4. Aoife
CHAPTER 4
AOIFE
TRAPPED BY FIRE
T he penthouse suffocates me with its luxury. Three days confined inside these gilded walls, watching Ha'penny Bridge span the Liffey below, taunting me with freedom just beyond reach.
Cormac visits daily, bringing demands wrapped in business proposals. His massive frame dominates the doorway whenever he arrives, power radiating off him. Each interaction ends with his touch lingering too long—fingers tracing my collarbone, palm pressed against my waist, marking me as property.
But tonight, he made a mistake.
The guard rotation changed at midnight. The newer one—Jenkins—brought dinner without checking that the balcony door latched properly. A tiny oversight. A crack of opportunity.
I wait until 2AM, counting seconds in the stillness. Moonlight spills across polished floors as I slide from beneath silk sheets. My captors think I’m broken after days of confinement. They're wrong.
The balcony access opens with barely a whisper. Cold night air rushes against me as I step outside. Ten stories separate me from the street, a deadly drop with no safe way down. But I didn't earn my reputation as Patrick Gallagher's wild child without learning a few tricks.
The neighboring building stands just six feet from the edge of my balcony. Between them runs a maintenance ladder, partially hidden by decorative stonework. Spotted during my daily observation of guard patrols, and changeovers.
I've changed into black jeans and a dark sweater stolen from the closet. Not ideal climbing gear, but better than the ridiculous dresses Cormac provided. The bastard enjoys watching me in them too much.
My pendant remains tucked beneath my sweater, its familiar weight against my skin the only comfort in this nightmare. Strength, a stór, my mother's voice whispers through memory.
I swing one leg over the railing, the metal cold against my palms. The drop below sends vertigo rushing through me, but I push it away. Fear is a luxury I can't afford.
The gap to the maintenance ladder looks wider from here. Six feet of empty air between me and the first rung. One mistake means death.
Worth it to escape Cormac's possession.
I take three deep breaths, position myself, and leap.
My hands connect with metal, impact jarring through my arms. For one terrifying moment, my grip falters—then holds. I hang suspended, adrenaline surging through my veins.
The descent takes forever, each rung a triumph against gravity and panic. My muscles scream in protest. The ground approaches inch by agonizing inch until my feet touch blessed concrete.
Temple Bar district buzzes with nightlife even at this hour. Drunken tourists and locals spill from pubs, their laughter a cover for my escape. I pull my hood up, keeping my head down as I weave through the crowd. This feels too easy .
Cormac's men will discover my absence soon. I need distance and a phone. My father's number is seared into my memory—one call and his soldiers will descend on Dublin like the wrath of ancient gods.
I duck into a narrow alley off Fleet Street, brick walls rising on either side. The shortcut should lead toward the main road where I can flag a taxi or find help.
Halfway down the passage, footsteps echo behind me.
I freeze, instinct recognizing danger before conscious thought catches up. The footfalls—deliberate, measured, familiar. Not the hurried pace of a drunk tourist or the stumble of a homeless person.
The stride of a predator.
I break into a sprint, boots slapping against wet cobblestones. The alley stretches endlessly, shadows swallowing any hope of sanctuary. Behind me, the footsteps quicken.
A figure steps out from a connecting passage ahead, blocking my path. Broad-shouldered, tall, unmistakable even in darkness.
Cormac.
I skid to halt, spinning to retreat, only to find Declan emerging from the direction I came. Trapped between them.
"Impressive," Cormac says, voice carrying in the narrow space. "Six minutes from alarm to finding you. A new record."
My fists clench at my sides. "How?—"
"Tracking chip in your pendant." He approaches, each step unhurried, confident. "Did you think I wouldn't take precautions with something so valuable to you?"
Rage boils through me. The one item connecting me to my mother, violated. Used against me.
"You fucking bastard!" I lunge at him, fists swinging toward him.
He catches my wrists with insulting ease, spinning me against the brick wall. My back hits rough stone as he presses his body against mine, pinning me in place.
"Such fire," he murmurs, his breath hot on my neck. "Most would be grateful I didn't put a chip under their skin. Nasty little things to cut out, bleed like hell."
"I'd rather die than go back to your cage." The words squeeze through clenched teeth.
His laugh vibrates against me where our bodies connect. "Death isn't in your future, Aoife. Not until I've gotten what I want."
"My father will never give you what you want."
Cormac hovers mere inches away. "What makes you think it's only your father's submission I'm after?"
Heat floods my center at his implication. His grip shifts, one large hand now holding both my wrists above my head against the wall. The other traces down my jawline to my throat, resting there with just enough pressure to remind me of my vulnerability.
"Declan," he says without looking away from me, "give us a moment."
"Boss—"
"Now."
Footsteps retreat, leaving us alone in the dark alleyway. Music from nearby pubs provides a distant soundtrack to our standoff.
"You're more trouble than I anticipated," Cormac says, voice dropping lower. "I admire resourcefulness, but your defiance requires correction."
"Fuck your correction." I struggle against his hold, accomplishing nothing except pressing our bodies closer together.
His mouth curves wickedly. "Such vile language from that pretty mouth."
"Let me go, or I'll show you what else this mouth can do." I bare my teeth. "I'll rip your throat out."
Something dangerous flashes across his face—amusement mixed with genuine intrigue. "You and I are more alike than you admit. Both born into violence. Both trapped by family legacy."
"We are nothing alike." The accusation burns worse than his restraint. "You're a monster."
"And what are the Gallaghers? Saints?" His fingers tighten fractionally on my throat. "Your father ordered the execution of the O'Malley family. Even their children."
The truth of his words cuts deep. My family's business drips with blood, same as his.
"At least I don't kidnap women to settle scores," I hiss.
His thumb traces my lower lip, the gesture strangely intimate amid our battle. "No. You just profit from the protection your last name provides while pretending moral superiority."
"Remove your hands before I remove them permanently."
"Make me."
The challenge hangs between us, electric and dangerous. Something shifts in the atmosphere—hatred warping into a different kind of heat. His body presses harder against mine, and I become acutely aware of every point of contact. The muscled thigh between my legs. His hips aligned with mine. The unmistakable hardness pressed against my stomach.
"This exciting you, Donovan?" I taunt, desperate to regain control of the situation. "Getting off on forcing yourself on women?"
His free hand tangles in my hair, yanking my head back. "I've never forced a woman. And when you come to my bed, Aoife Gallagher, it will be because you're begging for it."
"Never."
The word barely leaves my mouth before his lips crash down on mine. The kiss holds nothing of gentleness or romance—it's possession, dominance, punishment. His mouth demands submission, tongue invading when I gasp in shock.
I should bite him. Fight him. Instead, my body betrays me. Liquid fire pours through my veins, pooling low in my belly and between my thighs. The kiss transforms, rage melting into something more primal.
I kiss him back with ferocity, channeling days of fear and hatred into the connection. His groan vibrates against my lips as his hand releases my wrists to grip my waist instead. My freed hands find his shoulders, nails digging through expensive fabric.
Our mouths battle for control, neither yielding. He tastes of whiskey and danger, intoxicating in the worst way. His tongue strokes against mine, demanding responses I can't fight. His hand slides lower, gripping my ass, pulling me tighter against his erection.
The hard length of him pressed against me sends a forbidden thrill racing through my core. His teeth capture my bottom lip, biting just hard enough to blur pleasure with pain. My nipples tighten against my sweater, my treacherous body responding to my captor's touch.
His mouth moves to my neck, hot and demanding. "You taste like rebellion," he murmurs against my skin, before sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
The claiming gesture shatters my momentary madness. I tear away, shoving against his chest.
"No." My voice comes ragged, betraying my response. "This doesn't change anything."
Cormac's lips curve with lust and triumph. "It changes everything, princess. Now I know how good that defiance tastes. How your body responds with lust when you surrender, even for seconds."
"I didn't surrender."
"No?" His thumb wipes across my swollen bottom lip. "The wetness between your thighs disagrees."
Shame and unwanted desire war within me. I turn away, refusing to acknowledge the truth in his words. The kiss revealed something I've fought to deny—raw attraction to the man who holds me captive. Stockholm syndrome in record time.
"Take me back if you must," I whisper, defeated for now but not broken. "But don't pretend this was anything but a power play."
"Oh, it's all about power." Cormac steps back, creating space between us. "But not the kind you think."
He wraps his fingers around my upper arm, grip firm but not bruising. "Let's go. Unless you'd prefer I carry you through Temple Bar for all of Dublin to see?"
The walk back to the penthouse passes in tense silence. Not the elevator, but stairs through a service entrance—another security measure I hadn't discovered. With each step, my failure weighs heavier. So close to freedom, only to be dragged back by the devil himself.
Inside the apartment, Cormac dismisses the guards with a gesture. The door locks, sealing us in together.
"You'll find security upgraded," he says, removing his coat. "Your little adventure exposed weaknesses in our system. They won't recur."
"Congratulations." I cross my arms. "You've built a better prison."
"A prison you'll learn to appreciate." He approaches, backing me against the wall. "Especially compared to alternatives."
His proximity reignites the unwanted heat from the alley. My body remembers his kiss, craves more despite my mind's protest. The space between us vibrates with tension.
"I hate you," I whisper, the declaration as much for myself as for him.
"Hate me all you want." His palm flattens against the wall beside my head. "But don't lie to yourself about what happened tonight."
"A mistake. Nothing more."
His laughter holds no humor. "No, Aoife. What happened was inevitable. Fire recognizes fire."
He leans closer, lips nearly brushing mine again. I turn away, denying him.
"Rest while you can," he murmurs against my ear instead, his breath sending unwanted shivers down my spine. "Tomorrow, your father will be given my terms. Then we'll see what your freedom is truly worth to the Gallagher empire."
His hand trails down my side, stopping at my hip. "And when I finally take you to my bed—and I will—it won't be because of Stockholm syndrome. It'll be because you can't deny this current between us any longer. You will beg me, on your knees."
He steps back, his composure perfect despite the hardness still visible against his trousers. The evidence of desire he makes no attempt to hide.
"Sweet dreams. Dream of me."
After he leaves, I sink to the floor, touching my bruised lips. The pendant at my throat now feels like a collar, binding me to Cormac.
Tonight changed nothing and everything. My captivity continues, but the prison walls have closed in more. The most dangerous cage isn't this penthouse, but the unwanted desire Cormac ignited within me—a fire that threatens to consume everything I believed about myself.
My thighs press together, seeking relief from the ache he created. I despise my weakness, my body's betrayal. Worse still, I know with terrible certainty that when he touches me again—and he will—I might not have the strength to stop him. Or to stop myself.