Chapter 13 #2
Yet she'd also become something else during our shared trial—an ally, however temporary. And something more dictated by our past…
"The doctor looked you over?" I asked, noting the professional bandages visible at her wrists.
"Yes," she replied, unconsciously touching one of the dressings. "Though I suspect you already knew that."
I had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "Coyne's thorough in his reports."
"Clearly." She moved to the chair by the vanity, settling carefully. "He said you were concerned about infection."
"Those chains weren't exactly sterile," I pointed out, then caught myself. Why was I explaining my concern for her welfare?
Ronan would likely have my hide for this.
"You should eat something," I said, changing the subject. "The kitchen staff is still gone, but I can put together a meal."
Her eyebrow arched in surprise. "Alexander Moore cooks?"
"Alexander Moore survives," I corrected. "Which sometimes requires cooking."
"I'll help," she offered, standing. "I'm not much of a chef, but I can follow directions."
The domesticity of the moment struck me as absurd—the heir to the O'Malley empire and Ronan Flanagan's right-hand man preparing dinner together after escaping a madwoman's torture chamber.
In the kitchen, I gathered ingredients for a simple meal—pasta, a jar of strained tomatoes, garlic, herbs, the basics. Aoife watched from a safe distance, arms crossed protectively over her chest.
"Beatrice escaped," I stated, breaking the silence as I set the water to boil. "Completely vanished. My men are still searching, but she's gone."
She nodded, unsurprised. "She planned this meticulously. Of course she had an exit strategy."
"Which brings me to my next question." I turned to face her fully. "What exactly were you doing trespassing on my territory before all this started? And I want the truth, Aoife. No more games."
Her eyes met mine, hesitation flashing behind them. For a moment, I thought she might lie again—weave another intricate deception. Instead, she sighed, shoulders dropping slightly.
"Beatrice approached me after my father's death," she admitted. "She had information about Flanagan operations—security protocols, shipping schedules, personnel files, that sort of thing. She claimed she wanted revenge against you specifically, though she wouldn't say why."
"And you believed her?" I asked, adding pasta to the now-boiling salted water.
"I believed she had useful information," Aoife clarified. "Whether her motives were genuine was irrelevant. The alliance served my purposes."
"Which were?"
"Payback." Her voice hardened. "Your family destroyed everything my father built. Killed him, scattered our people. I was simply... evening the score."
I stirred the pasta, considering her words. "And the warehouse operation? The surveillance equipment?"
"Part of mapping vulnerabilities in your security," she admitted. "Quite effective until you caught me."
The frankness of her admission was almost refreshing after months of deception. I added the tomatoes to the pan, the familiar rhythm of cooking grounding me in the surreal conversation.
"You could have killed me when we fought," I observed, remembering our first physical confrontation. "That knife of yours came dangerously close to major arteries several times. You could have had your payback."
She took a while to respond. "If I'd wanted you dead, you would be," she replied, a hint of pride colouring her tone. "And I didn't."
"Why didn't you?" I asked, genuinely curious.
She hesitated once more, something unreadable flickering across her face.
"Because dead men can't give information.
Because killing you would have brought Ronan's full wrath down on what remains of my family.
But mostly because..." She paused, seeming to struggle with the final reason.
"Because I remembered that night. Two years ago. I remembered you."
Moisture welled in her eyes as the memory hung between us, electric and vivid. The charity gala. The dark room hidden behind the tapestry. The way she'd moved beneath me, our bodies finding a rhythm that defied explanation, witnessed by strangers who had been equally entranced by our connection.
"Do you remember it?" she asked, voice softer now. "That night?"
I turned to face her fully, taking in the complicated woman before me—enemy, ally, temptation. Connor O'Malley's daughter and something else entirely.
"How could I forget?" I replied, my voice dropping to a register that made her pupils dilate slightly. "It's burnt into my brain like a brand."
Something shifted in the air between us—the same dangerous electricity that had drawn us together that first night, sustained us through Beatrice's twisted game, and threatened to consume us both if we allowed it.
"This changes nothing," I added, forcing practicality into my voice. "You're still a person I cannot trust."
"And you're still Ronan Flanagan's attack dog," she countered, though without her usual venom. "Yet, here we are."
I returned to the pasta, draining it with deliberate focus. "Here we are," I echoed, the words heavy with all I wanted to say but didn't. "And Beatrice is still out there."
Aoife moved closer, entering my peripheral vision. "What happens now, Alexander?"
I plated the pasta, buying time as I considered her question.
What, indeed? She remained a threat to my world, yet she'd also become something I'd never expected—a potential ally against a common enemy, a woman who'd seen me at my most vulnerable and still looked at me with something other than disgust or fear.
"Now," I said finally, setting the plates on the kitchen island, "we eat. We rest. And tomorrow..."
I met her gaze directly, seeing the same calculation and consideration I felt reflected in my own.
"Tomorrow, we hunt Beatrice."
I stood at the window of Eleanor's bedroom, staring out at the grounds where my father's enemies now walked freely. In my hand, I held a photograph Barrett had brought me in a box with other things: my father and me at my graduation, his pride evident even in his stern expression.
"Make me proud, little raven," he'd said that day. A complicated man he was, but he was certain about his priorities. "You're destined for great things."
But what great things? Falling in love with Alexander Moore? Abandoning the O'Malley legacy for a chance at happiness? Guilt should be eating at me…
My phone buzzed. A message from Barrett: "People are asking questions, Miss. About the future. About whether you're coming back."
I closed my eyes, torn between two worlds. I could leave tonight. Walk away from Alexander, from this impossible situation, from the guilt that ate at me every time he touched me. Return to Ireland and become the leader my father had trained me to be. Rebuild from scratch.
But then I heard Alexander's voice in the hall, speaking quietly to Coyne about security. The concern in his tone when he mentioned my safety made my chest tight. He'd shown me a different way to live—not just surviving, but thriving. Not just existing, but being cherished.
I ignored Barrett's message and did not respond. I needed time to figure out next steps. Sighing, I shook my head, suddenly tired. If my father could see now, he’d never forgive me,
But maybe, just maybe, for the first time in my life, I could forgive myself.