Page 87 of The Captive
He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. “Stop worrying. I’m handling that part. You see to Aoife, okay? Let me fix this.”
I nodded, feeling like shit for bringing all the chaos on our doorstep. But would killing Beatrice sooner have made things better or worse?
"She's everything, Ronan. My Aoife," I said, the admission tearing from my chest like a physical wound. "Everything I never knew I wanted, never thought I could have." I buried my face in my hands, tasting copper on my lips. Aoife's blood. "And I may have gotten her killed before I could tell her. I was too proud, too fucking stupid to admit what she meant to me until it was too late."
Silence stretched between us. When Ronan finally spoke, his voice was quiet, measured.
"When I first met Cressida," he said, settling into the chair beside me, "I thought she was just another pawn in a larger game. A means to an end." He glanced toward his woman, lovenaked in his expression. "I was wrong. She became the point of everything—the reason I fought, the reason I kept going."
I looked up, meeting his eyes. "This isn't the same thing. Cressida was innocent. Aoife is Connor O'Malley's daughter, trained to be his heir. She's supposed to be the enemy?—"
"She's the woman you love." Ronan's voice carried absolute certainty. "And if she survives this, if she chooses you over anything else, then she becomes family. Part of what we protect."
Hope flickered in my chest—dangerous, painful hope. "I’ve neglected the business. Paused operations. But … you mean that?"
"Alexander, you're my brother in every way that matters. Which is why you need to shut up about this guilt. You've bled for this family, killed for it, built half this empire with your own hands." He reached out, gripping my shoulder with surprising strength. "You saved my life more times than I can count. If Aoife O'Malley can make you happy, then I'll welcome her with open arms."
"And if she changes her mind?—"
"Then we deal with that when it happens." Ronan's expression hardened slightly. "But somehow, I don't think that's what she’d do. Not anymore. Not after what I've heard about how she fought beside you."
I wanted to believe him. But the rational part of my mind—the part that had kept me alive all these years—whispered that it was impossible.
Before I could respond, a surgeon appeared in the doorway, still in bloodstained scrubs. My heart stopped, every nerve in my body straining for words that would either save or destroy me.
"Mr. Moore?" the doctor asked, his expression carefully neutral.
I stood on unsteady legs, prepared for the worst and hoping for the impossible. "Is she alive?"
"She's stable," he said, and I felt my knees nearly buckle with relief. "But I won't lie to you—it was touch and go. The bullet caused significant internal damage. We've repaired what we could, but there was substantial blood loss and we're monitoring for complications. The next twenty-four hours will be critical."
Not dead. Not gone. Not yet.
I would take what I could get.
"Can I see her?"
"She's in recovery now, but yes. One at a time, and only for a few minutes."
I followed him through sterile corridors that smelled of disinfectant and dread, my footsteps echoing off linoleum. The ICU was a maze of machines and monitors, nurses moving with quiet efficiency between beds where lives hung in the balance.
Her room was at the end of the hall—a private space where machines beeped rhythmically, keeping watch over the woman who'd become my entire world. She looked so small in the hospital bed, pale as death, IVs administering medication, her breathing monitored. But her chest rose and fell steadily, and I kept my gaze focused on that.
She was alive. Alive and fighting.
I pulled a chair close to her bedside, taking her hand in both of mine. Her fingers were cold but steady, her pulse threading through my fingertips. The simple fact that she was warm, that blood still flowed through her veins, nearly brought me to my knees.
"I'm here," I whispered, pressing her knuckles to my lips. "I'm not going anywhere. You hear me, beautiful? I'm staying right here until you come back to me."
I studied her face—the features relaxed in unconsciousness, the long lashes dark against pale cheeks.
"I should have protected you better," I said quietly, my thumb tracing circles on her palm. "Should have seen this coming. Should have killed that psychotic bitch the moment I realised what she was, before Patrick came to claim her, consequences be damned."
The machines beeped steadily, the only response to my confession.
"But I promise you this," I continued, my voice growing stronger. "When you wake up—and youwillwake up—nothing and no one will ever put a finger on you. I'll burn anyone who tries to hurt you and send them to hell. I'll tear apart anyone who looks at you wrong. You're mine now, Aoife O'Malley, and I protect what's mine."
Through a glass pane on the door into the hallway, I could see Ronan speaking quietly with medical staff, taking care of everything so I could sit here and will the woman I loved back to consciousness. Cressida stood by his side, his arm protectively around her shoulders.
