Page 24 of The Captive
And then nothing.
The sudden absence of his touch left me hollow, panting. My eyes flew open to find him standing over me, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
"No!" The word tore from my throat before I could stop it.
He watched me struggle to regain control, chest heaving, thighs trembling. Then, with deliberate slowness, he knelt before me again.
"Say please, and I'll let you come." His voice was silk over steel.
I gathered what little moisture remained in my mouth and spat directly in his face.
"Fuck you!"
His expression remained eerily calm as saliva dripped down his cheek. Only his eyes betrayed him—twin infernos of fury. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then, without warning, he returned his fingers to my aching centre.
"That made my cock hard, Aoife," he murmured, increasing the pressure and speed. His gaze never left mine. "Don't worry. We have all night for me to punish you."
True to his word, he brought me to the edge again and again. Each time I thought release was imminent, he withdrew, leaving me gasping with wetness coating my thighs. Occasionally, he stood and circled me like a predator, allowing brief respites that only heightened the torture.
"Come on, princess," he taunted during one such break, my vision swimming with exhaustion and denied pleasure. "Just say please, and this torment ends. I bet your tight little cunt needs my cock, right?"
Tears mixed with sweat streaked down my face. Used. Violated. Yet still, impossibly, desperate. I opened my eyes, summoning what little strength remained.
"Fuck you," I rasped. "Fuck you a thousand times. I'm going to kill you!"
Then he knelt for the fifth time, resuming his methodical destruction of my resolve. His mouth on my neck, my chest, his fingers working their terrible magic. My nipples strained against the fabric of my shirt, my entire body a live wire. I edged closer to relief, so close I could taste it?—
His touch vanished. Again.
"No, no, no... don't stop, don't—" The words tumbled out unbidden.
He brushed sweat-soaked hair from my face as I broke down completely. The throbbing between my legs had become almost painful, my heart threatening to burst from my chest. His thumb gently wiped the tears streaming down my cheeks.
I cried until I had nothing left, teetering on the edge of begging but never forming the words. And he never touched me again. He simply watched, silent witness to my disintegration.
After what felt like hours, he stood, visibly collecting himself, reasserting the control I had momentarily fractured. "We'll continue this tomorrow," he said, straightening his cuffs with deliberate precision. "Perhaps after some reflection, you'll be more forthcoming."
"Go to hell," I panted, though the words lacked their usual edge.
Seven
POV: BEATRICE O'BRIEN
The previous seventy-twohours without sleep had been worth it. My bedroom walls had transformed into a tactical display—maps of Ashford Estate, surveillance photos, and guard rotation schedules meticulously colour-coded with blue and red pins. A pill bottle sat empty on my vanity—not my usual chains that I yearned to leave behind, but something different. Each sleepless hour brought sharpened senses and focus until I could form ideas and plan outcomes. As I studied the information pertaining to Alexander Moore, I came alive, my heartbeat sound and determined.
I traced his image in a photograph where he stood alone by a window, unknowingly captured in a rare moment of unguarded contemplation. My fingernail followed the curve of his jaw, the line of his neck, the distinctive crescent scar on his wrist.
"Oh, Alexander," I whispered to his image. "Once I destroy Ronan Flanagan for what he did to me, what shall I do with you?" I laughed. "Maybe we'll get rid of Patrick and rule Ashford together…"
The amphetamines I'd stolen from Patrick's medicine cabinet intensified everything—colours more vibrant, sounds more distinct, thoughts racing brilliantly. I'd been skipping my lithium for days, letting the mania build, then using Patrick's ADHD medication to sharpen the focus. Dangerous, but necessary.
I arranged the photographs chronologically—Alexander entering Ashford Estate after an early check of the farm just after six in the morning, Alexander in his study reviewing documents about three hours later. I'd been lucky enough to work out which entrance he used on rainy mornings—northwest, beneath an oak arbour. I knew which whisky he preferred from other information I'd gathered. Macallan 18, neat. I knew he favoured sleeping on his left side and kept a gun in his nightstand. But there were some blank spots inside the house?—
"Beatrice?"
Speak of the devil…
I froze at Patrick's voice, for I'd been too consumed in my thoughts to have heard his approach. Too late, I scrambled to gather the photographs, but my husband was already standing in the doorway, his expression shifting from initial confusion to comprehension to cold rage.
