Page 35 of The Captive
"The cottage is surrounded. Every window, every door. My men will be watching, and so will I." I couldn't keep the excitement from my voice then. "Perform for us, and perhaps I'll be merciful. Refuse, and when my hunters come for you, I promise your deaths will be neither quick nor dignified."
I released the button, cutting off communication. On the monitors, I watched Alexander pace like a caged wolf while Aoife stood perfectly still, her aristocratic features arranged in a mask of calculation.
"Madam," one of my hunters spoke through the earpiece. "The teams are ready. Orders?"
"Hold positions. Watch the windows. Record everything."
I felt electric, each thought razor-sharp. In the darkness of Patrick's underground cell, I'd promised myself this moment: when Alexander Moore would understand what it meant to be truly powerless, to have his body turned into a performance for another's pleasure.
"I hear them," the hunter's voice returned. "They appear to be arguing."
"Of course they are," I murmured. "Pride is such a difficult thing to sacrifice."
I switched on the speaker again. "The clock is ticking, my darlings. Fifty minutes remain. Perhaps you need motivation?"
I signalled to Team Alpha, and one of the hunters fired a warning shot through the cottage window. The glass shattered spectacularly. On the monitor, I watched Alexander pull Aoife to the floor, shielding her body with his own in instinctive protection.
How gallant. How predictable.
"Next time," I continued, "the bullet won't miss. And the time after that? Well, I've instructed my men to aim for kneecaps. Such delicate joints, so difficult to repair properly."
I switched off the speaker and waited. This was the moment of truth—would they choose degradation or defiance? Either way, I won. Either I would get to watch Alexander give himself to another woman under my direction, my control, or I would get to witness their brutal capture when the hunters stormed the cottage.
On the screen, Alexander pulled Aoife close, his lips near her ear. She nodded once, decisively. Then, looking directly at one of the hidden cameras I'd installed—how did she spot it?—she began to unbutton her shirt with deliberate slowness.
My breath caught. They chose performance.
"Commence recording on all devices," I instructed through the comms. "Full perimeter watch maintained."
Alexander's hands moved to Aoife's waist, his movements stiff, unnatural. Even now, he tried to maintain control, to treat this as just another operation. But I knew better. I'd studied him, obsessed over him.
I switched on the speaker once more. "Not like that, Alexander. Not like some reluctant schoolboy. Show me what you really are. Show me the man from the maze—the one who knows how to inflict exquisite pain, who understands the knife-edge between pleasure and suffering."
His head snapped up, eyes searching for the source of my voice. In that moment, I saw it—the flicker of recognition, the realization that I had figured out who he was and what he’d done.
"Yes," I whispered to myself. "I know, Alexander. I know everything."
When he turned back to Aoife, something changed. His posture shifted, predatory now, the reluctance replaced by something darker. His hand came up to her throat—not squeezing, just resting there with the implicit threat of pressure. Through my goggles, I saw her jump a little, eyes wide like saucers.
I leaned forward, unable to look away as Alexander Moore finally transformed into the man I'd been hunting all this time—the one who understood that true power came from controlling pleasure as completely as pain.
"Perfect," I breathed, my own pulse racing as the show began in earnest.
AlexanderMoore
The soundof Beatrice's voice sliced through me like a blade, familiar and alien all at once. I had heard it before—at Patrick's dinner party, soft and cultured … and way before then, in the maze during the hunt, breathless and pleading. But never like this. Commanding, cruel, charged with manic energy.
After Aoife and I had made it in here, I had scanned the cottage interior, quickly identifying three hidden cameras—one above the fireplace, disguised as part of an antique clock, another in the bookshelf, a third built into the old radio on the kitchen counter. Professional work, covering every angle of the main room.
I should have known they’d close in on us fast. Big mistake—I should have kept us out in the open. The sky was the limit when not confined like this. I was an idiot.
"She's been planning this a long time," I muttered, feeling Aoife's eyes on me.
"Six hunters that I've counted," she whispered, keeping her voice low. "Military training, expensive gear. Not O'Brien's usual thugs."
The warning shot had crashed through the window, sending glass fragments across the wooden floor. I had reacted instinctively, pulling Aoife down, covering her body with mine. Her heart had pounded against my chest, her breath warm against my neck.
When Beatrice's voice had returned, the threat had been explicit. Kneecaps first. Then worse.
