Chapter 17
Seventeen
BEATRICE O'brIEN
Darkness. The scent of mothballs and wood polish. I curled tighter into myself, knees pressed painfully against my chest as I sat motionless in the forgotten priest hole behind the library's false panel. The best spot to hear all the comings and goings, and get an idea of what was going on.
Eighteen hours. That's how long I'd been hiding in this secret space—a relic from the house's original construction when Catholics fled persecution, a space I'd discovered during childhood visits to Ashford House when my mother was still alive.
The irony wasn't lost on me that I was hiding in a place designed centuries ago for those fleeing their own kind of hunters.
Getting inside had been simpler than expected.
Years of childhood visits meant I knew every servant's entrance, every blind spot in the original security design.
The northwest service door—still using the same lock mechanism from my mother's time—had been child's play to pick.
More importantly, I knew the staff rotations from memory.
Tuesday evenings, skeleton crew until midnight.
I'd timed my infiltration perfectly during Alexander's rescue operation.
While every security guard focused on the barn incident, I'd slipped through the chaos.
The priest hole had been my sanctuary during childhood tantrums—a space forgotten by everyone except me, absent from any architectural plans Alexander's team would have studied.
They thought I'd fled. Vanished with my tail between my legs.
Alexander's people had swept the grounds, the house, even the servants' areas—but none had thought to check this particular hiding spot.
This priest hole hadn't appeared on any blueprint for over two centuries, forgotten by everyone except me.
Voices echoed through the floorboards above—Alexander's deep timbre, then a woman's response.
Aoife O'Malley. I'd watched them through gaps in the wooden slats earlier, poring over papers spread across the dining table, their bodies leaning close, electricity crackling between them even as they maintained the pretence of professional distance.
The memory of that night in the barn still burnt through my consciousness. His eyes locked on hers as I rode him, as if I were merely a vessel, an inconvenience between them.
Betrayal stung like acid. He was supposed to be mine. Since that night in the maze, when he'd hunted me, when he'd bound me and broken me to reveal parts of myself I'd never shown anyone.
I closed my eyes, letting the memory of that night wash over me...
The night air bit through my thin dress as I ran, branches tearing at my skin, my lungs burning with each desperate breath. The sound of pursuit—measured, unhurried footsteps—kept pace behind me no matter how fast I fled.
He was toying with me. The knowledge sent a forbidden thrill racing down my spine.
When he finally caught me, it wasn't because I'd faltered—but because he'd decided the game had gone on long enough. Strong arms encircled me from behind, one hand covering my mouth to stifle my scream, the other pressing my back against his chest.
"Found you," the voice behind the obsidian mask murmured, his breath hot against my ear. "Did you really think you could outrun me?"
He dragged me through the darkness, his grip unyielding despite my struggles, to a small groundskeeper's cottage at the edge of the maze.
Inside, a single oil lamp cast sinister shadows across sparse furnishings—a table, a chair, and a narrow bed with leather restraints already attached to the iron frame. This was no ordinary cottage…
"Please," I whispered, my voice shaking as he pushed me towards the bed. "You don't have to do this."
The man in the mask laughed, the sound rich and darkly sensual. "I know I don't have to. I want to."
He spun me around, and though I couldn't see his face behind the ornate mask, I felt the intensity of his gaze as it travelled over my body—taking in my torn dress, my heaving chest, the flush I knew was spreading across my skin.
"You want it too," he said, one gloved hand coming up to trace my jawline. "I can see it in your eyes. Feel it in your pulse." His thumb pressed against my throat, feeling the racing beat beneath my skin. "Your body doesn't lie, Beatrice, even when your mouth does."
Before I could respond, he shoved me onto the bed, flipping me onto my stomach with disturbing ease. I struggled, more out of principle than genuine resistance, as he bound my wrists to the headboard with leather cuffs lined with soft fur.
"Fight if you want," he said, securing my ankles with similar restraints, leaving me spreadeagled on the narrow mattress. "It only makes this more entertaining for both of us."
I felt the cool slide of a blade against my back, and tensed.
"Shh," he soothed, the knife slicing through my dress with surgical precision, parting the fabric without so much as grazing my skin. "If I wanted to hurt you—really hurt you—I would have already."
The man in the raven mask removed the ruined dress, leaving me in nothing but lace underwear. The chilly air raised goosebumps across my exposed skin, my nipples hardening painfully as he traced the blade lightly down my spine.
"Beautiful," he murmured, setting the knife aside. "So perfect. So ... untouched."
His gloved hands moved over my body, exploring every curve with possessive determination. When he reached the clasp of my bra, he removed it with practised ease, then tore my knickers away with a single violent motion that made me gasp.
"Now you have nothing to hide behind," he said, stepping back to admire his work. "Nothing but your pride. Let's see how long that lasts."
I heard rustling as he removed his gloves, and then his bare hands were on me—warm, slightly calloused palms sliding over my back, my thighs, between my shoulder blades. I bit my lip to suppress a moan as his touch awakened nerves I hadn't known existed.
"Already responsive," he noted, amusement lacing his tone. "Let's see how wet you are."
One hand slid between my legs without warning, fingers exploring my folds with deliberate slowness. I couldn't suppress the whimper that escaped me when he found me already slick with arousal.
"Just as I thought," he said, pressing one finger inside me with agonising care. "Your body knows what you need, even if you won't admit it."
He withdrew his hand, and I heard him moving around the room, opening drawers, gathering items I couldn't see from my bound position. The anticipation built with each passing moment, my heartbeat thundering in my ears.
The first strike of the crop across my thighs came without warning—a sharp, stinging pain that made me cry out in surprise more than agony.
"Count," he ordered, landing another blow across my other thigh.
"One," I gasped. "Two."
He continued, methodically covering my thighs and buttocks with sharp strikes that burnt on impact, then faded to a warm, tingling sensation that somehow heightened my arousal. By the tenth strike, I was panting, my hips unconsciously lifting to meet each blow.
"Look at you," he said, voice rough with desire. "Taking your punishment so beautifully."
His hand returned between my legs, finding me even wetter than before. "This excites you," he observed, not a question but a confirmation. "The pain. The surrender."
I didn't answer, couldn't form words as his fingers circled my clit with exquisite precision, building pressure that coiled tight in my belly. Just as I approached the edge, he withdrew his touch completely.
"NO!" I snarled, yanking at my restraints like a wild animal, not bothering to pretend I wasn't desperate for release. "You bloody bastard! You can't just—"
A hard slap across my arse silenced me. "I can do whatever I want," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made me clench with need. "You're mine to use as I please. Do you understand?"
"Fuck you," I spat, though my body was trembling with desire.
"Wrong answer."
He flipped me over, reattaching the restraints so I faced him. The mask still concealed his features, but I could see the hunger in his eyes through the slits, the tightly coiled power in the way he held himself.
"Now," he said, producing a silver knife from his pocket, "let's try again. Do you understand who's in control here?"
The blade glinted in the low light as he trailed it between my breasts, down my stomach, not breaking the skin but applying just enough pressure to make me acutely aware of its edge.
"Yes," I whispered, arousal and fear mingling in a heady cocktail.
"Yes, what?" he prompted, using the flat of the blade to push my thighs wider.
"Yes... sir," I supplied, watching his reaction.
A cruel smile curved the visible portion of his lips. "Good girl."
The praise sent an unexpected jolt of pleasure through me, making my cunt clench around nothing.
He set the knife aside and began removing his shirt, revealing a torso sculpted from what looked like marble—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined muscles shifting under golden skin as he moved. A distinctive crescent-shaped scar marked his left wrist, pale against his tan.
"Like what you see?" he asked, noticing my hungry gaze.
"Yes, sir," I replied automatically, then caught myself. What was happening to me? I never submitted to anyone. Yet something about this man, about the controlled violence of his movements, his targeted cruelty, made me ache to please him.
"You're learning," he said approvingly, lowering himself between my spread thighs. "Let's see if you've earned a reward."
The first sweep of his tongue through my folds was electric. I arched off the bed as far as my restraints would allow, a cry tearing from my throat. He gripped my hips with bruising force, holding me in place as he devoured me with methodical thoroughness.