Chapter 12
Twelve
AOIFE O'MALLEY
I was dragged kicking and screaming into the barn, my body thrashing violently against the men who manhandled me across the dirty floor.
Blood roared in my ears as I fought with every ounce of strength, landing a solid kick to one man's groin and hearing his satisfying howl of pain.
Despite my training, their superior numbers overwhelmed me—three against one, their rough hands bruising my arms as they subdued me.
"Fucking bitch!" one of them snarled as my teeth sank into his forearm. The taste of his sweat and blood filled my mouth before a vicious backhand sent my head snapping sideways, stars exploding behind my eyes.
They dragged me to the centre of the barn where rusted chains hung from a weathered beam.
Cold metal shackles snapped around my wrists, hoisting my arms painfully above my head until my toes barely brushed the floor.
The position stretched my body into a taut line, shoulders immediately screaming in protest.
Across the room, Alexander was bound to a wooden chair bolted to the floor. Through the curtain of hair that had fallen across my face, I saw one of the men inject something into his neck. When they stepped back, his head dropped forward, his powerful body going slack. Unconscious.
One by one, the men exited. The last one paused at the door, his gaze traveling over my suspended form with undisguised lust before flicking a switch. Darkness swallowed us whole.
Beatrice's voice sliced through the speakers overhead, the sound jarringly intimate in the pitch black: "He will be awake in an hour.
Meanwhile, you'll get tired, Aoife... but you get no chair because you let Alexander fuck you earlier.
.." Her laughter echoed—a high, unhinged cackle that sent ice down my spine, revealing the full extent of her madness.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.
The darkness was absolute, disorienting.
My entire world narrowed to the burning agony in my shoulders and the raw metal biting into my wrists.
Each time my muscles trembled from exhaustion, I slipped lower, causing the shackles to cut deeper.
Warm blood trickled down my arms in rivulets, the coppery scent filling my nostrils.
I tried shifting my weight, seeking any position that might offer relief. Nothing helped. My training had prepared me for many forms of torture, but the relentless pressure of hanging by my wrists while time stretched endlessly was its own special hell.
"Focus, Aoife," I whispered to myself, the sound of the words oddly comforting in the oppressive silence. "Control your breathing. Find the pain, acknowledge it, then push it aside."
Still, a whimper escaped me when I slipped again, the metal slicing a fresh path into already raw skin. My father would be disappointed by such weakness. The thought made me grit my teeth and straighten as much as possible, finding unexpected strength in my rage.
After what felt like an eternity, a grunt broke the silence. A rustle of movement followed as Alexander regained consciousness.
"What the fuck..." His voice was sandpaper-rough, disoriented.
"Welcome back," I managed, my own voice strained from the hours of silent suffering.
"Aoife?" He shifted in his chair. I could hear the slight movement. "Where are we?"
"Some kind of barn," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tremors starting to wrack my body. "We've been here for hours. You were drugged."
"Can’t move. Are you restrained, too? Oh yes … ahhh." Pain filled his tone. “I remember now.”
"Chained from the ceiling," I said anyway with a grunt born of extreme distress. "It's... not particularly comfortable."
He cursed softly. "Are you hurt?"
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Nothing fatal. Though I might reconsider our present alliance if this is your idea of hospitality."
His answering chuckle was strained but genuine. "Not exactly how I planned to entertain you."
"Clearly." I shifted, unable to suppress a hiss as the chains cut deeper. "Any thoughts on getting out of here?"
"Working on it." His voice tightened with concentration. "Beatrice is—"
The lights suddenly blazed on, blinding after so long in darkness. I blinked frantically, tears streaming reflexively down my cheeks as my eyes struggled to adjust. When my vision cleared, I saw Alexander had been blindfolded—a thick black cloth wrapped tightly around his eyes.
The heavy barn door creaked open with dramatic slowness.
Beatrice entered like she was walking onto a stage, wearing a dress so short it barely covered her arse and a raven mask that obscured the upper half of her face.
Each step was calculated seduction as she moved toward Alexander with predatory intent, hips swaying hypnotically.
The woman was batshit, that much was evident, but I knew that already and still ‘worked’ with her. I was an idiot.
"Do you recognize this, Alexander?" she purred, circling his chair, trailing red-tipped fingers across his shoulders.
The mask was beautiful in its grotesque elegance—glossy black feathers framing golden-rimmed eye holes, the beak extending slightly over her nose. It transformed her into something not quite human—a creature of myth rather than the troubled wife of Patrick O'Brien.
"I've recreated everything, precisely as it was," she continued, voice trembling with barely contained excitement. "The ropes that marked my skin now mark yours, the blindfold that heightened my senses now heightens yours..."
Yes, I had to confirm once more: the woman was completely unhinged, if there was ever the slightest doubt. What hunt was she talking about? What sick game had these two played before?
"Does she know, Alexander?" Beatrice taunted, gesturing toward me with a knife that had somehow magically appeared in her hand. "Ah, I don't think so."
She laughed again—that same manic sound that made my skin crawl. Then she began touching him with possessive familiarity—running her hands over his chest, his thighs, her nails leaving faint red trails on his skin.
"You want him, right?" She turned to me, eyes fever-bright behind the mask. "Rival families, sworn enemies, but he's so very hot..." She pressed herself against Alexander's bound form, moaning obscenely. "Hmmm. I know you want to have him again, but you can't."
Her head tilted as she studied me. "The mighty Aoife O'Malley, hanging like a piece of meat. What would your father say if he could see his precious heir now? His little princess stripped of power, forced to watch while I take what's mine."
I kept my expression neutral despite the rage boiling inside me. "My father would say you talk too much."
Her smile vanished. "Your father is dead, and you'll soon join him." She turned back to Alexander, brandishing the knife. "But first, a show."
What followed was the stuff of nightmares as she methodically cut into Alexander's clothes, slicing the fabric with deliberate patience. Each cut was a performance, her breathing growing heavier as she peeled layers from his body.
"You're so beautiful," she whispered, running her free hand over his now-bare chest, tracing the defined muscles there. "So much stronger than when we first met."
She continued until he sat in only his underwear, his powerful body tense beneath her touch. Then, with theatrical slowness, she slid the knife under the elastic of his boxers, the blade pressing dangerously against his groin. It just registered he didn’t have the tactical gear on anymore.
"What shall I do?" she mused, eyes fixed on me rather than him. "Rip this off you, or make it so you never have a woman again?" Her laughter filled the room, high and deranged, until she sighed dramatically. "No, that would be such a waste. To remove such a magnificent tool..."
With a quick flick of her wrist, she sliced through the material, leaving Alexander fully naked and exposed. His cock lay against his thigh, impressive even in its soft state. Beatrice's eyes gleamed with triumph behind her mask.
She removed his blindfold then, allowing him to see what awaited him. His eyes immediately found mine, sharp and alert despite the drugs still visible in his slightly dilated pupils.
"She's pretty though." Beatrice turned toward me, knife glinting in the harsh barn light as she approached. "Look at her, Alexander. All that fire, all that pride."
My heart hammered against my ribs as she drew nearer, but I refused to show fear. I straightened as much as my chains allowed, chin lifted in defiance.
"Such bravery," she murmured, trailing the knife down my cheek without breaking the skin. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Her torture began methodically as she cut away my clothes just as she had Alexander's.
The cold blade slid against my skin, slicing through my bra, then my jeans and even my underwear, until I hung naked and vulnerable before them.
The knife travelled back up between my bare breasts, its touch feather-light yet terrifying.
"Lovely curves," she whispered, gaze hungry as it roved over my exposed body. "Don't you think so, Alexander?"
I refused to look at him, focusing instead on controlling my breathing, on not giving her the satisfaction of seeing my fear and humiliation. But I could feel his gaze on me—intense, burning, filled with something that wasn't quite pity. No, definitely not pity.
Beatrice's behaviour grew increasingly erratic. She suddenly dropped the knife with a clatter and pressed her hand between my thighs, fingers probing invasively.
"Look how wet she is," she announced, her touch rough and unwelcome. "She likes being watched. She likes you watching her, Alexander."