declan is somewhere outside. The other guards are positioned near the drive and the gate. One raised voice would bring all of them running, and I don’t know what frightens me more—the thought of being alone with Ronan or the thought of being surrounded by men whose only loyalty is to him.

Ronan’s hand lifts halfway between us. He seems to realize what he’s doing and lowers it again.

“I’m sorry.” The words should matter.

For months, I’ve waited for them.

Every time he dismissed something I wanted. Every time another piece of my life disappeared beneath the explanation that he was protecting me. Every time I stood in the spare bathroom and tried to remember whether marriage was supposed to feel this lonely.

I imagined an apology would loosen the knot inside my chest. Instead, it makes something twist tighter.

“I lost my temper,” he continues when I say nothing. “You kept pushing, and I—”

His mouth snaps closed. He hears it. So do I. The blame buried inside the apology.