Page 25 of The Chief's Captive

As we both catch our breath, he collapses onto the bed next to me, panting. “My fucking God,” he starts to say, but I cut him off with a kiss.

“I know,” I manage to pant out between kisses. “Same…” I’m feeling the bliss of that sex as he curls around me and his cum drains out of my body. It’s heavenly, warm and relaxing. I let him hold me and place kisses on the back of my shoulder, and for a moment, we’re okay. For a moment, we’re doing well, and I feel like maybe I’ve been wrong about everything.

Until I close my eyes.

I see that man’s face again, and it makes me shudder.

What am I doing? Ronan O’Rourke isn’t a knight in shining armor. He’s a maniac with an agenda, and I’m on it. Conquering me is his goal, and I'm letting him win. What the fuck is wrong with me?

17

RONAN

Something awakens me, and I stir. The bed is warm and comfortable, but I don't hear Maeve snoring as usual. I slide my hand over to her side of the bed, and it's still warm, but she's gone. I listen carefully for a second, but I hear nothing. No noises in the house at all except the wind outside the window.

I'm usually a light sleeper, so the fact that she's gotten out of bed without my knowing it is surprising. I sit up, now on alert, and listen more carefully, straining to reach out with my sense of hearing and capture even the tiniest pin drop and make it come to my ears. But there's nothing. Not a peep.

The quiet chills me. I tense. I think back a few weeks when Maeve ran out my front door and into the storm and got soaked and dragged back here by my men, and my body kicks into fight mode. If the bed is still warm, she has to still be in the house or close enough to be caught again. I know if my brothers see her running out, they'll kill her on the spot. They've already warned me of the danger of her getting loose, and I've acknowledged that.

I slip off the bed and reach for my pants on the ground next to my nightstand. I slip them on and reach into my nightstand and find my weapon. It's fully loaded, but I pray I don't have to use it. Then I move toward the door where my shoes are. Anger starts to bubble up in my chest and this time, I know if I find her, what I might have to do. I won't be put through this. No one defies me this way, least of all a woman I've taken care of for months now.

My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a noise coming from the bathroom. I listen more carefully and hear coughing and gagging. I know it's her. I'd recognize her sounds through the chaos of a crowd. I turn toward the bathroom feeling relieved I don't have to go hunt her down but immediately concerned about her.

Dr. Butcher said Maeve is fine, that she just needs more nourishment. When he sent the medications, I thought we were past whatever sickness she's suffering, though maybe I've misinterpreted everything. I set my gun on my nightstand and kick my shoes off at the foot of the bed as I pass around the room to the closed bathroom door. That explains why I didn't hear her in there.

When I open the door, I see by the faint glow of moonlight reaching in through the small window that she's huddled on the floor by the toilet. I flick on the light, temporarily blinding both of us, but I strain against the light to blink my eyes into focus and crouch next to her.

"Are you alright?" I ask her, reaching out to pull the hair back from her face.

Maeve looks up at me, and I see the dark circles under her eyes and the way her face is ghostly pale. She looks frail, like a patienton their deathbed, and I feel like something is very wrong with her.

"No, I don’t feel well," she tells me with a gravelly voice, no doubt raw from vomiting. The evidence of why she's on the bathroom floor remains on the corner of her lip and in the toilet bowl.

With everything else going on in my life right now, this just seems to take the cake. I'm not a religious man, but at times, I feel like if there is a God, he is punishing me for all the things Maeve hates about me. The things I know seem corrupt to most of this world. But I do what I have to do for my family, and I can't afford to think about what's morally right or wrong. I have to do what's best for my family.

"Let me help you back to bed," I tell her, but before I can get her on her feet again, she begins to retch. The heaving is so violent her entire body shakes, and I hold her hair back. Nothing comes up but mucus, and she has a hard time catching her breath. When the heaves calm, I twist her hair and tuck it down the back of her T-shirt so it stays off her face, and then I reach for a towel for her to clean her mouth.

I stand and begin drawing a glass of tap water, but she begins to stand on unsteady legs and reaches for me. With one hand on the glass, I use the other to help her up. She leans against my sturdy frame, and I offer her the water. She sips it carefully and then sets it down on the counter, and I lift her into my arms and turn to carry her to bed.

"I need to call the doctor. This isn't normal." When I rest her on the bed, she seems stiff and uncomfortable.

"No, Ronan. You don't have to. I just didn't eat well today." She reaches for me, but I'm already gone, stepping around the bed to go for my phone, plugged in on my nightstand. "Please don't…"

I ignore her pleas and dial Dr. Butcher's number.

"I'm going to step into the hallway. You rest," I tell her as I walk toward the door and open it. The line is ringing through as I shut the door behind myself and wait. It rings several times and goes to voicemail, which isn't entirely unheard of this time of the night, but I don't like it. My men know that they're supposed to answer my calls immediately—no exceptions.

I don't leave a voicemail because I expect better from him, so I glance at the time—four a.m.—and try calling again. It frustrates me that I need something from a man who has pledged his allegiance to me and is now not picking up, but I have to give him the benefit of the doubt right now. I did sleep through Maeve climbing out of my bed and vomiting in the room right next to me. Perhaps Dr. Butcher is just sleeping off a long day.

But after the fourth call with no response, I know he's not going to answer. I leave a voice mail for him to call me immediately when he wakes up, and rather than standing here in the hallway exhausting myself and leaving Maeve alone, I decide to try to sleep, or at least doze. If things get worse, I have a few more options, but hopefully, she can just rest now.

I slip back into the room and hear her light snoring again. I plug my phone back in and shuck my pants. Then I climb into bed and curl up around her. I know she's suffering, though I don't know from what. All I can do is be here to take care of her and help her if she needs to throw up again. So when seven a.m. comes around and she rushes to the bathroom, I am there with her.

I haven’t slept. I couldn’t convince my mind that it was safe to. I hold her hair back and talk to her in a calm tone while she vomits. Then I put her in a shower and bring her a cup of cold water as she washes.

I watch the water run over her body and begin to notice changes in her appearance. She's lost weight, and it's noticeable enough that I grow more concerned. Her collar bones are very prominent and her hips are more defined than they were. This sickness is really taking a toll on her. For a moment, I stop to think whether there is some underlying condition I've missed, something we didn't ask her about before bringing her here. But she's a doctor. She would have told us if she needed some sort of medication.

Noticing the added symptoms worries me enough that I decide to try calling the doctor again. This time of day, he should've gotten my messages and called me back. So I sit on the edge of the bed and dial his number and hold the phone to my ear. It rings through again several times, going to voicemail in the end. Now I'm just enraged. No one ignores me. They know the consequences when they do. This is unacceptable.

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