Page 17 of The Captive
After he left, Elise resumed her work, adding another layer to cover the bruising.
"Je suis désolée, madame," she murmured, voice barely audible.
"Don't be." I met her eyes directly. "Nothing breaks that wasn't already cracked."
My gaze drifted to the framed photograph of my mother on the dressing table. Eleanor Ashford, eternally elegant in Chanel, smiling on some Mediterranean yacht. After selling me to Patrick, she'd embarked on an extended European tour—"finding herself," she'd called it in her infrequent postcards. Free as a bird while I remained caged, her perfect sacrifice to maintain her lifestyle after Father's death.
"Your mother telephoned yesterday," Elise said, following my gaze. "While you were resting."
"And what convenient excuse did she offer this time?" I kept my voice light, indifferent.
"She's in Monaco for the season. Said to tell you she's having the most marvellous time with the Rothschilds."
I allowed myself a brittle smile. "How delightful for her.”
The O'Brien diningroom was designed to intimidate—cathedral ceilings, ancestral portraits glaring from mahogany-panelled walls, silver service that had graced the table for generations. Patrick stood at the head, playing lord of the manor, while I fulfilled my ornamental purpose at his side.
"Ah, Alexander. Welcome." Patrick's voice carried the false warmth he reserved for those whose power he respected.
I turned, and my head spun. My pulse started to quicken—an impossible feat, yet both fear and excitement broke through the cloud that filled my consciousness.
Our guest moved with controlled grace. Tall and lean, he had been blessed with features that belonged in a Renaissance painting—dark eyes under straight brows, high cheekbones, and a mouth designed for both cruelty and sensuality. His Armani suit conveyed a message power without being ostentatious.
But it was his hands that captured my attention—strong, elegant, with long fingers I remembered against my skin. And there, as he reached to shake Patrick's hand, I saw it. The crescent-shaped scar on his right wrist, exactly as I remembered from the hunt. A vision from my dreams.
"Patrick. Mrs. O'Brien." His gaze swept over me with clinical detachment, no warmth whatsoever in his expression. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Pleased to meet you." I extended my hand, carefully controlling my breathing as he took it. His skin against mine sent electricity through my dulled senses, momentarily burning through my system. "Please, call me Beatrice."
His eyes narrowed fractionally as if noting the slight dilation of my pupils, the barely perceptible tremor in my fingers. I bitmy bottom lip. Nothing went past him, it seemed. Of course, he recognized me. I’d worn no mask that fateful night, unlike him…
"Beatrice, then." He released my hand. It was as if we were strangers—and in many ways, we were.
If only he could see what he'd awakened in me.
"Shall we?" Patrick gestured toward the dining room, his hand settling possessively at the small of my back, fingers pressing against my spine in subtle warning.
Throughout dinner, I played my role flawlessly—the beautiful, slightly vacant society wife. I laughed at appropriate moments, offered refined opinions on art when solicited, and maintained polite interest in business discussions that carefully avoided explicit mention of drugs, money laundering, or territorial disputes.
Yet, beneath this performance, I catalogued Alexander's every movement. The precise way he cut his food. The controlled sips of wine. The calculated distance he maintained from everyone. His eyes, dark and observant, missed nothing—including the moment when my sleeve rode up slightly, revealing the edges of bruising on my wrist.
"The Degas exhibition at the National Gallery was extraordinary," I offered when conversation turned to art. "His dancers capture such beautiful tension between discipline and abandon."
"You appreciate ballet, Mrs. O'Brien?" Alexander asked, his first direct question all evening.
"Beatrice studied dance for years," Patrick interjected. "Though she no longer performs. Isn't that right, darling?"
The subtext was clear to anyone paying attention. Another freedom taken.
"Some art forms are better appreciated from a distance," I replied, allowing just enough edge into my voice to see if Alexander would detect it.
His eyes met mine, something flickering in their depths. "Sometimes the most powerful art leaves lasting marks on its audience."
My breath caught. Was that acknowledgment? A reference to the night he'd marked my skin with rope burns and pleasure so intense, it bordered on pain?
"More wine, Beatrice?" Patrick's voice cut through the moment, his tone carrying a warning only I would recognize.
"No, thank you." I lowered my eyes, resuming my role. "I'm already feeling rather lightheaded."
