Chapter 21
Twenty-One
ALEXANDER MOORE
The kitchen felt like a sanctuary after all the chaos, with the morning light streaming through tall windows as I dismissed the remaining staff with a wave of my hand. "Take the afternoon off," I told them, watching Coyne and the security team file out. "We'll handle things from here."
Aoife perched on a stool at the marble island, still wearing my oversized t-shirt, her auburn hair catching the sunlight. The sight of her in my clothes, in my space, sent a possessive satisfaction through me that I could get used to. Therein was the problem…
"You don't have to cook for me," she said, watching as I moved to the refrigerator. "I'm perfectly capable—"
"I know you are." I pulled out ingredients—eggs, cream, smoked salmon. "But I want to."
She fell silent then, perhaps because of my tone that brooked no argument, and I felt her eyes tracking my movements as I prepared breakfast. The simple domesticity felt surreal after everything we'd endured, yet oddly right.
My phone buzzed against the counter. Ronan.
"I need to take this," I said, meeting her knowing gaze. She nodded, turning her attention to a magazine that had been lying on the counter. I didn’t leave the room, which protocol dictated I should have done. But that would mean distancing myself from her, in more ways than one.
"Alexander." Ronan's voice carried exhaustion despite the early hour in London. "Coyne briefed me. Beatrice O'Brien, Patrick's stabbing—Christ, what a mess."
I moved to the window, keeping Aoife in my peripheral vision, phone to my ear. "It's been dealt with. We’re discussing what can be done to avoid further incidents."
I could almost see him nodding.
"And Patrick? Any word on his condition?"
"His men got him out quickly. No confirmation either way." I watched Aoife from the corner of my eye. "Could go either direction."
"Fuck." A pause. "If he dies, the O'Brien territory goes into chaos. If he lives, he'll want blood for what happened here. Even if Beatrice started everything, it’s a matter of pride. "
"I'm aware of the implications."
"And Miss O'Malley? Coyne mentioned she was involved."
My jaw tightened involuntarily. "She was Beatrice's target. Helped neutralize the threat."
A pause. "Helped? Alexander, please tell me you haven't involved—"
"She's proven useful," I cut him off, hating the defensive edge in my voice.
"I see." Another pause, loaded with unspoken questions. "Cressida and I will arrive tomorrow evening. We need to discuss this further—the power vacuum if Patrick dies, or his possible retaliation if he lives."
"Understood." I turned back to Aoife, finding her watching me with those sharp green eyes. "The estate is secure. More than ever. Coyne and I are seeing to that."
"Good. And Alex? Be careful. Don't underestimate what Connor's daughter might be capable of. But my true question is: why was she there in the first place?"
The warning sent ice through my veins, even as I looked at the woman who'd shared my bed just hours ago. "I won't." As for his last question, I ignored it because I wasn’t ready to answer that. What would he think?
Mercifully, Ronan let it go. After ending the call, I returned to cooking, hyperaware of the silence stretching between us. Aoife hadn't moved, but tension radiated from her slender frame.
"Ronan's coming," I blurted out. "Tomorrow evening." I cracked eggs into a bowl with more force than necessary. "He's ... concerned about the situation."
"About me, you mean."
I met her gaze directly. "About the complications my association with you might create."
Her laugh was bitter. "Your association. Is that what you're calling it?"
I set down the whisk, moving to stand before her. "Aoife—"
"No, I understand." She slid off the stool, creating distance between us. "Family comes first. Loyalty above all else. I should know."
"It's not that simple."
"Right … as I said. Family." Her eyes flashed with fire. "You've made your position clear, Alexander. Even if you fuck me, even if you protect me, ultimately you serve Ronan Flanagan."
The accusation stung because it held truth. "Ronan is my brother in everything but blood. He saved me when I had nothing, gave me purpose, family—"
"Yes," she interrupted, moving closer. "The housekeeper's son, elevated just high enough to be useful but never truly blood."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I?" She reached out, tracing the scar on my wrist. "Tell me about this. Tell me how you really got it."
My breath caught at her touch, memories I'd buried clawing to the surface. "It doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
I pulled away, returning to the stove with deliberate movements. But the words came anyway, pulled from some deep well of need I hadn't known existed.
"I was seven," I said, whisking eggs with a certain focus. "Caught taking food from the kitchen between meals. The Flanagans' head enforcer—won’t say his name or I’ll spit on it—decided to teach me a lesson about knowing my place."
I sensed her absolute attention as she watched me.
"He heated his signet ring over the gas stove’s flame," I continued, my voice carefully neutral. "Pressed it into my wrist while my mother watched. Said it would remind me that some lines couldn't be crossed. He’s dead now…"
"Where was Ronan?"
"Already sent away to boarding school." I poured the eggs into the hot pan. "His father was a dickhead… Well, Ronan has his own story that’s not my place to tell right now…”
She nodded in understanding. "But you stayed."
"Where would I go except with my mother?
" The eggs sizzled, filling the silence.
"The Flanagans were actually kind to me. Murphy, on the other hand, was another matter. They didn’t know him like I and Mum did…
When my mother died of cancer three years later, Ronan's grandfather could have thrown me out.
Instead, he paid for my education and training.
Said I showed promise. He was a good egg. "
I could feel the weight of her gaze, the questions she wasn't asking.
"When Ronan returned, I thought he'd have changed," I admitted. "Maybe resent how his grandfather had championed me while he’d been sent away. But on the contrary, he never saw it that way. He saw a brother, an ally. Someone who understood this world perhaps even more than he did."
"And now you'd die for him."
"Without hesitation." I turned to face her, letting her see the absolute certainty in my eyes. "That will never change, Aoife. Not for you, not for anyone."
She stared at me a long while, unwavering, then, at last, she nodded.
"I understand loyalty," she said quietly. "My father inspired the same devotion in his men."
"Tell me about him." I plated the eggs, adding smoked salmon with careful precision. "The real Connor O'Malley, not the monster Ronan knew."
She accepted the plate with a nod of thanks, considering her words. "He was ... complicated. Brilliant, ruthless, but he genuinely believed in protecting our people, our territory. The old ways."
I watched her take a delicate bite, struck by the contradiction she presented—aristocratic grace mingled with a shrewd mind and deadly skills.
"Frankly, he really didn’t want me to take over," she continued. "Had two sons he preferred. But my oldest brother was killed in a territorial dispute when I was sixteen. The younger one…" She shrugged dismissively. "Weak. More interested in drugs and whores than building an empire."
"So he trained you instead."
"Out of necessity, not choice." Her smile held no warmth. "Connor O'Malley needed an heir worthy of his legacy. Gender became irrelevant when survival was at stake."
I moved closer, settling beside her at the island. "What kind of training?"
"Everything." She met my gaze directly. "Combat, strategy, finance, psychology. How to read people, how to manipulate them. How to kill efficiently and dispose of bodies without trace evidence."
The casual way she said the words proved quite arousing. I shifted in my seat. "And Cressida?"
Her expression hardened. "My father's greatest mistake.
He saw her at some society function, became obsessed for a while.
Nobody knew but I knew his thinking, and once said a bit too much during a phone conversation, during which I was sure he was intoxicated.
He thought he could make her into his perfect ornament. "
"But she was stronger than he expected and things went sour."
"She was Ronan's salvation." Aoife's voice carried grudging respect. "My father underestimated what love could drive a man to do. Ronan showed remarkable ... dedication in retrieving her. At first I…" Her voice trailed away.
I caught the careful phrasing. "You don't hate him for destroying your family's power."
She bit on her bottom lip. Maybe I hit a nerve. "I should. I’ve thought of revenge, even recently. I thought that’s what I wanted." She took another bite of her food, chewing thoughtfully. "But my father crossed a line when he took her. Some things are sacred, even in our world."
"Love."
"Love." The word seemed to surprise her. "Yes, I suppose that's what it was."
We ate in comfortable silence, the morning sun warming the kitchen as unspoken understanding passed between us.
Useless denying it, this woman saw the world with the same clear-eyed pragmatism that had kept me alive all these years.
She lacked the sense of privilege people in her position usually possessed.
"The hunt," I said finally, setting down my fork. "You want to know about Beatrice's obsession."
Aoife nodded, pushing food around her plate. Waiting.
"It was during the games at the old estate," I began with a sigh. "Ronan had heard of this game where the prey were willing participants in a hunt. They’d come from rival families. But … some weren't so willing. In this case, none of them were. He … had his reasons. A chip on his shoulder."
"And Beatrice was one of these unwilling participants."
"She was forced to participate." I could still see her that night—her eyes so wide. Terrified maybe but not quite. Mad… "Along with her mother and sister. A debt needed to be repaid."
"But she figured out who you were."
"Eventually." I stood, pacing to the window. "We all wore masks, but she was observant. Intelligent. She pieced together my identity long after the fact."
"And became obsessed."
"The marriage to Patrick had been Ronan's idea," I admitted.
"An alliance he thought would benefit both families.
But..." I turned back to face her. "Patrick's reputation for cruelty was not just a fairytale. This was one time when Ronan and I didn’t see eye to eye, and I told him. I believe he did regret it after, but it was too late… Truth be told, Beatrice has a history of cruelty herself. She lost the plot long ago and suffered from various mental ailments.”
Understanding dawned in Aoife's eyes. "She must have associated the hunt with the last time she had any agency, any choice in her own suffering. And you became the symbol of what she'd lost."
"Something like that." I moved closer, drawn by the intelligence in her gaze. "She convinced herself that night meant more than it did. That we shared some ... connection."
"Did you?"
The question hung between us, loaded with implications. I studied her face—the elegant, achingly beautiful features, the green eyes that seemed to see straight through me.
"No," I said finally. "There was physical attraction, mutual satisfaction. It was a dark, twisted sex game—an experiment. But I felt nothing deeper. Nothing like..."
I stopped myself before the words could escape, but she heard them anyway.
"Nothing like what?" Her voice was soft, yet firm.
Instead of answering, I closed the distance between us, cupping her face in my hands. "You know what."
Her breath hitched as I traced her lower lip with my thumb. "Alexander—"
"That night at your father's gala," I said, my voice rough with remembered desire. "I've never forgotten it. Never stopped thinking about how you felt beneath me, how you responded to my touch."
"It was just sex," she whispered, but her pulse raced beneath my fingers.
"Was it?" I leaned closer, my lips brushing her ear. "Because I've fucked other women since then, and none of them have come close to affecting me the way you did."
She pulled back to meet my gaze, her pupils dilated with desire. "That's impossible. You barely knew me."
"I knew enough." My hands slid down to her waist, pulling her against me. "I knew you were a prize, intelligent, beautiful. Unlike with Beatrice, we had a connection."
"Alexander..." Her voice was breathless now, her body melting against mine.
"Tell me you haven't thought about it," I demanded, my mouth moving to her throat. "Tell me you haven't wondered what it would be like if we'd met under different circumstances."
Instead of answering, she wound her arms around my neck, pulling me down for a kiss that tasted of morning coffee and possibilities. I lifted her onto the counter, stepping between her spread thighs as the kiss deepened.
"This is madness," she gasped against my lips.
"Yes," I agreed, sliding my hands beneath the t-shirt to find bare skin. "Complete fucking madness."
Her laugh was breathless, intoxicating. "Good thing I've always been drawn to dangerous things."
I was about to respond when she pulled back, her eyes bright with sudden inspiration.
"Alexander," she said. "The hunt. The one you shared with Beatrice."
My hands stilled on her waist. "What about it?"
"I want to replace that memory." Her smile was wicked, predatory. "I want to hunt with you, on your terms. No masks, no games—just us."
The suggestion sent lust surging through me with startling intensity. "Aoife—"
"You said sometimes, people consented to it. Well, I do. Tonight," she continued, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. "The same location, the same setup. But this time, it's our choice. Our game."
I studied her face, searching for any sign of hesitation. Instead, I found only determination and a hunger that matched my own.
"You have no idea what you're asking for," I warned, my voice cracking, my head spinning.
"Then show me," she challenged, pulling me down for another kiss. "Show me what it means to be hunted by Alexander Moore."
The thought of chasing her through moonlit paths, of catching her and claiming her under the stars, sent fire racing through my veins. No, it wouldn’t be exactly like with Beatrice. It would be nothing like with Beatrice.
It would be magic.
"Yes," I breathed against her lips, already planning how the night would unfold. "Tomorrow night, you're mine to hunt."
Her smile was pure temptation. "We'll see who catches whom."