Page 5 of The Captive
"You're assuming I follow rules."
"No." I smiled sadly. "You're assuming I follow those rules. Rather, I make them. We have chosen our paths."
Something dark and forbidding crossed his features. "Until fate decides otherwise, then."
I nodded, unable to trust my voice for just a moment. "Goodbye, Alexander."
Walking away was the only thing to do. Every step felt like moving against a powerful current drawing me back to him. In another life, Alexander Moore might have been someone I could build something with—a partner worthy of a woman's ambitions and desires. But in this world, with our loyalties defined byfamily names, with my position set to be a key chess piece, our paths would cross again either as adversaries or truce-makers.
Still, I would remember this night—not just the pleasure, but the rare connection with someone who matched me in energy and depth. A memory to sustain me through the cold, calculated years ahead as I positioned myself to claim my birthright.
The last thing I saw in my mind's eye when the door closed behind me was Alexander watching me leave. I imagined his expression to be unreadable yet somehow promising that despite my words, despite the impossibility, this would not be our final encounter.
Here isChapter 2 converted to British English:
Two
TWO YEARS LATER…
ALEXANDER MOORE
Dawn brokeover another day at the Ashford Estate—chilly and unforgiving. I walked the grounds alone, the dew-slick grass soaking the hem of my trousers. These early-hour strolls had become a frequent ritual since Ronan left for London with Cressida. A time to think whilst the rest of the world slept.
Ten months since the O'Malley estate went up in flames. Ten months since Ronan cemented his destiny in one ruthless night. Ten months since I'd worn that mask and engaged in a depraved hunt, chasing wickedness and pleasure, my breathing choppy as I went after my human prize.
Beatrice Ashford, now married off to the O'Brien heir.
Beatrice, the woman who had so much darkness in her, it terrified even me… Even when that side of her called to mine.
The more I hurt her, the more she relished it. Begged me for it.
Begged me to destroy her.
Something stirred in me as I thought back to that night. My cock responded to that primal feeling. I didn't think I'd ever met anyone quite like her. Patrick O'Brien would use and abuse her in ways she couldn't imagine, pushing her boundaries beyond the limit. Was she loving that, too?
I had a feeling Beatrice was not one to be trifled with. Her ruthlessness and obsessive nature knew no bounds—I could sense that from the first moment I laid eyes on her.
The scar on my right wrist caught the morning light—a crescent-shaped reminder of my first lesson in survival. I'd been seven when the elder Flanagan's right-hand man caught me taking food from the kitchen.
The burn from his heated knife blade left its mark. Not a punishment, he'd said, but a reminder. The man was not as accommodating as the Flanagans themselves—probably why he'd been so good at the enforcement side of the business—and when he'd been discovered tied to a rock at the bottom of a river one summer day by some youths out for a bit of fun, I thought he'd found a fitting end.
I traced the raised tissue, remembering how I'd refused to cry at the pain. How my mother, the Flanagan housekeeper, had cleaned the wound in silence. Then, she'd uttered the words that taught me more than my years in school: "Now you understand the rules, Alexander." One set of rules for the powerful, another for everyone else. I'd learnt to navigate both worlds by becoming indispensable—too useful to discard, too unpredictable to cross.
My phone vibrated. Coyne, a security expert I trusted and had known for years. I'd hired him first thing when Ronan gave me carte blanche with this operation. I handled security but also logistics for Ronan, who trusted me with his life.
"Boss, new shipment numbers are in. You'll want to see them."
"I'll be there in twenty," I said, ending the call without waiting for a response.
I'd spent two decades learning that hesitation was weakness. My mother had also drilled that into me from the moment I could walk. Never let them see you waver, Alexander. They expect it from the help, so they can assert their power. The Flanagans themselves were not the worst though—people around them were hit or miss. Ronan had offered me friendship, but he didn't exactly fit in, either.
Now I ran this place, and those days were just a distant memory. Far from the skinny kid with bruised knuckles who followed Ronan everywhere.
I paused by a copse of trees. The site of the hunt that had brought about chaos and confusion. The place where I'd chased Beatrice until she collapsed against me, her eyes wide with terror and something else. Yearning, perhaps. A desire to drown in darkness.
That had been an unforgettable night. When I'd caught her, pinned her against the wall, her fear had transformed into surrender. She'd seen my controlled demeanour, the preciseness with which I'd handled her, my calculated method to strip her defences. And she'd responded with a hunger that left me quite dumbstruck.
That kind of response fuelled my most depraved nature, something I didn't care to admit. Most would find such tastes unsettling—the way I could reduce someone to their most primal state with a calm attitude rather than brute force, both in life and business. But Beatrice had sensed my nature and leaned into it. Craved it, even.
