Chapter 16
Sixteen
AOIFE O'MALLEY
The evening shadows stretched across Eleanor's borrowed bedroom as I stared at my reflection in the antique vanity mirror.
My hair still damp from a second shower, skin bearing faint marks from Alexander's mouth and hands—evidence of what had happened between us the night before.
Between my thighs, I was still tender, a delicious ache that reminded me with every movement of how thoroughly he'd claimed me.
What the hell was I doing?
I traced a finger over a purpling bruise at the junction of my neck and shoulder.
Alexander had put it there, his teeth marking me as if I were something that could be claimed.
The worst part wasn't the mark itself—it was how my body responded to the memory, nipples tightening, a pulse of wet heat between my legs.
How I'd begged him for more, pleaded for his marks, wanted everyone to know I belonged to him in that moment.
This wasn't part of the plan. The plan had been simple: infiltrate Flanagan operations, gather intelligence, avenge my father. Fucking the enemy certainly hadn't been on the agenda.
Except Alexander Moore didn't feel like the enemy anymore—at least not when his cock was buried deep inside me, his mouth hot against my neck, his hands pressing bruises into my hips as he drove me to the edge of sanity.
"Get a fucking grip," I muttered to my reflection, tightening the belt of my borrowed robe. "It's just sex."
Phenomenal, mind-altering sex that had left me trembling and disoriented, but sex, nonetheless. A physical release after days of tension and trauma. Nothing more.
So why couldn't I stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me afterward? The way his arms had tightened around me as we'd drifted to sleep, as if he couldn't bear to let me go? The way he'd whispered my name like a prayer, like salvation, like damnation all at once?
We'd spent most of the day together, liaising with Coyne and discussing Beatrice's possible whereabouts, analysing her financial records for any hint of where she might have fled.
The work had been oddly comfortable—neither of us mentioning what had happened the night before, yet constantly aware of it in the electricity that sparked whenever our hands brushed, in the lingering glances across the table.
I'd caught him staring at my mouth more than once, his eyes darkening with remembered pleasure. Every accidental touch sent fire racing through my veins, triggered memories of his hands on my body, inside me, making me wet even as we discussed security protocols and money trails.
Then a call had come, and Alexander had left abruptly, his expression stoic as he strapped his gun to his hip.
"Stay here," he'd ordered, not quite meeting my gaze. "Security is on high alert. I'll be back tonight."
Before I could argue, he was gone, leaving me alone with nothing but my thoughts and my treacherous body for company.
Now, hours later, I paced the length of my borrowed bedroom, restless energy coursing through me. The house was too quiet, the only sounds the occasional creak of old wood and the distant murmur of the men changing shifts outside.
Alexander still wasn't back.
I told myself I didn't care. That his absence was a relief—a chance to clear my head, to remember who I was and what I was supposed to be doing here. I shouldn’t pine for this man. I shouldn’t worry about whether he was safe, whether he'd return with new bruises or bullet wounds.
Yet, I found myself straining to hear the sound of his car in the driveway, the heavy tread of his footsteps on the stairs. Was he thinking of me, or was he as haunted by what we'd done as I was?
To distract myself, I retrieved the printed information we'd been reviewing, spreading the papers across the bed as I searched for patterns we might have missed.
Beatrice was clever—methodical in her madness.
She wouldn't have fled without a well-established escape route and a secure location to disappear to.
The files blurred before my eyes as fatigue set in. I was halfway to sleep when I heard it—the distant sound of a car engine, followed by the low murmur of voices. I moved to the window, peering through a gap in the curtains.
Alexander emerged from a sleek black car, his shoulders tense as he spoke with one of the security guards.
Even from this distance, I could see the exhaustion in the set of his body, the weary way he ran a hand through his hair.
There was blood on his shirt—by the way he moved, not his own, I guessed with a rush of relief that was both confusing and intense.
I pressed my thighs together, surprised by the immediate response of my body to the mere sight of him—powerful, lethal, wearing proof of violence.
There had to be something wrong with me.
I retreated from the window, gathering the scattered paperwork into a neat stack before slipping back into bed. When his footsteps finally sounded in the hallway, echoing, I held my breath, half expecting—half hoping—he would stop at my door.
He didn't.
The soft click of his bedroom door closing sent an irrational pang of disappointment through me, followed by a wave of molten heat as I imagined him stripping off that bloodied shirt, revealing the muscled torso I'd explored with hands and mouth just hours before.
I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, cursing myself for caring. For wanting. My hand drifted unconsciously to my breast, fingers teasing my nipple through the thin fabric of my robe, remembering how Alexander's mouth had felt there … the exquisite pleasure-pain when he'd used his teeth.
An hour passed, then another. Sleep eluded me, my body humming with restless energy that had nothing to do with what faced us and everything to do with the man sleeping down the hall.
This was scary territory for me. Alexander Moore was not mine to want—not in the light of day, not in the reality where we were never supposed to have a connection. Whatever had happened between us had to be temporary insanity, a momentary alliance born of shared trauma and proximity.
I needed to remember that.
Yet, I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked at me as he moved inside me, as if I were something delicate and fierce all at once. The way his voice had roughened when he said my name. His hands had been both gentle and possessive, reverent and demanding.
How he'd filled me so completely, so much that I'd forgotten everything—my name, my purpose, my very identity—replaced by pure sensation and need.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I was on my feet, moving silently out of the room and into the hallway.
The house was dark and still, only the faint glow of security lights outside illuminating my path.
I paused outside his door, heart hammering against my ribs, wetness gathering between my thighs at the mere thought of what I was about to do.
This was madness. I should turn around, go back to my room, forget this insanity.
Instead, I turned the handle, easing the door open without a sound.
Moonlight spilled through partially opened curtains, casting silver shadows across the room.
Alexander lay on his back, one arm flung above his head, chest rising and falling in the deep, steady rhythm of sleep.
A half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the nightstand—his nightcap after what had clearly been a violent evening.
He hadn’t even finished that. What had he done that had him so exhausted?
I moved closer, drawn by some force I couldn't name.
The sheets had slipped to his waist, revealing the sculpted planes of his chest, the constellation of scars that mapped a violent life.
He looked younger in sleep, the perpetual vigilance erased from his features, yet still so dangerously beautiful the sight made my breath catch.
I should leave. I should turn around and go back to my room before I did something I couldn't take back.
Instead, I perched slowly, quietly on the edge of the mattress. Alexander didn't stir, even as the mattress dipped slightly beneath my weight.
I studied him in the moonlight—the sharp jaw darkened with stubble, the full lower lip, the long lashes that cast shadows on his cheeks. This close, I could smell him, all male, woodsy—a scent that made my pussy clench with remembered pleasure.
Like a moth to a flame…
I reached out, tracing the crescent scar on his wrist with a feather-light touch. He stirred slightly but didn't wake, his breathing remaining deep and even.
The sheet had slipped lower, revealing the defined muscles of his abdomen, the thin trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the fabric.
I remembered how that body had felt pressed against mine, how those muscles had tensed and flexed as he drove into me, how that flat stomach had slapped against mine with each powerful thrust.
The heat that had been simmering in my veins all evening intensified, pooling low in my belly, turning my inner thighs slick with want. Madness. This was madness. Yet I couldn't stop myself from sliding the sheet lower, revealing more of him to my hungry gaze.
He slept naked. Of course he did.
His cock lay semi-hard against his thigh, impressive even in repose. I licked my lips, remembering the weight of him on my tongue, the taste of him, the way he'd groaned when I'd taken him deep, the way he'd filled my throat until I could barely breathe.
I shouldn't do this. It crossed a line, even for us.
Connor O'Malley's daughter, taking pleasure from the enemy's body—it was the ultimate betrayal.
But as I watched him sleep, vulnerable and beautiful, I couldn't reconcile this alluring man with one of the monsters who’d changed everything, forcing me prematurely into this life. The contradiction was tearing me apart.
Yet I found myself leaning closer, my breath ghosting over his skin as I whispered, "Alexander."
He didn't stir.