The Captive (Twisted Boys #2)

Chapter 1

One

AOIFE O'MALLEY

My father's annual charity gala was the perfect showcase of O'Malley power, tucked beneath a veneer of legitimacy.

Until now, although my father would have wished me to attend, I was never able to as I was engrossed in either my studies or travel.

This year, I decided it was time to play along, and I did so flawlessly: emerald silk that matched my eyes, hair styled in elegant waves, matching custom Louboutins.

In essence, I looked every inch the dutiful daughter.

While Father had ensured I'd learn the ins and outs of the business, and invested in my training to develop both intellectual and physical abilities, I took my education to heart, preparing for the day I would eventually be running things.

Although I had two brothers, my eldest had been killed in a territorial dispute when I was sixteen, and the other could only be described as utterly incompetent.

They were many years older and had been raised separately from me, so I never missed them much.

"Heya, sis," my idiot sibling Peter said, suddenly materialising in my line of vision. "I probably won't be seeing much of you in future because tomorrow I'm moving to Thailand. The women there are … chef's kiss." He kissed his fingers to punctuate his words.

"And the men, too, I reckon," I whispered under my breath. I smoothed the material of my dress, making myself busy whilst hoping this would be a very short conversation as usual.

"What?" he asked, frowning.

"Oh, nothing. Just thinking about something else," I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. "Safe travels."

He shook his head. "Okay then. Must go pack. Be good whilst I'm gone. See you … someday. Maybe." Grinning, he gave me a little wave and headed out the room, his gait unsteady. He was probably high as a kite.

I surveyed the room then, observing our guests who were mingling so well.

Tonight there existed no rivalry, no animosity, no brutality amongst the families.

Representatives of the O'Malleys, O'Briens, Flanagans and others stood around indulging in golden caviar and king oysters, and drinking vintage Krug Clos d'Ambonnay brut together, under one roof—along with all the 'allies' from legislative, administrative, and judicial systems that made business possible and profitable.

The whole thing cost a fortune, and it was worth it.

All the people there knew their place, stuck to their territory for the most part until someone with a little too much enthusiasm attempted to rock the boat—always to their detriment. The game was a tricky one. Greed was a prerequisite, but too much of it came with a price.

As I looked around, wondering who I wanted to speak to first, a movement to my right—from the direction of the entrance—caught my attention and my body suddenly tensed with awareness.

The air itself seemed to change, as if in response to a powerful new presence.

I swivelled slightly on my feet, following the inexplicable pull, and there he was.

Alexander Moore. Ronan Flanagan's right-hand man. For all intents and purposes, the one he trusted most in the world.

The intelligence files hadn't prepared me for the visceral reaction his presence would trigger. Tall and imposing in his perfectly tailored tuxedo, he moved through the crowd with lethal grace—a predator amongst sheep. His eyes, dark and penetrating, missed nothing as they scanned the room.

An involuntary sound, half whimper, half sigh, escaped me, then I caught myself. The raw power he emanated made something primitive stir inside me, a sensation I'd never experienced quite so strongly with any other man.

Before I could analyse my reaction, my body was already moving towards him, drawn by some magnetic force I couldn't—didn't want to—resist. Because, truly, I'd wanted to meet this man since forever, just by reputation.

"You look painfully bored," I said, approaching from behind, savouring the momentary surprise that flickered across his face when he turned.

When our eyes met, something electric passed between us—an instant recognition that transcended the enmity of our families.

His gaze travelled over me, not with the typical appreciative male assessment I was accustomed to, but with an intensity that seemed to see past flesh and bone into the carefully hidden parts of myself.

Ridiculous to think such a thing, of course, but that's what it felt like.

"Just contemplating whether the champagne is worth the tedious company," he replied, his voice a low rumble that I sensed more than heard, resonating through my body like distant thunder.

"It isn't," I replied, taking a flute from a passing server and offering it to him. Our fingers brushed during the exchange, and the brief contact sent a current of awareness up my arm. "If you mean everyone else. But I might be." I offered a small smile.

When I introduced myself and we shook hands, I watched recognition dawn in his eyes—followed by something more complex than mere wariness. Intrigue. Fascination. A warmth that matched the fire building so rapidly in my own veins.

"Shouldn't you be paying attention to the bigwigs rather than offering me drinks?" he asked, his voice dropping to an intimate timbre that made my skin flush with anticipation.

"Perhaps. But I find you far more interesting than all these other sycophants and leeches." I let my gaze sweep over him, making no effort to hide my appreciation. "Everyone else here is painfully predictable."

"And I'm not?"

"You're Flanagan's main man, but not only that.

You have an interesting background. And you have quite the reputation.

" I stepped closer, deliberately entering his space, letting my perfume—spicy and feminine—envelop us both.

The proximity was intoxicating. Heat radiated from his body, entering mine.

"Word is Ronan Flanagan doesn't even go for a piss without consulting you first. I'm curious what you're up to now, businesswise. "

"Nothing that involves your family," he lied with such conviction that I almost believed him.

Almost. Everybody here would have a party if my family was suddenly obliterated from the face of the earth.

After all, these alliances and truces were tenuous ties that only held water until the first opportunity to shift gears came along.

Itching with the urge to touch him, I did the next best thing. I ran my finger along his lapel, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath. "Pity. I was hoping you might make an exception."

The instant chemistry between us was undeniable—a live wire of tension that made the air between us crackle with possibility. Behind his carefully constructed facade, I recognised the same darkness that lived within me, and I craved to taste it like a drug.

His gaze flitted to the dance area where couples were moving to a slow jazz tune. "Care to dance?" he asked.

I nodded because there was no other answer.

On the dance floor, he held my hand and put the other at my waist, the gesture possessive, confident—like he belonged there, with me.

His touch burned through the silk of my dress, branding my skin beneath.

As we moved, I pressed closer than decorum allowed, feeling the hard planes of his body against my softness.

"What would your father think of what we're doing now? Consorting too intimately with the enemy," he whispered, his breath caressing my ear and sending shivers down my spine.

"My father would have no opinion," I replied, my fingers playing with the short hairs at his nape, feeling him tense at the intimate touch. "This is normal in our world. Except that with me, the choice is always mine." I smiled coyly. "Does Flanagan ever underestimate you?"

His hand tightened on my waist—a warning, a promise. "Chipping at boundaries, I see."

"Of course he does." I let my lips brush his jaw, relishing the controlled tension in his body, the slight quickening of his pulse beneath my touch. "Second-in-command but never the leader. The servant boy turned brilliant mind behind Flanagan's success, yet he always takes the credit."

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes—a glimpse of the beast beneath the civilised exterior. The sight made desire pool low in my belly, hot and insistent.

As our dance ended, my decision was made. The attraction between us was too powerful to ignore, too valuable to waste. What better way to understand the mind behind Flanagan's success than to see him stripped of his careful control, submitting to the most natural of urges?

"There's another … sort of gathering in the east wing.

More, shall we say, exclusive than this one," I whispered, my lips almost touching his ear.

"Few people know about it, but my father condones it, even though he thinks I'm none the wiser.

If you're interested in seeing a little of what the O'Malleys are hiding behind these doors, come with me. "

The last words were intoned as a question, which he wordlessly answered by offering me his arm.

The walk through the mansion's corridors was charged with anticipation.

Each step increased the electric tension between us, until the very air seemed heavy with unspoken promises.

I could feel his eyes on me—tracking my movements, memorising the sway of my hips, the curve of my neck.

The intensity of his focus was akin to a physical caress.

We crossed several rooms until we stopped in front of a hanging tapestry. Finding the key in a hidden slot in the wall, I reached behind the fabric and unlocked the door there.

As we entered, we could see proceedings were in full swing—a modern bacchanalia where Ireland's elite indulged their darkest desires. The air was thick with incense, sweat, and sex. With semi-clothed and naked bodies writhing in shadowed alcoves and on plush divans.