Chapter 6
Six
AOIFE O'MALLEY
I regained consciousness in a sparsely furnished room with reinforced windows, my hands cuffed to a steel chair bolted to the floor.
The sedative they must have used on me left my mouth dry, my thoughts sluggish.
I fought the urge to struggle against the restraints, keeping my breathing even as I assessed my surroundings for possibilities, noting the reinforced door, the lack of windows, and the camera mounted in the corner.
The metal door scraped open. Moore entered, his dark eyes assessing, and my breathing quickened.
He carried my father's ceremonial knife I’d had on me—the emerald and obsidian handle catching the harsh light as he set it deliberately on the table just out of my reach.
Instead of showing fear, I maintained my composure, my expression practised to reveal nothing beyond cold disdain.
"Your tendency to underestimate me is quite tedious," he said, circling my chair. He must have tracked my movements for … how long? "This warehouse operation wasn’t the brightest idea. And for what? Revenge?"
I tilted my chin up, meeting his gaze with practiced indifference despite the vulnerability of my position. "If you're expecting me to beg for mercy, you'll be terribly disappointed," I replied.
He moved behind me, his cologne—cedar and bergamot—invading my senses. When his fingers brushed my nape, an unwelcome shiver coursed down my spine.
"Do you always get this... personal with your captives?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.
His breath caressed my ear. "Only the special ones.” He chuckled.
"You've caused quite the disruption to Flanagan operations," he added, coming back around and rolling up his sleeves with deliberate slowness.
The movement revealed forearms corded with muscle and decorated with intricate Celtic tattoos—the Triskelion spiralling around his right wrist, the Tree of Life stretching up his left forearm.
I recognized the symbols instantly. They were traditional Irish warrior markings, the same ones my father had shown me once.
On Alexander, they seemed less like decoration and more like a proclamation of identity.
Then, that interesting scar on his wrist…
Standing at least six-foot-three, he towered over my seated form, his broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, his body clearly honed through disciplined physical training.
I couldn't help but notice how his tailored shirt stretched across his chest, how gracefully he carried his considerable strength.
Despite my circumstances, my heart beat traitorously, a reaction I despised yet couldn't entirely suppress.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied, warily watching his movements.
He laughed, the sound surprisingly genuine. "Let's not waste time with denial." He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the arms of my chair, caging me between his body and the cold metal. "We both know exactly what you've been doing."
His proximity was suffocating—intentionally so. I could see the faint stubble along his jaw, smell the whiskey on his breath, feel the heat radiating from his body. My heart hammered against my ribs, a mixture of fear and something more hazardous.
"You had this on you. I know it belonged to your father," he said, pointing at the knife, watching my reaction closely. "I wonder if he thought of you in his final moments before he died."
Rage burned through me, though I allowed none of it to show on my face. Instead, I looked up at him through my lashes, a technique I'd perfected in Monaco's high-stakes poker rooms.
"You seem to be dedicating a lot of effort to baiting me, Alexander," I said, letting his first name roll off my tongue like a challenge. "I'm flattered."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't be. I study all potential threats with equal attention. Also, your father did something very, very bad. "
"And yet," I countered, "you’re not above doing the same, I see. Don’t put yourself on a pedestal."
The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but close. "I don’t have to manufacture my skills. I show them. In fact, someone like me can appreciate both your intelligence and your... creativity."
"A compliment? How unexpected." I allowed a hint of amusement to colour my tone.
"Merely an observation." He sighed and resumed pacing around my chair. "The shipments to Cork—redirected rather than stolen. That was clever. Most would have simply taken the product."
I shrugged. "Theft is traceable. Redirection creates confusion."
"And the funds from Manchester?"
"What funds?" I asked, all wide-eyed innocence.
His laugh was unexpected—infused with a warmth that seemed at odds with our circumstances. "You're good at this, Aoife O'Malley. Better than your brothers ever were. I know about them. It’s surprising that one of them is still alive."
I said nothing in reaction. He was doing his utmost to get a rise out of me, but fact was, nothing he said was untrue. What a strange dance this was…
"I know the name of your childhood dog—Killian," he continued. As he stopped behind me again, he settled his hands on my shoulders, fingers pressing, kneading, walking the line between relief and pain. I didn’t even know why I liked that feeling for I fucking loathed him.
I did. "I know you kept an art gallery in Paris while studying history. You’re not only creative yourself—you like beautiful things. "
His hands slid down my arms, his chest nearly touching my back as he leaned down to whisper, "I know you have a distinctive birthmark on your inner left thigh. After all, I’ve seen all of you already…"
My breath caught, and my body stiffened—a definite tell that he was affecting me. His laugh was soft, triumphant.
"Oh, did that surprise you?" His fingers traced along my collarbone and a cold shiver crawled down my spine. I had no idea why his touch affected me so much. Whatever happened years ago had been the subject of my nighttime fantasies, but all of that was in the past. Try as I may, though, I wanted to ignore it but couldn’t.
"I wonder what else might surprise you tonight. "
He paused, then continued, “Tell me about the warehouse in Galway," Alexander demanded, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that sent unwelcome shivers down my spine.
"What warehouse?" I maintained eye contact, my breathing carefully controlled despite his proximity.
He leaned in until his face was inches from mine, close enough that I could smell the expensive whiskey on his breath. "The one where you're storing the redirected Belfast shipments."
I said nothing, though my pulse betrayed me, racing at my throat where his eyes lingered. His hand came up, one finger tracing the line of my carotid artery.
"Your body is more honest than your mouth, Aoife," he murmured, his touch leaving fire in its wake.
"Professional curiosity or personal interest?" I challenged, hating how breathless I sounded.
His smile was slow, predatory. "Can't it be both?"
The dim lighting cast shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the fullness of his lower lip. For a dangerous moment, I found myself wondering how that mouth would feel against my skin.
"The handcuffs are becoming tedious," I said, deliberately rattling the metal against the chair. "Surely a man of your... capabilities doesn't need such crude restraints."
His eyebrow arched, but to my surprise, he reached for the key. The restraint on my right wrist clicked open. The sudden freedom was almost dizzying after hours of confinement.
"Better?" he asked, his gaze never leaving mine as he poured amber liquid into two crystal tumblers.
"Getting there." I flexed my fingers.
He offered me one glass, the gesture so incongruously civilized it nearly made me laugh. "Macallan 18. I suspect you're familiar."
"My father's preferred choice," I confirmed, accepting the tumbler, our fingers brushing in a contact that sent electricity shooting up my arm.
"To worthy adversaries," he said, raising his glass in a toast that seemed both mocking and real.
I hesitated, then touched my glass to his. The whiskey burned pleasantly down my throat, warming places inside me that had nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with the way Alexander's eyes tracked the movement of my swallow.
"You have a tell," he said suddenly, setting his glass down and leaning forward. "When you're lying or being evasive about the important things, you tilt your head just slightly to the right."
My breath hitched. "And when I'm telling the truth?"
His hand reached out, fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture so intimate, it felt more invasive than the interrogation. "Your eyes change colour. More emerald, less ice."
"And what colour are they now?" I whispered, caught in the gravity of his gaze.
He studied me for a long moment, his face moving incrementally closer to mine. "Pure fire.”
His fingers brushed mine once more as he took the glass. The room suddenly felt too warm, too small, the air between us charged with something I couldn’t define.
He stared at me for a long moment, then trailed his fingers across my shoulders.
"You know," he said softly, "exhaustion makes the mind so wonderfully... pliable."
The clock on the wall showed three AM. My third night without sleep.
"I remember the taste of your skin," he continued, pressing a thumb against my collarbone until I winced.
"Your shape." His fingers traced over my shirt, feeling the dips.
He stopped right above my breast. "I remember that when you smiled, your eyes sparkled like stars in a clear sky. I’ve never forgotten… "
He slid his hand up and tightened it on my shoulder, digging into the pressure point until my vision blurred. I bit my lip to keep from crying out.