Chapter 15: Public Masks

NIMAH

From where I stood, the thick perfume of political ambition clinging to the air like an unwelcome guest, my eyes drifted across the room to where Maeve stood beside Ronan. 

She looked amazing in her Silver strapless ballgown and hairs pinned half up leaving a cascade of her dark wavy hair. 

The ballroom's grandeur was a farce, all marble and chandeliers, masking the far more precarious reality playing out beneath the surface. As an empath I could feel the tension in the air, especially between Maeve and Liam.

Liam's gaze was locked on her, unrelenting, and he wasn't even pretending otherwise. His hand gripped the glass of champagne like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. I could feel the fury rolling off him in waves, his anger a pulse I was all too familiar with. It was clear: he was on the edge of storming over there, tearing through the crowd, but Ronan's presence at Maeve's side held him in place, a visible barrier that Liam couldn't cross. Not tonight.

Maeve must have felt it, too — Liam's stare. She glanced his way, just a flicker of her eyes, and in that fleeting moment, the longing in her expression was unmistakable. There it was — proof of everything they hadn't said to each other, all the words left hanging in the air.

 They were like two magnets, drawn to each other with a force neither could break, but trapped on opposite sides of an unbreakable wall. Her lips parted slightly, as if she might say something, but then Ronan shifted beside her. It wasn't much, just enough to remind her of where she stood, and the mask she'd been wearing all night snapped back into place.

I saw Liam tense further, his face hardening. He was furious. And why wouldn't he be? He hadn't even had the closure of a real goodbye.

One moment they were together, and the next… Maeve was thrust into this marriage with his older brother, a fate none of them had seen coming. The injustice of it all simmered in the space between them, unspoken, unresolved, and all the more painful because of it.

I could feel the rising storm inside Liam, the way it was building. If I didn't do something soon, he was going to lose it. Without drawing attention to myself, I inched closer to him, careful to keep my expression calm and pleasant for anyone who might be watching.

But as I moved, I let my energy extend toward him, sending out a quiet wave, gentle but firm. Like a cool breeze pushing against a roaring fire. I could sense the magic settle over him, soothing the rage that had been threatening to spill over, calming him just enough to stop him from causing a scene.

He didn't relax entirely — he wouldn't, not while he was watching Ronan stand so close to Maeve — but the tight grip on his glass loosened a fraction, his shoulders lowering by a breath. It was enough, for now. Enough to keep the peace, even if just for a little while.

Maeve, too, was still watching him. Her gaze slid over to him every now and then, subtle but undeniable, and each time, it was like a fresh wound for both of them. They hadn't broken up. Not really. The end hadn't been of their choosing, and that made it all the worse. 

They were caught, trapped in a mess not of their making, and neither of them knew how to handle it. There was too much — too much anger, too much regret, too much love that had no place to go now.

Beside me, Siobhan's voice was a quiet hum in the noise of the room. "They're going to combust if this keeps up" she murmured, a small, dry laugh escaping her, though the concern in her eyes betrayed her real feelings. She'd been watching Maeve as closely as I had. "All three of them."

Her last words pulled my attention from Liam and made me look back at Maeve and her husband.

Even from across the room, I could feel it — the sharp, unyielding tension between them. Ronan probably wasn't the type to leave things unspoken for long, and it wouldn't surprise me if he'd already told Maeve she was being too obvious.

And if he had noticed, then the press certainly would, too. In fact, the media had already started to turn this into a scandal. The morning's press conference may have looked like a win for Ronan and Maeve on the surface — polished smiles, carefully crafted answers, the perfect show of unity. By all appearances, it was a success. But anyone who knew them close enough could see the cracks forming, the tension just beneath their carefully composed facade.

The rumors were already swirling. Whispers of Maeve's past with Liam, of what had been and what still might be lingering between them, were feeding the hungry mouths of the tabloids. It wouldn't be long before the press twisted the narrative even further, fueling a fire that none of them could afford. 

And Maeve… she was making it easy for them, whether she realized it or not. Every glance she sent Liam's way, every fleeting look of longing — it was all ammunition for the media, and it was only a matter of time before this quiet storm turned into a public spectacle.

Ronan had to know that. He was too careful, too calculating, not to have noticed how dangerous this game was becoming.

But the tension between Maeve and Ronan wasn't just about Liam. No, this was more complicated. It wasn't just anger — it was something deeper, more primal, a mix of frustration and desire so palpable it nearly stung. They stood close, their bodies angled toward one another, and for a moment, I thought they might kiss, right there in front of everyone. The pull between them was unmistakable, magnetic even, but just as strong was the push of their anger, their unresolved emotions crackling like electricity in the air.

Ronan's eyes were dark, filled with something just as intense as Maeve's defiance. If they weren't about to kiss, they were ready to tear each other apart. It was the kind of tension that could go either way, and from where I stood, it was impossible to tell which way they would break.

I couldn't help but wonder how much of this was real and how much was the weight of their circumstances — the political games, the forced marriage, the rituals, the scrutiny of everyone watching. And how much of this was just them.

I didn't envy Maeve. Being bound to someone as powerful and controlling as Ronan wasn't an easy task. I sensed Maeve's weariness. The toll it was taking on her, even if she wouldn't admit it to anyone, especially herself.

Siobhan, standing beside me, nudged my arm gently, pulling me out of my thoughts. "She's holding up better than I expected," Siobhan remarked, her voice light but threaded with concern.

"She's strong" I replied softly, my eyes still on Maeve. "But she's wearing thin. Something's off with her."

Siobhan's smile faltered. "I've noticed. She hasn't been herself lately. Do you think she's sick?"

I hesitated, considering my response. "It's not physical" I said carefully. "At least, not entirely. There's something deeper. Emotional. Mental."

Siobhan frowned, worry creasing her brow. "I was afraid of that."

I could feel Siobhan's protective instincts rising, her concern radiating out toward her sister like a quiet beacon. It was one of the things I admired most about my wife — her ability to care so deeply. But I knew this wasn't something either of us could fix. Maeve was caught in a game far more dangerous than any of us expected.

Before we could speak further, something in the room shifted. I felt the energy change, sharpening like a blade, and my attention snapped back to Maeve and Ronan.

Declan Moriarty had arrived.

Maeve hesitated as he extended his hand, but after a flicker of defiance in her aura, she accepted, her posture shifting as if she were suiting up for war. To anyone watching, it might look like a simple dance, but to me, it was anything but. This was a battle of wills, a quiet test disguised as civility.

As Maeve, pale as never, and Declan, with his mahogany skin, two opposites in every way possible, moved across the floor, their words were out of reach, but I didn't need to hear them to know what was brewing beneath the surface. Declan's charm was as polished as ever, but Maeve met his every smirk and half-veiled comment with steel, refusing to let him chip away at her calm. Yet, even though she stood strong, I could feel the weight it took from her. She was carrying expectations, scrutiny, and pressure like stones in her pockets, and it was exhausting her.

Ronan stood just beyond them, simmering like a storm on the verge of breaking. I could feel the raw energy coursing through him, the frustration and need to protect her held in check only by sheer will. His restraint was visible in every taut line of his frame, and I kept my own shields up to keep from being swallowed in the whirlwind of his anger.

And then he moved. Cutting through the crowd, he crossed the floor in a few strides and broke the dance apart with an intensity that needed no words. His hand found Maeve's arm, and the air between them pulsed with tension so thick it was almost tangible. They began to dance — a silent, simmering struggle, as if they couldn't decide whether to argue or give in to something far more dangerous.

But just as quickly as it began, it ended. Maeve swayed, her face paling, her energy flickering in a way I'd never seen before. I felt my body tense, ready to intervene, but Ronan was already there, pulling her close. To anyone else, he was simply a concerned partner, holding her steady. But I knew better — this was Ronan grounding her, as much for himself as for her.

As they left the ballroom together, the room slowly regained its usual hum. Siobhan touched my arm, her worry a palpable shadow between us, but just as I opened my mouth to assure her that I'd keep an eye on things, a presence slipped between us. Taking me to the other corner of the ballroom.

Brielle, Coven Head and sharp as a blade, appeared at my side, followed by two other high-ranking witches. Siobhan stepped back instinctively, and Brielle's gaze was intense, filled with purpose. She didn't waste time with pleasantries.

"We need you to keep a close watch on Maeve and Ronan," Brielle said, her voice as unyielding as iron. "Everything you observe, we need to know. Maeve's role is more critical than she understands. And Ronan — well, he's a complication, and the less he knows of this, the better."

A spike of unease twisted in my stomach. The Coven had always been my family, their plans my duty, but they weren't giving me all the pieces here. Maeve was being drawn into something powerful, and they didn't trust me — or anyone, really — with the full scope of their intentions.

Brielle's tone shifted, low and heavy. "If necessary, we expect you to intervene, to shift the currents between them however you can. They need to be close, and they need to be close soon. Our future hinges on it."

I find Siobhan's eyes across the room, a silent reminder of the life I'd built outside the coven's walls. My wife and her sibling — all seven of them had given me a place in their family, a second home with the Hallorans.

 But standing in the gaze of Brielle, my loyalty wavered. The Coven had been my life since childhood; They'd taught me magic, molded me. And yet, for all they'd given, they'd never hesitated to take in return.

As Brielle's words sank in, I realized I was standing at a fork in my loyalties. The coven or the Hallorans. My past or my present. Both families needed me, and I knew the cost of betrayal in either direction.

I nodded, my mind racing. A silent agreement to watch Maeve and Ronan, though every instinct in me said that meddling with their bond wasn't just unnecessary — it was dangerous. 

Maeve was more than capable of standing her ground, and Ronan's feelings were as raw and unpredictable as hers. No, my gut said they didn't need my intervention. But Brielle's demand lingered, a subtle threat disguised as a favor. I couldn't ignore her, and yet, as I returned to Siobhan's side, the weight of my choice settled heavily on my shoulders.

I felt a strange, twisted loyalty binding me to both sides of the divide. And deep down, I feared that no matter which family I chose, someone was bound to bleed.