Chapter 20
Twenty
AOIFE O'MALLEY
The afterglow of Alexander's touch still hummed through my veins when the sound of engines shattered the night air.
Shame crashed over me immediately. What was I doing?
This man had helped orchestrate my father's death, had been there when our estate burned.
Yet my body still thrummed with satisfaction from his touch, and that betrayal of everything I should feel made my stomach churn.
I should hate him. Instead, I craved more of his hands on my skin, and that terrified me more than any enemy ever could.
The silk bonds had left faint red marks on my wrists—marks I found myself cherishing. Loving.
"Boss," Coyne's voice crackled through Alexander's phone, sharp with tension. "We have a problem. Patrick O'Brien is here. Three cars, armed escort."
The warmth drained from my body as reality crashed back.
Alexander was already moving, his powerful frame coiling with lethal grace as he reached for his clothes.
The sight of him shifting from lover to all business sent an unwelcome thrill through me—even now, even in crisis, I couldn't stop wanting him.
"How many men?" he asked, phone pressed to his ear as he yanked on his pants.
"At least a dozen. Armed and positioning for confrontation. He's demanding his wife."
Through the window, I could see the convoy of black SUVs arranged on the front drive. Fear clawed at my throat—not of the men with guns, but of what this meant. Of how quickly the fragile peace between families such as ours could shatter.
Alexander's jaw tightened as he pulled on his shirt. "Keep them outside the house. Nobody crosses the threshold without my explicit permission."
I sat up, reaching for my discarded clothes as Alexander continued to bark off orders to Coyne.
My body protested, muscles still trembling, but the adrenaline was quickly burning away the haze of satisfaction.
The shift from blissful intimacy to senses on alert left me feeling emotionally whiplashed.
He ended the call and turned to me, already reaching into his nightstand. The Glock he handed me was smaller than his service weapon but no less deadly.
"Safety's off," he said, his eyes serious as they met mine. "You know how to use this?"
"My father didn't raise an ornament," I replied, checking the chamber with practiced efficiency. He might have been an arsehole, but at least he’d showed up in that regard—making sure I was prepared.
The familiar weight of the weapon grounded me, pushing back the lingering vulnerability from our lovemaking.
"But I'm not hiding up here like some helpless princess. "
Alexander's expression hardened. "Aoife, this isn't a discussion. You stay in this room, lock the door—"
"Fuck that." I stood, pulling on my jeans with sharp, angry movements. The protective instinct in his voice should have annoyed me, but instead it sent a confusing warmth through my chest. When had anyone ever tried to shield me from danger? "I'm not some delicate flower who needs protecting."
"This isn't about being delicate," he snapped, moving toward the door. "This is about not giving Patrick O'Brien a second target."
I caught his arm as he reached for the handle, my fingers digging into his bicep.
The contact sent electricity racing up my arm—there were armed men outside, an emergency situation to deal with, yet I couldn't touch him without my body responding.
Awful. "And I handled her just fine, didn't I?
Besides, this concerns me. Beatrice came after me, tried to murder me in my sleep. "
Alexander's eyes flashed with something between frustration and admiration. "You're not thinking clearly. What just happened—"
"Is exactly why I need to be down there," I interrupted, reaching for one of his t-shirts. The black cotton hung loose on my smaller frame, carrying his scent—an odd source of comfort. "Patrick needs to see how his insane his wife is. And how she failed."
I saw the moment he realised I wouldn't be swayed. The reluctant acceptance in his expression couldn’t be missed.
"If you come down there," he said finally, "you stay behind me. And if shooting starts—"
"I'm not an amateur, Alexander." The admission slipped out before I could stop it: "I've been in … such difficult situations before."
His eyes darkened at that confession—another reminder of how much we still didn't know about each other. The hunger in his gaze, even in the face of danger, sent heat pooling between my thighs.
"This isn't over," he warned, but there was heat in his voice that had nothing to do with anger.
We descended the stairs together, and I found myself hyperaware of his presence beside me—the controlled power in his movements, the way he positioned himself slightly ahead, always ready to shield me.
The protectiveness should have angered me, but instead it awakened something primitive and feminine I found entirely alien.
Not even my father had ever treated me this way. How to deal with that?
The idea of a confrontation with Patrick felt surreal after the intimacy we'd just shared. Standing behind Alexander as he faced down him and his men, I felt claimed in a way that went beyond all reason. This was his territory, his authority, and somehow I'd become part of his world.
When Patrick's gaze found me, something vicious flickered across his features. "Miss O'Malley. I trust my wife didn't cause you any permanent harm?"
I kept my expression neutral despite the rage simmering within. "Nothing that won't heal."
His gaze travelled to Alexander. “If I’d known her plans before, I’d have ensured this wouldn’t happen.”
Alexander nodded and inched between us, the gesture subtle but unmistakable. “Follow me,” he told them, and turned back inside the mansion.
Climbing down to the basement, I felt the weight of what we were walking into. Seeing Beatrice again, facing the woman who'd tried to kill me just hours before shook me a little, mostly because she was the kind of unhinged I’d never truly encountered in the past.
When the cell door opened and Beatrice's eyes found me, the transformation was immediate and terrifying—blank look morphing into pure, incandescent hatred.
"YOU," she snarled. "YOU FUCKING BITCH!"
She lunged with shocking speed, and Alexander's body slammed into hers without hesitation.
"I can take care of myself," I muttered, frustrated once more by my own reaction to his protectiveness.
"I know you can," he replied without turning around. "Doesn't mean I'm going to let you prove it unless absolutely necessary."
The quiet confidence in his voice, the absolute certainty in the tone, made my throat tight with unexpected emotion. When had anyone ever gone out on a limb for me without it being in the job description?
Watching Beatrice transform from screaming harridan to submissive wife was deeply unsettling. The sudden way with which she melted against Patrick, oozing practiced vulnerability, reminded me uncomfortably of masks I'd worn myself around people, just to get them off my back.
That's when she struck.
The knife appeared as if by magic, punching into Patrick's stomach with vicious efficiency. The sight of blood, the sound of Beatrice's anguished screams, the chaos of men trying to restrain a woman lost to madness—it all blurred together in a kaleidoscope of violence.
"THIS IS FOR EVERY TIME YOU HURT ME!" she shrieked. "FOR EVERY PILL YOU FORCED DOWN MY THROAT!"
Her voice brimmed with raw agony as she railed about the abuse she’d been subjected to, all condensed into a moment of brutal revenge. And then I found myself empathising with her, despite the fact that she’d likely always been this way. Unbalanced. Disturbed. Mad.
Patrick and Beatrice were quickly carried to separate vehicles and rushed off the property. I stood beside Alexander feeling emotionally wrung out. The night had been a roller coaster from the heights of sexual bliss to the depths of lunacy playing out before us.
"Well," I said finally, breaking the silence. "That was interesting. Will he survive?"
“I don’t know…”
I’d seen the man, unconscious, his shirt bloodied. I had my doubts. Alexander turned to look at me. In his gaze I discerned concern, relief … affection?
"Are you alright?" he asked, reaching out to touch my cheek.
I caught his hand, pressing it against my skin. The simple contact sent warmth flooding through me, chasing away the lingering chill of anxiety. "I'm fine. Better than fine."
"Good," he said, his thumb tracing my cheekbone with devastating gentleness. "Because we need to talk about what happens next."
A conversation perhaps long overdue. I raised an eyebrow, my pulse quickening at the intensity in his dark eyes. "What happens next?"
His face beamed. "Now that we're not being hunted by a madwoman, we can focus on more ... pleasant pursuits."
Heat pooled low in my belly at his words, at the hunger in his gaze. The night had stripped away all pretences, left us raw and honest in a way I'd never experienced before. Whatever this was between us—alliance, obsession, something ever deeper—it was no longer something we could deny or ignore.
"Lead the way, Alexander Moore." He smiled at me using his full name, and so did I.
As we walked back toward the house, the barriers I'd built around my heart started to crumble.
The walls that had protected me from wanting anything beyond the demands of my position—pure duty, power …
revenge even. I still had to regroup. I was a leader with a scattered flock, needing to rebuild from scratch. And I found I didn't care.
Whatever came next, I was ready for it. Ready for life. Ready for him.