Page 15 of The Captive
Her smile was tight, knowing. "This is just the beginning, Moore."
"Is it? I thought we'd started long ago…"
For a heartbeat, something electric crackled in the space between us. I should have closed that gap to remind myself how she tasted, but instead, I shifted to better restrain her while reaching for the zip ties I'd slipped in my jacket pocket. She sensed my intent and renewed her struggle, twisting with serpentine grace.
"Don't," she warned, alarm flashing across her face. "Alexander?—"
My name on her lips—a calculated intimacy—momentarily distracted me. She exploited the opening ruthlessly, wrenching one hand free and driving her knuckles toward my throat.
I deflected barely, and in the process gave her room to manoeuvre.
She was good—better than good. But I was done playing. I caught her renewed attack, countered, and returned us to our original position—her back against the wall, my body pinning hers in place.
"Enough," I said, tone brooking no argument. "This ends one of two ways: you walk out under your own power, having made me a promise, or I carry you out unconscious. Your choice."
She assessed me through narrowed eyes, chest heaving. "And the promise?"
"Stay off Flanagan territory. Stay away from our business. Find another target for your ends."
"That's not going to happen," she said, voice steady despite her compromised position.
I'd expected nothing less. I shifted my grip, moving my forearm from her collarbones to her throat, careful to position pressure against the arteries rather than the airway. A carotid restraint—three to five seconds of compressed blood flow to the brain.
"I respect your loyalty to your father's memory," I told her, genuinely meaning it. "But I can't allow you to continue."
Her eyes widened with understanding of what was coming.
"Wait—" she started, but I was already applying pressure, using my body weight to immobilize her.
She struggled as expected—a woman like Aoife O'Malley wouldn't surrender consciousness easily. Her body arched against mine, eyes locked on my face with a complex mixture of fury and something more primal.
"Shh," I murmured, almost gently. "It will be over in a moment."
Within seconds, her struggles weakened. Her eyelids fluttered, lips parted on an unspoken word. Then she went limp in my arms.
I eased pressure immediately, checking her pulse. Strong and steady. She would wake within moments if left undisturbed.
I lowered her carefully to the floor, taking a moment to study her without the barrier of hostility. In unconsciousness, the aristocratic angles of her face softened slightly, making her appear younger, less hardened.
I brushed auburn strands from her face, the tender gesture inexplicable even to myself.
"You deserve a better world than ours, Aoife O'Malley. A different family," I said to her unconscious form.
Or perhaps Connor had prepared her better than anyone suspected. She'd fought with skill and strategy that spoke of years of training, not hasty preparation. Like recognized like. I had played a similar role in the Flanagan organization—underestimated, overlooked, until I wasn't.
I stood, making my decision. I could take her to the mansion. Find out exactly what she knew, what she planned, who else was involved. She'd come a long way from her father's digs to see to things personally. Why?
Then I turned around and scanned the space. I'd start with something else. Gathering the surveillance equipment, weapons, hard drives—everything of strategic value—I packed it into an empty box I found lying around. Dropping the laptop inside too, I smashed the cameras before taking the portable hard drive from her person. I'd need to take a look and see how long she'd been gathering intel on us before destroying it.
By the time I finished, she was beginning to stir, eyelids fluttering. I crouched down beside her, close enough that my face would be the first thing she saw.
"We'll meet again, Miss O'Malley," I told her as awareness returned, confusion giving way to recognition, then anger. "Next time, I won't be so merciful."
Her hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with surprising strength for someone just regaining consciousness. "This isn't over," she rasped, clearly struggling with her speech.
I looked at her pale fingers against my skin, then back to her face. "No," I agreed, a small smile touching my lips. "I don't believe it is."
I stood, gathering the box of equipment, and headed for the door. At the threshold, I paused to look back. She had pulled herself to a sitting position, one hand at her throat, eyes burning with promised retribution.
