Page 49 of The Captive
"Playing nurse again?" I tried for nonchalance, but my voice came out husky, betraying me.
His eyes met mine, something dangerous flickering in their depths. "It seems to be becoming a habit where you're concerned."
He cleaned the wounds with antiseptic that burned like fire, his thumb making slow circles against my palm—deliberate or unconscious, I couldn't tell. Either way, the contact sent heat spiralling through me, settling low in my belly.
"Thank you," I said when he finished, the words unfamiliar on my tongue.
"Any news on Beatrice?" I asked as he prepared breakfast, the domesticity of the scene strangely erotic—Connor O'Malley's daughter being served by Ronan Flanagan's right hand.
"Nothing yet." His jaw tightened. "She's disappeared completely."
"I want to help find her," I said, watching him carefully.
"Out of the question." He didn't look up from the stove.
"I have resources you don't," I challenged. "Contacts in places your people can't reach. I know how Beatrice thinks."
"That’s quite presumptuous… And that’s exactly why I don't trust you." The edge in his voice sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. "This could all be an elaborate setup."
I moved closer, deliberately invading his space. "As I said before, if I wanted you dead, Alexander, you would be."
His eyes darkened. "Then what do you want?"
What did I want? Revenge? Power? Or something more treacherous—the connection that had begun that night two years ago and resurfaced in the most unexpected circumstances?
"Right now? I want Beatrice found and dealt with." I held his gaze. "She manipulated me, used me, and left me to die."
Before he could respond, his phone rang. "One of Beatrice's men survived," he said after a brief conversation. "He's being brought in."
"I'm coming with you," I stated, not asking permission.
His eyes narrowed. "Why should I trust you with this?"
"Because we both want the same thing." I stepped closer, close enough to feel his breath on my face. "And because I've seen you at your most vulnerable, yet here you are—alive, unharmed. Plus, you still owe me."
“Owe you what?”
“You need to tell me about your connection to Beatrice.”
The interrogation yielded results faster than either of us expected. The man was no match for Alexander's methodical pressure. Beatrice was headed for a private airfield up north.
As we prepared to move out, Alexander's phone rang again. He checked the display. "Ronan," he said, stepping away.
Not far enough. I heard every word.
"Yes, I have it handled," he said, tension evident in his posture. "No, don't come back from London. There's no need." A pause. "The O'Malley girl is... cooperating. She has useful information about Beatrice."
When he ended the call, I approached. "Lying to your brother about me?"
His eyes narrowed. "Eavesdropping isn't becoming, Aoife."
"What exactly did you omit?" I pressed. "The part where I saw you naked and chained? Or the one where you've been cooking me breakfast?"
Something flashed in his eyes but I couldn’t tell if he was angry or full of regret. But then he closed the distance between us with two swift strides, backing me against the wall without touching me. His scent—cedar and something uniquely him—enveloped me.
"Careful," he warned, voice dropping to that register that sent heat pooling between my thighs. "You have no idea what game you're playing."
I tilted my chin up. "Perhaps I understand the game better than you think."
