Page 64 of The Captive
"Alexander, please," Beatrice whispered, one final, desperate appeal. "Remember what we had. What we could be together."
"What we had," I said quietly, "was a night of meaningless sex during a sick game. Nothing more." And I meant every word. It had been a game that backfired big time, all for a twisted fuck.
Beatrice seemed to crumple right before my eyes. I hauled her to her feet by her arm, ignoring her cry of pain. "I’m taking you somewhere you can't hurt anyone else," I said as she demanded to know where I was taking her.
As creepy as it was, the basement in this house contained reinforced holding cells. I'd never thought I'd need to use them for Patrick O'Brien's wife.
Beatrice fought me every step of the way, but shock was taking its toll. By the time we reached the basement, she was barely coherent.
The cell door slammed shut with mechanical finality. I turned the lock, pocketing the key as I caught Beatrice collapsing onto the narrow cot through the small window.
"Alexander," she called weakly as I moved toward the stairs. "Please. Don't leave me here."
I paused at the threshold. "Someone will tend to you," I called out. "After that, we'll decide what to do with you."
I found Aoife in her bedroom, pressing a dishcloth to her throat. She'd pulled the torn remnants of her nightgown around herself, but I could see the pale line where Beatrice's blade had kissed her skin.
"How bad is it?" I asked, gently moving her hand aside to examine the cut.
"Superficial." Her voice was steady, but I could see the adrenaline crash beginning. "She's completely unhinged, Alexander."
I touched the wound with careful fingers, relieved when only a thin line of dried blood marked her throat. I swallowed hard..
"I need to call Coyne," I said, reaching for my phone. "Patrick will have to be notified."
I dialled Coyne's number, watching Aoife as she moved to the window. Even in crisis, she maintained that unconscious grace that had first caught my attention.
"Boss?" Coyne's voice was alert despite the hour.
"Beatrice O'Brien broke into the house tonight. Attempted to murder Aoife. She's secured in basement cell three."
A pause. "Jesus Christ. How did she get inside?"
"Unknown. Contact Patrick O'Brien. His wife is our prisoner, and he needs to know." I watched Aoife lean against the window frame. "And Coyne? Check on our prisoner, but don't open that cell door alone. She's dangerous."
"Understood. ETA twenty minutes."
I ended the call and approached Aoife. She didn't look at me when I joined her, her gaze fixed on the dark grounds.
I reached out, gently lifting her wrist to examine the bruises Beatrice had left—dark fingerprints against pale skin. The sight of them ignited something primitive in my chest.
"She marked you," I said, my voice rougher than intended.
"Not permanently." But Aoife didn't pull away. Instead, she stepped closer, her free hand coming to rest against my chest. "Alexander?"
"Yes?"
Her eyes met mine, pupils dilated with something beyond fear. "I need... I need to feel grounded. To know I'm still alive." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Take me. Use me. Do whatever you want with me. Like … like you did with her?" Her gaze was pleading.
“Like her…” I shook my head and drew my brows together. “Never.” Releasing a deep breath, I added, "Aoife?—"
"Please." Her fingers curled into my shirt. "You know what I mean. I need to feel something other than fear. I need to feel you."
I studied her face, searching for any sign of shock-induced confusion. But her gaze was clear, direct—a woman who knew exactly what she was asking for.
"Are you sure?" I asked, though my body was already responding.
"Yes," she breathed. "Make me forget everything else."
