Chapter 14
Fourteen
AOIFE O'MALLEY
I woke to the lingering bite of chains around my wrists and Beatrice's laughter echoing in my nightmares. The bandages were tight, my skin raw beneath them, but at least I was alive. I found a set of clothes laid out—simple jeans and a blouse, slightly too large—and made my way downstairs.
Alexander stood in the kitchen, phone pressed to his ear, his body a study in controlled power. The black t-shirt clung to his shoulders, outlining muscles that had been pressed against me in the forest before everything went to hell.
"Three more properties to check," he was saying, voice clipped. "The bodies are being handled. I want nothing traceable."
He turned, his eyes finding mine with predatory intensity. "Coffee's fresh," he said, covering the phone. "Help yourself."
I moved to the coffee machine, deliberately brushing past him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. His eyes narrowed slightly, pupils dilating—the only indication that my proximity affected him.
He ended his call and approached with measured steps. "Let me see your wrists."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a request, Aoife." His tone left no room for argument.
I extended my arms, watching his face as he unwrapped the bandages. His fingers were cool against my feverish skin, surprisingly gentle for a man who'd killed so efficiently.
"Playing nurse again?" I tried for nonchalance, but my voice came out husky, betraying me.
His eyes met mine, something dangerous flickering in their depths. "It seems to be becoming a habit where you're concerned."
He cleaned the wounds with antiseptic that burned like fire, his thumb making slow circles against my palm—deliberate or unconscious, I couldn't tell. Either way, the contact sent heat spiralling through me, settling low in my belly.
"Thank you," I said when he finished, the words unfamiliar on my tongue.
"Any news on Beatrice?" I asked as he prepared breakfast, the domesticity of the scene strangely erotic—Connor O'Malley's daughter being served by Ronan Flanagan's right hand.
"Nothing yet." His jaw tightened. "She's disappeared completely."
"I want to help find her," I said, watching him carefully.
"Out of the question." He didn't look up from the stove.
"I have resources you don't," I challenged. "Contacts in places your people can't reach. I know how Beatrice thinks."
"That’s quite presumptuous… And that’s exactly why I don't trust you." The edge in his voice sent an involuntary shiver down my spine. "This could all be an elaborate setup."
I moved closer, deliberately invading his space. "As I said before, if I wanted you dead, Alexander, you would be."
His eyes darkened. "Then what do you want?"
What did I want? Revenge? Power? Or something more treacherous—the connection that had begun that night two years ago and resurfaced in the most unexpected circumstances?
"Right now? I want Beatrice found and dealt with." I held his gaze. "She manipulated me, used me, and left me to die."
Before he could respond, his phone rang. "One of Beatrice's men survived," he said after a brief conversation. "He's being brought in."
"I'm coming with you," I stated, not asking permission.
His eyes narrowed. "Why should I trust you with this?"
"Because we both want the same thing." I stepped closer, close enough to feel his breath on my face. "And because I've seen you at your most vulnerable, yet here you are—alive, unharmed. Plus, you still owe me."
“Owe you what?”
“You need to tell me about your connection to Beatrice.”
The interrogation yielded results faster than either of us expected. The man was no match for Alexander's methodical pressure. Beatrice was headed for a private airfield up north.
As we prepared to move out, Alexander's phone rang again. He checked the display. "Ronan," he said, stepping away.
Not far enough. I heard every word.
"Yes, I have it handled," he said, tension evident in his posture. "No, don't come back from London. There's no need." A pause. "The O'Malley girl is... cooperating. She has useful information about Beatrice."
When he ended the call, I approached. "Lying to your brother about me?"
His eyes narrowed. "Eavesdropping isn't becoming, Aoife."
"What exactly did you omit?" I pressed. "The part where I saw you naked and chained? Or the one where you've been cooking me breakfast?"
Something flashed in his eyes but I couldn’t tell if he was angry or full of regret. But then he closed the distance between us with two swift strides, backing me against the wall without touching me. His scent—cedar and something uniquely him—enveloped me.
"Careful," he warned, voice dropping to that register that sent heat pooling between my thighs. "You have no idea what game you're playing."
I tilted my chin up. "Perhaps I understand the game better than you think."
"You think because of what happened two years ago, because of what Beatrice forced us to take in that barn, that you know me?" He laughed, a harsh sound. "You don't know anything, Aoife O'Malley."
"I know you still think about that night we had," I challenged. "I know when Beatrice made you fuck her, you were looking at me."
His pupils dilated, jaw clenching as he placed one hand on the wall beside my head. "Is that what you think? That I need to be forced?"
"I think," I whispered, moving closer until our bodies nearly touched, "that you're afraid of what happens when you lose control. Especially with me."
We stood there, breath mingling, the air charged with electricity. His eyes dropped to my lips, body swaying imperceptibly closer. I tilted my face up, anticipation coiling tight in my belly.
Then, abruptly, he pushed away from the wall. "Get ready to move out. One hour."
He strode from the room, leaving me breathless and frustrated.
The airfield operation proved fruitless. Beatrice had vanished already—departed on a private jet twelve hours earlier, destination unknown. Alexander's rage was a tangible thing, cold and contained but terrifying in its intensity.
It was nearly midnight when we returned to Ashford Estate. The house was dark and silent as we entered through the rear door.
"Get some rest," Alexander said, not meeting my eyes. "We'll regroup in the morning."
"Alexander." I caught his arm, feeling the muscles tense beneath my fingers. "This isn't over."
"I'm aware." His voice was clipped. "Beatrice is still out there."
"That's not what I meant."
His jaw tightened. "Don't push this, Aoife. Not tonight."
"When, then?" I stepped closer, my body mere inches from his. "After Beatrice is found? After we return to being enemies? After you hand me over to Ronan as a peace offering?"
In his eyes this time I caught anger, frustration, hunger. "What do you want from me?"
The question hung between us, loaded with more meaning than he could know.
What did I want? Revenge? Justice? Or did I want this impossible thing growing between us—this connection that made me forget why I'd come here in the first place?
Every smile he gave me, every gentle touch felt like another nail in my father's coffin. I had problems with the man he was, but that didn’t mean this was right.
I was supposed to carry on his legacy. Instead, here I was, melting under Alexander Moore's gaze like some lovesick fool.
"The truth about why you keep running from this," I finally answered.
His laugh was harsh. "You think this is running? I've been keeping you alive, Aoife. Protecting you even though every instinct I have says you're a threat."
"I don't need your protection."
"Clearly," he bit out, gesturing to my bandaged wrists. "You had everything under control in that barn."
Rage surged through me. "Fuck you, Alexander. You were right there with me, remember? Just as helpless, just as used. And let’s not forget, we were in there because of you.
Beatrice is crazy enough to be obsessed with you because of something you did.
This all falls squarely on your doorstep," I spat.
His control snapped. In one fluid motion, he backed me against the wall, one hand tangling in my hair, the other gripping my hip with bruising force. "I am never helpless," he growled, his face inches from mine. “And I will not apologise for another person’s obsessions. Only mine…”
He trailed his hand up my side. The heat of his body pressed against mine, his scent overwhelming my senses. My heart hammered against my ribs as his grip tightened.
"Prove it," I whispered, the challenge unmistakable.
For an endless moment, he remained frozen, his eyes burning into mine. Then, with a muttered curse, he released me and stepped back.
"This isn't happening," he said, voice rough. "Not like this."
Before I could respond, he turned and disappeared up the staircase.
Fuck you, Alexander.
I stood in the darkened foyer, fury and desire warring within me. The intensity of my reaction to him was disturbing—a weakness I couldn't afford. Yet I couldn't deny the electric current between us, the way my body responded to him whenever he was close.
This couldn't continue. The tension between us was becoming a distraction neither of us could afford with Beatrice still out there. Something had to give.
I made my decision.
Outside Alexander's door, I hesitated only briefly before knocking.
No response.
I tried the handle—unlocked. Alexander stood by the window, moonlight carving shadows across his face.
"I told you to get some rest," he said without turning.
"I've never been good at following orders." I closed the door. "Something my father always complained about."
He turned, his eyes finding mine in the dim light. "What are you doing, Aoife?"
"Finishing what we started." I moved toward him. "I'm tired of dancing around this."
"There is no this," he insisted, though he made no move to stop my approach. "There's just temporary alignment of interests."
"Liar." I stopped before him, close enough to feel his heat. "We both know it's more than that. It has been since that night two years ago."
His jaw tightened, muscles tensing visibly. "This is a mistake."
"Probably," I agreed, reaching up to trace his jaw. "But it's one I'm making with my eyes open." One I hoped wouldn’t come back to haunt me…
His hand caught my wrist, thumb pressing against my pulse. "Do you have any idea what you're asking for?"
"Yes." I met his gaze steadily. "I want the man who looked at me and desired me.
The one who didn't hold back or hide behind excuses.
The one who saw exactly what I am and wanted me anyway.
" I swallowed. “The fearless one who brazenly took me on my turf, with all the families present, including mine, and didn’t give a damn about it!”
His face softened a bit and I could see him struggle with himself. "If we do this, there's no going back. No pretending it didn't happen when the sun comes up."
"I don't want to go back," I whispered, pressing closer. "I want to go forward. Whatever that means."
For a heartbeat, he remained perfectly still, tension vibrating between us. Then, with a sound somewhere between a growl and a sigh, he closed the distance.
His lips crashed against mine with bruising force, all the pent-up desire of the past days—past years—finally unleashed. I responded instantly, arms winding around his neck, body arching as his hands dropped to my hips, pulling me flush against him.
This was raw, primal, a true claiming. His tongue swept into my mouth, tasting of whiskey and something uniquely him. I moaned, the sound swallowed by his hungry mouth as his hands slid lower, lifting me effortlessly.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, feeling his hardness pressing against my core.
"Last chance to back out," he murmured against my lips as he leaned me against the wall, his weight deliciously heavy against me.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer. "Not a chance in hell, Alexander Moore."
His smile—sharp and dangerous and full of promise—was the last thing I saw before he claimed my mouth again, hands already working at the buttons of my shirt as the last barriers between enemy and lover shattered completely.