Page 71 of The Captive
"Out of necessity, not choice." Her smile held no warmth. "Connor O'Malley needed an heir worthy of his legacy. Gender became irrelevant when survival was at stake."
I moved closer, settling beside her at the island. "What kind of training?"
"Everything." She met my gaze directly. "Combat, strategy, finance, psychology. How to read people, how to manipulate them. How to kill efficiently and dispose of bodies without trace evidence."
The casual way she said the words proved quite arousing. I shifted in my seat. "And Cressida?"
Her expression hardened. "My father's greatest mistake. He saw her at some society function, became obsessed for a while. Nobody knew but I knew his thinking, and once said a bit too much during a phone conversation, during which I was sure he was intoxicated. He thought he could make her into his perfect ornament."
"But she was stronger than he expected and things went sour."
"She was Ronan's salvation." Aoife's voice carried grudging respect. "My father underestimated what love could drive a man to do. Ronan showed remarkable ... dedication in retrieving her. At first I…" Her voice trailed away.
I caught the careful phrasing. "You don't hate him for destroying your family's power."
She bit on her bottom lip. Maybe I hit a nerve. "I should. I’ve thought of revenge, even recently. I thought that’s what I wanted." She took another bite of her food, chewing thoughtfully. "But my father crossed a line when he took her. Some things are sacred, even in our world."
"Love."
"Love." The word seemed to surprise her. "Yes, I suppose that's what it was."
We ate in comfortable silence, the morning sun warming the kitchen as unspoken understanding passed between us. Useless denying it, this woman saw the world with the same clear-eyed pragmatism that had kept me alive all these years. She lacked the sense of privilege people in her position usually possessed.
"The hunt," I said finally, setting down my fork. "You want to know about Beatrice's obsession."
Aoife nodded, pushing food around her plate. Waiting.
"It was during the games at the old estate," I began with a sigh. "Ronan had heard of this game where the prey were willing participants in a hunt. They’d come from rival families. But … some weren't so willing. In this case, none of them were. He … had his reasons. A chip on his shoulder."
"And Beatrice was one of these unwilling participants."
"She was forced to participate." I could still see her that night—her eyes so wide. Terrified maybe but not quite. Mad… "Along with her mother and sister. A debt needed to be repaid."
"But she figured out who you were."
"Eventually." I stood, pacing to the window. "We all wore masks, but she was observant. Intelligent. She pieced together my identity long after the fact."
"And became obsessed."
"The marriage to Patrick had been Ronan's idea," I admitted. "An alliance he thought would benefit both families. But..." I turned back to face her. "Patrick's reputation for cruelty was not just a fairytale. This was one time when Ronan and I didn’t see eye to eye, and I told him. I believe he did regret it after, but it was too late… Truth be told, Beatrice has a history of cruelty herself. She lost the plot long ago and suffered from various mental ailments.”
Understanding dawned in Aoife's eyes. "She must have associated the hunt with the last time she had any agency, anychoice in her own suffering. And you became the symbol of what she'd lost."
"Something like that." I moved closer, drawn by the intelligence in her gaze. "She convinced herself that night meant more than it did. That we shared some ... connection."
"Did you?"
The question hung between us, loaded with implications. I studied her face—the elegant, achingly beautiful features, the green eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
"No," I said finally. "There was physical attraction, mutual satisfaction. It was a dark, twisted sex game—an experiment. But I felt nothing deeper. Nothing like..."
I stopped myself before the words could escape, but she heard them anyway.
"Nothing like what?" Her voice was soft, yet firm.
Instead of answering, I closed the distance between us, cupping her face in my hands. "You know what."
Her breath hitched as I traced her lower lip with my thumb. "Alexander?—"
