Chapter 19
Nineteen
ALEXANDER MOORE
The scream that tore through the night air jolted me from sleep with violent immediacy. Not just any cry—my name, shouted with desperate urgency from the room next to mine. Aoife.
I was moving before conscious thought took hold, bare feet hitting cold marble as I grabbed the Glock from beneath my pillow. The hallway stretched before me in silver moonlight, Eleanor's old bedroom door standing ajar, shadows dancing beyond the threshold.
I threw the door wide, weapon raised, taking in the scene: Aoife pinned beneath Beatrice on the floor, knife suspended inches from her throat, auburn hair spread out like a halo.
"Beatrice." My voice cut through the struggle like a blade. "Let her go."
She looked up at me then, blonde hair wild around her face, eyes burning with manic fever. The next few minutes were the hardest I ever had to endure as my fear for Aoife’s life became a very real, living thing.
When Aoife overpowered Beatrice, I moved quickly, retrieving the knife while keeping my gun trained on the woman. My eyes met Aoife's briefly—she was shaken but alert, alive. The relief that flooded through me was almost overwhelming.
"Alexander, please," Beatrice whispered, one final, desperate appeal. "Remember what we had. What we could be together."
"What we had," I said quietly, "was a night of meaningless sex during a sick game. Nothing more." And I meant every word. It had been a game that backfired big time, all for a twisted fuck.
Beatrice seemed to crumple right before my eyes. I hauled her to her feet by her arm, ignoring her cry of pain. "I’m taking you somewhere you can't hurt anyone else," I said as she demanded to know where I was taking her.
As creepy as it was, the basement in this house contained reinforced holding cells. I'd never thought I'd need to use them for Patrick O'Brien's wife.
Beatrice fought me every step of the way, but shock was taking its toll. By the time we reached the basement, she was barely coherent.
The cell door slammed shut with mechanical finality. I turned the lock, pocketing the key as I caught Beatrice collapsing onto the narrow cot through the small window.
"Alexander," she called weakly as I moved toward the stairs. "Please. Don't leave me here."
I paused at the threshold. "Someone will tend to you," I called out. "After that, we'll decide what to do with you."
I found Aoife in her bedroom, pressing a dishcloth to her throat. She'd pulled the torn remnants of her nightgown around herself, but I could see the pale line where Beatrice's blade had kissed her skin.
"How bad is it?" I asked, gently moving her hand aside to examine the cut.
"Superficial." Her voice was steady, but I could see the adrenaline crash beginning. "She's completely unhinged, Alexander."
I touched the wound with careful fingers, relieved when only a thin line of dried blood marked her throat. I swallowed hard..
"I need to call Coyne," I said, reaching for my phone. "Patrick will have to be notified."
I dialled Coyne's number, watching Aoife as she moved to the window. Even in crisis, she maintained that unconscious grace that had first caught my attention.
"Boss?" Coyne's voice was alert despite the hour.
"Beatrice O'Brien broke into the house tonight. Attempted to murder Aoife. She's secured in basement cell three."
A pause. "Jesus Christ. How did she get inside?"
"Unknown. Contact Patrick O'Brien. His wife is our prisoner, and he needs to know." I watched Aoife lean against the window frame. "And Coyne? Check on our prisoner, but don't open that cell door alone. She's dangerous."
"Understood. ETA twenty minutes."
I ended the call and approached Aoife. She didn't look at me when I joined her, her gaze fixed on the dark grounds.
I reached out, gently lifting her wrist to examine the bruises Beatrice had left—dark fingerprints against pale skin. The sight of them ignited something primitive in my chest.
"She marked you," I said, my voice rougher than intended.
"Not permanently." But Aoife didn't pull away. Instead, she stepped closer, her free hand coming to rest against my chest. "Alexander?"
"Yes?"
Her eyes met mine, pupils dilated with something beyond fear. "I need... I need to feel grounded. To know I'm still alive." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Take me. Use me. Do whatever you want with me. Like … like you did with her?" Her gaze was pleading.
“Like her…” I shook my head and drew my brows together. “Never.” Releasing a deep breath, I added, "Aoife—"
"Please." Her fingers curled into my shirt. "You know what I mean. I need to feel something other than fear. I need to feel you."
I studied her face, searching for any sign of shock-induced confusion. But her gaze was clear, direct—a woman who knew exactly what she was asking for.
"Are you sure?" I asked, though my body was already responding.
"Yes," she breathed. "Make me forget everything else."
I swept her into my arms, carrying her to my bedroom. She was light as silk, but I could feel the tension coiled in her muscles, seeking release.
"Wait here," I instructed, setting her down beside the bed.
I moved to my dresser, retrieving a silk scarf—navy blue, expensive, perfect for what I had in mind. When I turned back, Aoife was watching me with curious eyes.
"Give me your hands."
She extended her wrists without hesitation and I bound them with the silk, testing the tension. The material was soft but strong enough to hold her.
"Too tight?" I asked.
She shook her head, testing the bonds. "Perfect."
I lifted her bound hands above her head, securing them to the brass headboard. The position stretched her body into a graceful line—vulnerable and trusting.
"Still with me?" I asked, running my hands down her sides.
"Yes," she whispered, then gasped as I tore away the remnants of her nightgown, leaving her completely bare.
"Look at you," I murmured, my voice dropping to that register that made her pupils dilate. "So fucking beautiful. So perfect for me."
She arched into my touch as I explored her newly revealed skin, her breathing quickening when I traced her collarbone and pressed kisses to her throat, carefully avoiding Beatrice's mark.
"You're incredible," I continued, hands moving to cup her breasts. "These perfect tits, made for my hands, my mouth."
Her nipples hardened at my words, and I couldn't resist taking one into my mouth, and rolling the sensitive peak between my teeth.
"Alexander," she gasped, tugging at her bonds. "Please."
"Please what, beautiful?" I asked, moving to her other breast. "Tell me what my perfect girl wants."
The praise made her moan, her back arching off the bed. I filed that reaction away—she responded to being called perfect, beautiful, mine.
"Everything," she breathed. "All of you."
I worked my way down her body, pressing kisses to her ribs, her stomach. When I reached the juncture of her thighs, I looked up to find her watching me with hooded eyes.
"Spread your legs for me," I commanded. "Show me how wet you are for me, beautiful."
She obeyed without hesitation, revealing herself completely. The sight of her—bound, exposed, glistening with arousal—sent lust surging through me.
"Fuck, look at you," I breathed, settling between her thighs. "So wet, so ready. Such a perfect little cunt, all for me."
Her hips bucked at my crude words, desperate for contact.
"You like when I talk dirty to you, don't you?" I asked, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "When I tell you how perfect you are? How beautiful?"
"Yes," she whispered, then cried out as I put my mouth on her without warning.
She was already soaked, her body responding instantly to my tongue. I worked her with deliberate skill, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on her clit.
"That's it, beautiful," I murmured against her slick flesh. "Let me hear how much you love this. Let me hear how good I make you feel."
Her hips bucked against my mouth, seeking more friction, but I controlled the pace, kept her suspended on the edge.
"Please," she gasped, pulling at her silk bonds. "Alexander, please, I need—"
"What does my perfect girl need?" I insisted, adding two fingers to complement my tongue, curling them to find that spot that made her back arch.
"I need to come," she admitted, abandoning pride. "Please make me come. I'm so close, so fucking close."
"Such a good girl, begging so sweetly," I praised, increasing my pace. "Come for me now, beautiful. Show me how perfect you are when you fall apart."
The combination of my fingers, tongue, and constant praise was devastating. She came with a scream that echoed off the walls, inner walls clenching around my fingers as pleasure overwhelmed her.
"Gorgeous," I murmured, working her through the aftershocks. "So fucking gorgeous when you come. My perfect girl."
I moved up to claim her mouth in a kiss that tasted of her arousal, then quickly shed my own clothes. When I positioned myself at her entrance, she was already looking at me with desperate eyes.
"Ready for me, princess?" I asked, running the head of my cock through her wetness. "Ready to take every inch of me?"
"Yes," she breathed. "Please, I need you inside me."
I pushed inside her in one smooth stroke, filling her completely. We both groaned at the sensation—her tight heat enveloping me, stretching to accommodate my size.
"Fuck, you feel incredible," I breathed against her lips. "So tight, so flawless. Made for my cock, weren't you?"
"Yes," she sobbed, the praise making her clench around me. "Only for you."
I began to move, setting a rhythm that was both claiming and worshipful. Each thrust was designed to remind her she was alive, safe, mine.
"That's it, take it all," I growled, increasing my pace. "Such a good girl, taking my cock so perfectly. You were made for this. Made to be fucked by me."
"Harder," she demanded, voice rough with need. "Please, I need to feel you."
I obliged, driving into her with the force she craved. The bed frame creaked under our movements, the silk bonds holding her wrists taut as she pulled against them.
"Is this what you need?" I asked, angling my hips to hit that perfect spot inside her. "To be taken, used, claimed by me? To remember you're mine?"
"Yes," she sobbed, pleasure and relief warring in her voice. "God, yes. I'm yours, only yours."
"That's right, beautiful. You're mine," I continued, feeling her climbing toward another peak. "Taking my cock so well, too. You're going to come for me again, aren't you?"
I could see her body tensing, inner walls beginning to flutter around me. I was close myself, but I needed to see her fall apart again.
"Come for me," I commanded, sliding one hand between our bodies to find her clit. "You belong to me. Show me how you come on my cock."
The additional stimulation combined with my relentless praise was all she needed. She came with a scream, her body convulsing beneath mine as wave after wave of pleasure washed through her.
"Beautiful," I groaned, the sight and sensation of her release triggering my own. "So fucking amazing."
I buried myself to the hilt and came with a roar, spilling myself deep inside her as she continued to clench around me.
We lay tangled together afterward, both breathing hard, her wrists still bound above her head. I traced idle patterns on her sweat-dampened skin.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice hoarse.
"For what?"
"For giving me what I needed. For making me feel—"
The sound of vehicles approaching at high speed shattered the quiet night. Multiple engines, moving fast—too fast for a social call.
My phone rang before I could reach for it.
"Boss," Coyne's voice was tight with tension. "We have a problem. Patrick O'Brien is here. Three cars, armed escort."
I was already moving, untying Aoife's bonds with swift efficiency. "How many men?"
"At least a dozen. Armed and positioning for confrontation. He's demanding his wife."
I helped Aoife to her feet, both of us dressing quickly. Through my office windows, I could see the convoy of black SUVs arranged defensively on the front drive. Men in tactical gear filed out of the vehicles.
I activated the external security cameras, watching as Patrick O'Brien emerged from the lead vehicle. Even from a distance, I could see the cold fury in his posture.
He'd come for his wife. And he'd brought an army to get her back.
"Where is she?" His voice carried across the grounds, amplified by a megaphone.
This was about to become very complicated.