Page 69 of The Captive
As we walked back toward the house, the barriers I'd built around my heart started to crumble. The walls that had protected me from wanting anything beyond the demands ofmy position—pure duty, power … revenge even. I still had to regroup. I was a leader with a scattered flock, needing to rebuild from scratch. And I found I didn't care.
Whatever came next, I was ready for it. Ready for life. Ready for him.
Twenty-One
ALEXANDER MOORE
The kitchen feltlike a sanctuary after all the chaos, with the morning light streaming through tall windows as I dismissed the remaining staff with a wave of my hand. "Take the afternoon off," I told them, watching Coyne and the security team file out. "We'll handle things from here."
Aoife perched on a stool at the marble island, still wearing my oversized t-shirt, her auburn hair catching the sunlight. The sight of her in my clothes, in my space, sent a possessive satisfaction through me that I could get used to. Therein was the problem…
"You don't have to cook for me," she said, watching as I moved to the refrigerator. "I'm perfectly capable?—"
"I know you are." I pulled out ingredients—eggs, cream, smoked salmon. "But I want to."
She fell silent then, perhaps because of my tone that brooked no argument, and I felt her eyes tracking my movements as I prepared breakfast. The simple domesticity felt surreal after everything we'd endured, yet oddly right.
My phone buzzed against the counter. Ronan.
"I need to take this," I said, meeting her knowing gaze. She nodded, turning her attention to a magazine that had been lying on the counter. I didn’t leave the room, which protocol dictated I should have done. But that would mean distancing myself from her, in more ways than one.
"Alexander." Ronan's voice carried exhaustion despite the early hour in London. "Coyne briefed me. Beatrice O'Brien, Patrick's stabbing—Christ, what a mess."
I moved to the window, keeping Aoife in my peripheral vision, phone to my ear. "It's been dealt with. We’re discussing what can be done to avoid further incidents."
I could almost see him nodding.
"And Patrick? Any word on his condition?"
"His men got him out quickly. No confirmation either way." I watched Aoife from the corner of my eye. "Could go either direction."
"Fuck." A pause. "If he dies, the O'Brien territory goes into chaos. If he lives, he'll want blood for what happened here. Even if Beatrice started everything, it’s a matter of pride. "
"I'm aware of the implications."
"And Miss O'Malley? Coyne mentioned she was involved."
My jaw tightened involuntarily. "She was Beatrice's target. Helped neutralize the threat."
A pause. "Helped? Alexander, please tell me you haven't involved?—"
"She's proven useful," I cut him off, hating the defensive edge in my voice.
"I see." Another pause, loaded with unspoken questions. "Cressida and I will arrive tomorrow evening. We need to discuss this further—the power vacuum if Patrick dies, or his possible retaliation if he lives."
"Understood." I turned back to Aoife, finding her watching me with those sharp green eyes. "The estate is secure. More than ever. Coyne and I are seeing to that."
"Good. And Alex? Be careful. Don't underestimate what Connor's daughter might be capable of. But my true question is: why was she there in the first place?"
The warning sent ice through my veins, even as I looked at the woman who'd shared my bed just hours ago. "I won't." As for his last question, I ignored it because I wasn’t ready to answer that. What would he think?
Mercifully, Ronan let it go. After ending the call, I returned to cooking, hyperaware of the silence stretching between us. Aoife hadn't moved, but tension radiated from her slender frame.
"Ronan's coming," I blurted out. "Tomorrow evening." I cracked eggs into a bowl with more force than necessary. "He's ... concerned about the situation."
"About me, you mean."
I met her gaze directly. "About the complications my association with you might create."
