Page 48 of The Captive
I turned to face her fully, taking in the complicated woman before me—enemy, ally, temptation. Connor O'Malley's daughter and something else entirely.
"How could I forget?" I replied, my voice dropping to a register that made her pupils dilate slightly. "It's burnt into my brain like a brand."
Something shifted in the air between us—the same dangerous electricity that had drawn us together that first night, sustained us through Beatrice's twisted game, and threatened to consume us both if we allowed it.
"This changes nothing," I added, forcing practicality into my voice. "You're still a person I cannot trust."
"And you're still Ronan Flanagan's attack dog," she countered, though without her usual venom. "Yet, here we are."
I returned to the pasta, draining it with deliberate focus. "Here we are," I echoed, the words heavy with all I wanted to say but didn't. "And Beatrice is still out there."
Aoife moved closer, entering my peripheral vision. "What happens now, Alexander?"
I plated the pasta, buying time as I considered her question. What, indeed? She remained a threat to my world, yet she'd also become something I'd never expected—a potential ally against a common enemy, a woman who'd seen me at my most vulnerable and still looked at me with something other than disgust or fear.
"Now," I said finally, setting the plates on the kitchen island, "we eat. We rest. And tomorrow..."
I met her gaze directly, seeing the same calculation and consideration I felt reflected in my own.
"Tomorrow, we hunt Beatrice."
I stood at the window of Eleanor's bedroom, staring out at the grounds where my father's enemies now walked freely. In my hand, I held a photograph Barrett had brought me in a box with other things: my father and me at my graduation, his pride evident even in his stern expression.
"Make me proud, little raven," he'd said that day. A complicated man he was, but he was certain about his priorities. "You're destined for great things."
But what great things? Falling in love with Alexander Moore? Abandoning the O'Malley legacy for a chance at happiness? Guilt should be eating at me…
My phone buzzed. A message from Barrett: "People are asking questions, Miss. About the future. About whether you're coming back."
I closed my eyes, torn between two worlds. I could leave tonight. Walk away from Alexander, from this impossible situation, from the guilt that ate at me every time he touched me. Return to Ireland and become the leader my father had trained me to be. Rebuild from scratch.
But then I heard Alexander's voice in the hall, speaking quietly to Coyne about security. The concern in his tone when he mentioned my safety made my chest tight. He'd shown me a different way to live—not just surviving, but thriving. Not just existing, but being cherished.
I ignored Barrett's message and did not respond. I needed time to figure out next steps. Sighing, I shook my head, suddenly tired. If my father could see now, he’d never forgive me,
But maybe, just maybe, for the first time in my life, I could forgive myself.
Fourteen
AOIFE O'MALLEY
I woketo the lingering bite of chains around my wrists and Beatrice's laughter echoing in my nightmares. The bandages were tight, my skin raw beneath them, but at least I was alive. I found a set of clothes laid out—simple jeans and a blouse, slightly too large—and made my way downstairs.
Alexander stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, his body a study in controlled power. The black t-shirt clung to his shoulders, outlining muscles that had been pressed against me in the forest before everything went to hell.
"Three more properties to check," he was saying, voice clipped. "The bodies are being handled. I want nothing traceable."
He turned, his eyes finding mine with predatory intensity. "Coffee's fresh," he said, covering the phone. "Help yourself."
I moved to the coffee machine, deliberately brushing past him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes narrowed slightly, pupils dilating—the only indication that my proximity affected him.
He ended his call and approached with measured steps. "Let me see your wrists."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a request, Aoife." His tone left no room for argument.
I extended my arms, watching his face as he unwrapped the bandages. His fingers were cool against my feverish skin, surprisingly gentle for a man who'd killed so efficiently.
