Page 77 of The Captive
"Yes, sir. Exactly as you specified."
"Good. I'll need it in two hours."
"Everything will be perfect, Mr. Flanagan."
Perfect. It had to be perfect. Because tonight, in the gardens where we'd slowly discovered each other, where roses bloomed despite the blood that had been spilled on this ground, I was going to ask Cressida Ashford to marry me.
And pray that the ring I'd carried like a talisman for three months would finally find its home where it belonged—on the finger of the woman who'd saved my soul.
Twenty-Three
ALEXANDER MOORE
The dining roomfelt like an oddly civil battlefield. The crystal chandelier illuminated the silverware while casting shadows that seemed to absorb the tension crackling between the three of us seated around the mahogany table. I watched Ronan's impassive face and couldn’t wait to get this over with.
Across from me, Aoife sat with perfect posture, quietly elegant despite wearing borrowed clothes. Her auburn hair glistened caught the light as she toyed with her wine glass. She appeared quite at ease, yet I didn’t miss the subtle tension in her shoulders.
Ronan hadn't said much since we'd sat down, but I could hear the wheels of his thoughts turning.
The irony wasn't lost on me that I was sitting between the two most important people in my life, hoping this wouldn’t lead to some tragic disaster.
"The lamb is excellent," Cressida said softly, finally filling the uncomfortable silence. No doubt Ronan had filled her in before dinner about what was happening. "Alex, wow, I had no idea you were such a great chef." She beamed.
"Thank you," I replied, noting how Ronan's eyebrow lifted slightly at the admission. "The staff has been given time off while we ... handle business."
"Your lamb is always perfect," Aoife said, her voice warm with genuine appreciation. "Though I still say your pasta carbonara was a star dish."
The casual familiarity in her tone—the acknowledgment of shared meals, domestic moments—wasn’t lost on Ronan. Something akin to approval flashed in his eyes, punctuated by more than a tinge of caution.
Ronan cleared his throat deliberately. "Aoife," he said in a deceptively casual tone. "Alex gave me the rundown of what transpired in the last few days..."
While I was preparing the meal, I’d asked Ronan to keep me company and gave him the entire story about Beatrice, Patrick, and the ordeal Aoife and I had been through. I couldn’t say he’d taken it well at first, yet in the end, his sense of guilt and genuine concern for me won. After all, he’d been the one to devise the idea of the hunt. If that had never occurred, the horror of the last few days wouldn’t have been reality either.
Now here we were, with Ronan’s heart hopefully a tad softened where Aoife was concerned.
Aoife’s fork paused halfway to her lips, but her expression remained steady. She put her fork down and inhaled, releasing the breath slowly. "I’m just glad we’re safe."
Ronan tapped the table. "So am I, even though you’re not off the hook about leaving me in the dark.” His gaze touched mine fleetingly. “Now Aoife.” He redirected his attention to her. “What are your plans going forward? What do you hope to gain from a cooperation with the Flanagans?"
Aoife met Ronan's gaze without flinching.
"Survival," she said simply. "My father's gone. My brothers—well, you know about them." She paused, jaw tightening. "Partof me wants to burn everything Flanagan to the ground for what you took from us. The other part knows that path only leads to more graves." Her voice dropped. "I'm still deciding which part wins."
She closed her eyes for a mere moment, then her gaze found Cressida, then continued, “I wonder if there’s been enough pain… My father had convinced me I should succeed him… Maybe I should first make sure my people are taken care of.”
"And you, too."
"And me, too." She took a sip of wine. "I may carry my father's name, Mr. Flanagan, but I'm not him. I don't share his ... appetites for meaningless violence."
Was that a glimmer of respect I saw in Ronan’s eyes. "I will say that Connor O'Malley was many things, but meaningless violence wasn't typically one of them. He was methodical, strategic. Every action served a purpose."
Aoife's composure cracked slightly, anger flashing in her green eyes before she controlled it. "His purpose was control. Power for its own sake. He destroyed lives, families, futures—all to feed his own ego."
"And yet he trained you to pick up where he left off."
The accusation hung in the air like smoke. I watched Aoife process it, lips pursed.
"I will admit that he took care of me, yes, but it took his death for me to see the full extent of the devastation he’d caused. He trained me because my brothers proved inadequate," she said, bitterness colouring her tone. "Regrettably, I was his only option."
