Page 45 of The Captive
"Just give her the water. Boss wants them functional."
The guard—reluctantly—opened another bottle and held it roughly to Aoife's lips. She drank greedily, water spilling down her chin. When he pulled it away, she locked eyes with me briefly, and my heart tightened in my chest.
The taller guard set the bucket down near us. "For your business," he explained awkwardly. "Not that it will help. Boss says we can't unchain you, so..."
"How considerate," Aoife said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
The shorter guard raised a hand toward her but his partner stopped him. "Let it go. We have our orders."
As they turned to leave, I catalogued every detail—faces, voices, mannerisms—committing it all to memory. When this was over, I would find them.
The guards left, locking the heavy door behind them. I returned to working my bonds, ignoring the burn of plastic cutting into my skin.
"They'll be watching," Aoife warned, her eyes darting to the corners of the barn. "Cameras."
I nodded. "Most likely, but cameras have blind spots. And Beatrice is arrogant—she thinks she's won."
Hours passed as I methodically worked at my restraints. Blood slicked down my hands, making the plastic ties slippery—a blessing and a curse.
Darkness fell, the barn illuminated only by a single weak bulb. Aoife had grown quieter, her breathing more laboured, head occasionally dropping forward before jerking herself awake.
"Stay with me," I urged. "Talk to me, Aoife. Tell me about Paris."
Her head lifted slightly. "What about Paris?"
"Your art studio. The secret one."
The ghost of a smile touched her lips. "How did you know about that?"
"I make it my business to know things. What did you paint there?"
"Landscapes, mostly," she admitted after a moment. "The Seine at dawn. Notre Dame in the fog. Things that existed before families like yours and mine poisoned the world. Well, perhaps there've always been families like this..."
The wistfulness in her voice surprised me. Connor O'Malley's daughter—raised to take over a criminal empire—finding solace in painting landscapes.
"I've only been to Paris once," I told her, the confession unexpected even to myself. "Briefly, on business with Ronan. I barely saw the city."
"You should go back someday," she murmured, eyes drifting closed again. "When it's snowing. The whole city becomes something from a dream."
A sharp snap jerked my attention back to my wrists. One tie had broken. I continued working on the second restraint, my thumb throbbing where I'd dislocated it.
Just as the second tie was beginning to give, a commotion erupted outside—shouting, then gunfire. Aoife's eyes flew open, alertness replacing exhaustion.
"What's happening?" she whispered.
"Either our rescue or our execution," I replied grimly. "Either way, we need to be ready."
The barn door crashed open. A familiar figure stepped inside, gun raised.
"Bloody hell," Coyne muttered, taking in the scene. "Boss?"
Relief flooded through me. "Perfect timing. Think you could cut her down?"
Coyne holstered his weapon and rushed to Aoife, producing a knife to slice through the ropes binding her wrists to the chains. As the tension released, she collapsed, her legs too weak to support her weight. Coyne caught her, awkwardly trying to maintain her modesty while supporting her.
"Get her a blanket," I ordered as he cut through my remaining restraint. "And check the perimeter. Beatrice can't be far."
"Already done," Coyne replied, wrapping Aoife in a tactical blanket one of his men brought in. "The place is surrounded.We've got teams sweeping in expanding circles, but no sign of the woman yet."
