Page 16 of The Captive
"You're on the wrong side of this, Moore," she called, her voice stronger now. "You think Ronan Flanagan values your loyalty? You're just a tool to him. The housekeeper's son, useful until you're not."
I didn't respond. But as I walked to my car, her words followed me, finding purchase in places I'd thought armoured against doubt. Of course it was silly, but no use denying that those thoughts did surface at times.
Aoife O'Malley was a threat—not simply for her position, but also because she saw too clearly. She'd identified my fracture lines with the precision of someone who understood what it meant to live between worlds.
I placed the equipment in my trunk—I'd parked the truck earlier today behind a smattering of trees, just in case—and weighed the options. I should tell Ronan about this encounter. Then again, if I had to do what I really wanted, I'd let her be. Who knew what fresh ideas Aoife would come up with? How would she retaliate for today's fiasco?
For the first time in months, I felt the dull routine of managing Flanagan operations giving way to something sharper. A worthy adversary had entered the game. Maybe I should handle this mess myself for now. After all, I'd tightened security and this place was safe, for now.
I touched the cut on my palm where her blade had nicked. "Until next time, Aoife O'Malley," I murmured.
The game had become interesting again.
Five
BEATRICE O'BRIEN
The bruise bloomedbeneath my eye like spilled wine on silk. I traced its edges in the vanity mirror, calculating the concealer required to mask Patrick's latest reminder of my place. I’d become really good at covering up his transgressions.
Beyond that, the O'Brien estate's opulence—gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers—merely staged my prison.
"Hold still, Mrs. O'Brien." My lady's maid, Elise, applied Clé de Peau with practiced precision, her eyes avoiding mine. Everyone in this house had perfected the art of not seeing. I stayed put, head held high because I had nothing to be ashamed of. This was just like any other day.
"The neck coverage as well?" she asked, her French accent clipping the words into a clinical delivery.
I glanced at the finger-shaped marks circling my throat. "Yes. Patrick's associates arrive at seven."
My thoughts drifted to Aoife O'Malley while Elise worked. Our meeting had gone precisely as planned, despite missing our second rendezvous—that day, the voices had been too loud,colours too bright. The meds had dragged me back into the grey fog where Patrick preferred me.
Docile. Broken. His puppet to toy with.
"You're smiling, Mrs. O'Brien," Elise noted, concern tightening her features. "Shall I fetch something else to calm you down?"
"No need." I schooled my expression to placid emptiness. "Just remembering something from a book."
"Which one?" Patrick's voice sliced through the room as he appeared in the doorway, menace wrapped in a tailored Brioni suit.
"Fitzgerald. The Beautiful and Damned." I met his gaze in the mirror, keeping my expression neutral despite the surging hatred.
"A classic. You don’t come across as the reading type but looks can be deceiving…" He approached, brushing aside my hair to expose my neck. His fingers traced the bruises he'd left, pressing just enough to make me wince. "I need you to be particularly lucid tonight. Alexander Moore from the Flanagan family will be joining us for dinner."
My pulse quickened, though I kept my reaction invisible. "Oh? I thought the Flanagans sent lower-level representatives to these supplier dinners."
"Ronan's in London with your sister." His fingers continued their path down my shoulder, possessive and threatening simultaneously. "Moore handles domestic operations now, and I’d rather see him here, on my turf."
Alexander. Here. Tonight.
The masked man from the hunt would be within reach—the only person in the world who'd seen through my veneer to the darkness beneath. The one who had dominated me completely, drawn out responses I didn't know my body capable of, thenvanished, leaving me with only the memory of his voice and that distinctive crescent scar.
Only, he had no idea I knew.
"I'll wear the blue Dior," I said, voice deliberately bland. "It pairs well with the sapphires from our anniversary."
Patrick smiled, approving my apparent submission. "Perfect. Remember?—"
"Be charming but not memorable. Speak when spoken to. Two drinks maximum." I recited my role with practiced ease. "I know how to be a proper O'Brien wife."
"See that you do." He kissed the top of my head, a gesture that might have appeared loving but carried the weight of ownership. "Be downstairs at seven sharp."
