Page 11 of The Chief's Captive

"They shouldn't have touched you."

"Is that your way of apologizing?" she snaps, and she glares at me over her shoulder. "You should never have taken me." She turns away again, and my anger makes me want to shake her, but I don't want to harm her. I don't want to make her trauma worse. For some fucked-up reason, I want to soothe her, and I haven't the first clue how to do that.

"You'll take dinner with me," I order, and she shakes her head.

"Not hungry. Get out. I want to sleep."

I am seething, fists at my sides, jaw tense. No one tells me no. Not ever. And this woman is trying my patience.

"You have to eat. I'm having it brought up here. We should talk." I'm not taking no for an answer. She will do as I say.

"Is that your way of inviting me to dine with you? You sick bastard. You steal me away from my life and lock me up, and when I try to go home I'm punished, and now you control me? And you want me to actuallywantto stay here?"

Maeve scoffs and sits up. She looks as if she may jump off the bed and dash out the door any second, and I realize perhaps I'm being too callous. I know my personality is intense, and I decide we won't have any valuable conversation if she's being hostile, and the only way to calm her down is for me to try something different.

So I do something I've never in my life had to do. People fall at my beck and call. They fawn over me, relish my presence, invite my commands, but Maeve Walsh is stubborn and prideful, and the only way to seduce her ego into relaxing is to be something I'm not.

Civil.

"Would you please do me the honor of dining with me this evening? I would like to discuss your time here and how we can resolve this difference we have." The words taste like acid on my tongue. Pretending to be this man isn't easy, but it yields fruit.

Maeve's shoulders relax, and she sighs, and her eyes trace up my body. She looks thoughtful for a second, and the hurricane in her eyes resolves. "Fine," she says softly, and I've won the battle.

Now to wage war.

8

MAEVE

Yes, I tried to climb out his window, but I'm captive here. What did they expect? They are the ones in the wrong here. I didn’t deserve being smacked around for wanting to return to my life and get away from these people. I'm terrified now, shaking as I sit with my legs curled up on this bed watching Ronan and his maid, whom he calls Brigid, lay out a tray of food for each of us. My face hurts, and my arm. My wrists are sore too from being lashed to this stupid chair.

"That'll be all, Brigid. Thank you," Ronan says, and he seems softer, the same gentle side of him I just saw less than an hour ago when he rushed in and untied me and gently laid me in bed. I don't know what's going on, why he's being so kind, but I don't hate it. It's not completely unlike him, but he's usually very stiff and matter-of-fact. This softness seems strange and maybe dangerous.

Brigid retreats with her cart of empty trays, and I look down at the tray in front of me. A plate of roast and vegetables steams and smells amazing. It makes my mouth water. I've beenabstaining from food for so long, I can barely restrain myself. My stomach growls as Ronan takes small bites and studies me.

"It's okay to eat, Maeve." He's still stern, a bit overly commanding with his tone, like a father who wants to be nurturing but doesn't know the first thing about it.

I swallow hard and watch him take a few more bites, and my stomach screams at me. So I cave in. The first bite is small, a piece of well-seasoned carrot. It practically melts on my tongue, sending my appetite into overdrive. I find myself so ravishingly hungry, I begin to devour the food, eating so quickly I don't stop to enjoy any of the wine on the nightstand in a glass.

When my plate is finished, Ronan pushes his toward me, and I sigh as I take it and continue devouring it. The food is amazingly delicious, or maybe I’m just that hungry that anything would taste good. I eat and eat until both plates are clean and my glass of wine is empty, and when I'm finished, I still want more. But I'm not about to ask him for more. This kindness surely won't last. He's a criminal, not a father, and definitely not a gentleman. Though I appreciate this gentler side of him. It makes me wonder if I can show him there is a side of me he hasn't seen, either. A side he can trust.

"Well, that wasn't as awful as you thought…" Ronan stands and removes the trays of food, setting them on a table by the door. He picks up the bottle of wine left on the table by the door and brings it to the nightstand and refills my glass. "How do you feel now?" he asks, and I'm genuinely shocked that he does.

I narrow my eyes in confusion. This man has absconded with me and held me prisoner, and now he's asking about my wellbeing or mental status? What does he expect me to feel? And am I supposed to be grateful to him for feeding me?

On the other hand, the instant he saw me tied to that chair, I saw the rage flash through his eyes. He was furious and outraged by the sight. And he didn’t leave me that way. He untied me, cared for me, even spoke softly to me, when I know that's not his natural inclination.

"I feel better…" My lips have a mind of their own. But I'm not angry they've given that detail to him. I do feel better. The ache in the pit of my stomach that has made me nauseous and irritable for days is gone now. I feel tired, though, the rush of sugar and insulin in my bloodstream playing up.

"Good," he says. He sets the bottle down next to my glass and picks it up to hand it to me. I take it from him and sip, watching him carefully. I'm not sure how to read this man anymore. I know his type and what he said about me. I'm his. He owns me. I'll leave in a body bag… But he doesn't seem that hard and edgy right now. He seems to care.

"And thank you for untying me. You have to understand that I'd want to go home. I've been asking…" I let my words hang in the air as he picks up his own glass and takes a swig. His eyes stay fixed on my face, and I feel unnerved by the way he looks at me. He is intimidating, and not because of the threats he's made. There's just an air of power and danger about him.

Any other time, a man like this would grab my attention. The bad boy type, the ones who are just tough and bold and they don't even notice that women notice. They don't care what anyone thinks or how people might respond. They live their lives and own their shit. Those men are alluring, irresistible. Ronan O'Rourke is the exact type of man I'd be attracted to—if I didn't know he was the chief.

"You see," he starts, setting his glass down, "I'm in a very delicate position here, Dr. Walsh." Ronan relaxes on the side of the bed closest to me. He leans on one arm, crosses one leg over the other. His other hand rests casually in his lap, and he continues as his fingers dance over the fabric of his slacks. "I like you, and I think you know that."

I stiffen at his words, uncertain what that means. Is that the reason he's being nice all of a sudden? He likes me? And does that mean he likes me as a person or as a doctor? I'm confused, but I can't even ask him those questions. It would be to admit I care, which I can't do. I want to go home.

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