Page 67 of The Captive
"At least a dozen. Armed and positioning for confrontation. He's demanding his wife."
I helped Aoife to her feet, both of us dressing quickly. Through my office windows, I could see the convoy of black SUVs arranged defensively on the front drive. Men in tactical gear filed out of the vehicles.
I activated the external security cameras, watching as Patrick O'Brien emerged from the lead vehicle. Even from a distance, I could see the cold fury in his posture.
He'd come for his wife. And he'd brought an army to get her back.
"Where is she?" His voice carried across the grounds, amplified by a megaphone.
This was about to become very complicated.
Twenty
AOIFE O'MALLEY
The afterglowof Alexander's touch still hummed through my veins when the sound of engines shattered the night air. Shame crashed over me immediately. What was I doing? This man had helped orchestrate my father's death, had been there when our estate burned. Yet my body still thrummed with satisfaction from his touch, and that betrayal of everything I should feel made my stomach churn. I should hate him. Instead, I craved more of his hands on my skin, and that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
The silk bonds had left faint red marks on my wrists—marks I found myself cherishing. Loving.
"Boss," Coyne's voice crackled through Alexander's phone, sharp with tension. "We have a problem. Patrick O'Brien is here. Three cars, armed escort."
The warmth drained from my body as reality crashed back. Alexander was already moving, his powerful frame coiling with lethal grace as he reached for his clothes. The sight of him shifting from lover to all business sent an unwelcome thrillthrough me—even now, even in crisis, I couldn't stop wanting him.
"How many men?" he asked, phone pressed to his ear as he yanked on his pants.
"At least a dozen. Armed and positioning for confrontation. He's demanding his wife."
Through the window, I could see the convoy of black SUVs arranged on the front drive. Fear clawed at my throat—not of the men with guns, but of what this meant. Of how quickly the fragile peace between families such as ours could shatter.
Alexander's jaw tightened as he pulled on his shirt. "Keep them outside the house. Nobody crosses the threshold without my explicit permission."
I sat up, reaching for my discarded clothes as Alexander continued to bark off orders to Coyne. My body protested, muscles still trembling, but the adrenaline was quickly burning away the haze of satisfaction. The shift from blissful intimacy to senses on alert left me feeling emotionally whiplashed.
He ended the call and turned to me, already reaching into his nightstand. The Glock he handed me was smaller than his service weapon but no less deadly.
"Safety's off," he said, his eyes serious as they met mine. "You know how to use this?"
"My father didn't raise an ornament," I replied, checking the chamber with practiced efficiency. He might have been an arsehole, but at least he’d showed up in that regard—making sure I was prepared. The familiar weight of the weapon grounded me, pushing back the lingering vulnerability from our lovemaking. "But I'm not hiding up here like some helpless princess."
Alexander's expression hardened. "Aoife, this isn't a discussion. You stay in this room, lock the door?—"
"Fuck that." I stood, pulling on my jeans with sharp, angry movements. The protective instinct in his voice should have annoyed me, but instead it sent a confusing warmth through my chest. When had anyone ever tried to shield me from danger? "I'm not some delicate flower who needs protecting."
"This isn't about being delicate," he snapped, moving toward the door. "This is about not giving Patrick O'Brien a second target."
I caught his arm as he reached for the handle, my fingers digging into his bicep. The contact sent electricity racing up my arm—there were armed men outside, an emergency situation to deal with, yet I couldn't touch him without my body responding. Awful. "And I handled her just fine, didn't I? Besides, this concerns me. Beatrice came after me, tried to murder me in my sleep."
Alexander's eyes flashed with something between frustration and admiration. "You're not thinking clearly. What just happened?—"
"Is exactly why I need to be down there," I interrupted, reaching for one of his t-shirts. The black cotton hung loose on my smaller frame, carrying his scent—an odd source of comfort. "Patrick needs to see how his insane his wife is. And how she failed."
I saw the moment he realised I wouldn't be swayed. The reluctant acceptance in his expression couldn’t be missed.
"If you come down there," he said finally, "you stay behind me. And if shooting starts?—"
"I'm not an amateur, Alexander." The admission slipped out before I could stop it: "I've been in … such difficult situations before."
His eyes darkened at that confession—another reminder of how much we still didn't know about each other. The hunger inhis gaze, even in the face of danger, sent heat pooling between my thighs.
