Chapter 8 #2
"Your heart's racing," I observed, detecting the subtle dilation of her pupils. “I wonder what you’re thinking. What you want.”
"Why don't you find out?" She deliberately pressed against my hand, eyes never leaving mine. "Unless you're afraid of what you might discover. After all, you haven’t seen all of me as you claim you have. Then there’s more to see…"
"About you?"
"About yourself." She reached up, not to remove my hand but to trace the scar on my wrist. "About what you really want from me."
I should have stepped back. Reestablished professional distance. Reminded myself exactly who she was. Our connection had been fleeting, never to be repeated. Instead, I found myself leaning closer, drawn by something beyond logic or loyalty.
"What I want," I said, voice rough with unwanted desire, "is impossible."
"Because I'm Connor O'Malley's daughter?"
I nodded. "Because you're an enemy. You’re my prisoner."
"Is that all I am to you?" Her fingernails scraped lightly against my skin.
"What else could you possibly be?" I countered, though we both knew it was evasion. She was becoming hard to resist.
"Oh, Alexander." She smiled, but something in her expression gave me pause. "I could be so many things to you. Your greatest weakness. Your darkest temptation." She leaned closer, her lips brushing my ear. "Your perfect match."
I caught her wrist, forcing distance between us. "You're Connor O'Malley's daughter right now, trying to play me. My prisoner. Nothing more."
"Liar." She did not fight my grip. "I felt how hard you were for me. I tasted your desire. I know exactly what you want to do to me."
Once more, I should have stepped away. Instead, I backed her against the nearest tree, my body pinning hers in place. "You have no idea what I want to do to you."
Her pupils dilated, breath quickening. "Show me."
The challenge stuck out between us like a blade between warriors. I braced one hand beside her head, the other still circling her wrist. Our faces were inches apart, and her scent filled my senses, driving me slowly insane.
"If I showed you," I said, "you wouldn't walk straight for days."
"Big promises from a man who keeps backing away." Her free hand came up, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "I'm starting to think you're all talk."
My so-called legendary control finally fractured.
I caught her face between my hands, crushing my mouth to hers with bruising intensity.
I couldn’t fucking help myself—raw desire held me captive.
She responded instantly, arms winding around my neck, body arching against mine.
The kiss was nothing like a calculated seduction or manipulation. It was simply raw need taking over.
Her lips parted beneath mine, inviting deeper invasion. I accepted, tongue sweeping into her mouth, tasting the coffee and something uniquely her. She made a small sound—halfway between a moan and a whimper—that sent blood rushing straight down to my fucking cock with embarrassing speed.
My hands found her hips, fingers digging into her flesh as I pressed her harder against the tree. I wedged one thigh between hers, providing delicious friction against her core. She ground against it shamelessly, the heat of her evident even through layers of denim.
"Alexander," she gasped as my mouth moved to her throat, teeth scraping the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
What the fuck was wrong with me? This wasn’t supposed to happen and yet, I couldn’t pull away.
The sound of my name on her lips—breathy with need rather than cold with contempt—nearly undid me. I sucked at her pulse point, determined to mark her, claim her, even if temporarily.
"Is this what you wanted?" I growled against her skin, one hand sliding beneath her sweater to find bare flesh. "Your enemy taking you against a tree like an animal?"
"Don't hide behind your fucking excuses," she panted, head falling back to grant better access. "This is about us. Just us."
My fingers traced the underside of her breast, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Through the thin material of her bra, I could feel her nipple hardening against my palm. I cupped her roughly, swallowing her moan with another bruising kiss.
She was intoxicating—all sharp edges and soft curves, defiance and surrender in equal measure. One hand tangled in my hair, nails scraping my scalp in a delicious blend of pleasure and pain. The other slid between us, palming my erection through my trousers with bold possession.
"I knew you'd feel like this," she whispered, squeezing gently. "So hard. So ready."
Her hand disappeared between the folds of her clothing.
In my haze, a flash of metal caught my eye as she moved.
I kept going, lost in my desire, too invested in the yearning to rip her clothes off and fuck her like she wanted.
But the metal flashed again and then it dawned on me—a decorative garden stake she must have pocketed while we walked.
Before I could react, she drove it into my shoulder with surprising strength.
White-hot pain exploded through me. "Fuck!" I staggered back, blood immediately blooming through my shirt.
She didn't waste a second, darting away with the speed of someone who'd trained for exactly this moment. Her auburn hair flashed in the sunlight as she sprinted across the lawn toward the eastern tree line.
A primitive, raw rage surged through me, mingling with pure adrenaline. Blood dripped down my arm as I yanked the improvised weapon from my flesh and tossed it aside.
I shouted out for backup while this unexpected pain made me immobile for a moment. Still, I wanted to catch her myself.
She was fast, but I knew these grounds intimately.
As she veered toward what she might have thought was a blind spot in our security, I cut diagonally across the rose garden, ignoring the thorns that tore at my clothing, ignoring the fucking stab wound.
The tracker on her wrist would trigger the alert if she left the property, but I wouldn’t let her get that far.
I caught sight of her slipping through a gap in a hedgerow. The calculating bitch had been mapping escape routes during our entire walk. Every word, every touch, every moment of supposed vulnerability—all strategic distraction.
Knowing this, she’d make a bigger prize…
I crashed through the foliage twenty seconds behind her. She was halfway across the meadow that separated the formal gardens from the tree line. If she reached those woods, recapturing her would become significantly more complex.
Drawing on reserves honed through years of operational training, I closed the distance between us with punishing speed. I could see her glancing back, eyes widening as she realised I was gaining on her, despite the setback.
Ten feet. Five feet. The gap narrowed with each stride.
I launched myself forward in a diving tackle, catching her around the waist and bringing us both crashing to the ground. We tumbled through the high grass, my momentum carrying us several feet before we came to a stop with me pinning her beneath my weight.
Her chest heaved with exertion, eyes wild with a mixture of fury and something like exhilaration. Blood from my shoulder wound dripped onto her cheek, marking her.
"That," I growled, capturing both her wrists and slamming them above her head, "was incredibly stupid."
"Worth it to see the great Alexander Moore bleed," she spat. But I wasn’t fooled. She was just as aroused as me.
I shifted my weight, pressing my hips deliberately against hers so she could feel exactly what effect our struggle had on me. "Did you think I wouldn't catch you?"
"I was counting on it." She arched beneath me, the movement both defiance and invitation. "I just wanted to see what would happen when the perfect soldier lost control."
I tightened my grip painfully on her wrists. "And now you have your answer."
With my free hand, I grasped her jaw painfully hard, forcing her to look at me. "I could break you right here, Aoife O'Malley. Take what I want and leave you for my men to find."
Terror flickered briefly across her face—the first sincere emotion I'd seen from her. Good. She needed to understand the line she'd crossed.
"But that would be too merciful," I continued, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Instead, I'm going to take you back to your cell, patch up this wound you gave me, and then continue our conversation with methods that will make yesterday seem like a gentle caress."
I pulled her roughly to her feet, maintaining a bruising grip on one wrist while my other arm wrapped around her waist, keeping her body flush against mine. The intimacy of the position was a mockery of the passion we'd shared minutes earlier.
"You're hurting me," she said, a statement rather than a complaint.
"You stabbed me with a garden stake." Blood continued seeping through my shirt. "Consider yourself lucky I'm not returning the favour."
As we approached the house, two security guards ran toward us, weapons drawn.
"Stand down," I ordered. "Miss O'Malley and I were just having a disagreement about the terms of her stay."
Their eyes took in my bloodied appearance and her dishevelled state, but neither commented. They knew when to remain silent.
"Take her to her room," I instructed, shoving her toward them more roughly than necessary. "Full restraints this time. No visitors except me."
As they led her away, she looked back over her shoulder, those changeable green eyes meeting mine with unmistakable promise.
"This isn't over, Alexander!" she called, her voice carrying across the manicured lawn.
"No," I agreed, pressing a hand to my bleeding shoulder. "It isn’t."
In my study, I poured another Macallan, downing it in one burning swallow while the family doctor cleaned and stitched my wound. Six stitches—a permanent reminder of Aoife O'Malley's duplicity.
As I contemplated a suitable punishment, my phone vibrated. Coyne.
"We have a situation," he said without preamble when I answered. "Patrick O'Brien just called. His wife is missing."
The doctor finished. I straightened, immediately alert despite the searing pain in my shoulder. "Beatrice? Since when?"
"Three days. And get this—last known communication was a message sent from Patrick's phone. To Aoife O'Malley."
Ice slid down my spine as a strange haze settled in front of my vision.
My head started to spin—probably a result of recent happenings.
Standing, I silently dismissed the doctor, mouthing a thanks, and walked outside, to the grounds, fighting the weird feeling taking over my body. I needed to clear my head.
"What did it say?" I asked, my tongue feeling glued to the roof of my mouth.
But I kept going. One step after another.
It was already dark.
What was I doing? Coyne was talking. “Can you repeat that?” I asked.
"I said it was something about access codes here. Offering to meet where they 'last spoke' if O'Malley wants revenge."