Page 5 of The Chief's Captive

I smile at her and watch as Finn turns around. She never even hears him. I nod, and he raises his gun up over his right shoulder. "You don't get a choice," I say to her seconds before the gun comes down, connecting with the back of her skull.

Maeve drops forward, but Finn catches her before her head hits the side of the bathtub. He holsters his gun and carefully picks her up, draping her over his shoulder with her ass in the air and his meaty hand wrapped around the backs of her thighs.

"No one touches her. She's mine," I tell him firmly, and as he walks out, Lochlan and Declan walk in. My brothers are brutes of men, broad shoulders filling the small bathroom. They await orders, but I'm in no mood or shape to give them much.

"Ro, we should move. When you were out, she said she was expected at the hospital. That was an hour ago. Someone will come around looking." Lochlan's words register as my eyes blink open and shut.

"Call the cleaners, have them sent immediately." I suck in a breath, on the verge of passing out again. "I need more whiskey. This pain is too much. And Declan, get my fucking pants on me. Whose fucking idea was it to put me in a bath?"

"Hers, Ro. She said she had to clean the blood away so there wasn’t an infection." Declan moves toward me as Lochlan heads out to heed my orders, and I wince when my brother hoists me up and out of the bath. I can barely stand. He has to keep his arm around me as I slide my legs into my pants.

"She's coming with us… and we need drugs. Pain meds, antibiotics. When she comes round, find out which ones. We need to secure them from a pharmacy somewhere." My body's working too hard. I can feel darkness creeping in.

"Just rest, Ro. I'll take care of everything," Declan says, and it's the last thing I hear before I'm unconscious again, but I dream of Maeve Walsh's sweet hand wrapped around my dick, stroking me.

4

MAEVE

Anoise startles me, and I jolt awake. My head is throbbing and my body is tense. I rub the spot on the back of my head that hurts and blink my eyes a few times. I had the worst dream, that someone broke into my house and I performed surgery right on my kitchen island. It rattles me as I replay the vivid details of the dream over in my head.

But I live in a safe neighborhood. Things like that don't happen in Dublin. It's specifically why I chose this neighborhood, so I'd feel safe. So my mother wouldn't worry and I could sleep at night. So the worst thing that I'd have to deal with is noisy neighbors, which is what I'm hearing now. I sigh and rub my head again before I fully blink my eyes open.

I smell bleach and cleaners. I'm lying on my sofa instead of in my bed where I know I went to sleep last night. And I hear voices—except they're not voices in a neighboring home. They're in my kitchen.

As I sit up and feel my head spin, it all rushes back to me. The break-in, the surgery, the blood everywhere. I'm exhausted and probably dehydrated, and the room is spinning around me. Iblink hard again, looking around for my phone. Those bastards took it, and I know they're not stupid enough to leave it where I can find it, so I force myself upward, onto my feet.

I meant it when I said I wouldn't say a word to anyone. I just want them out of my home and out of my life. They stormed right in here like they own me… which scares me. Even he said it—Ronan O'Rourke. He said he owned me now. What does that even mean, anyway? How does one person own another person? I have rights..

My legs wobble as I tiptoe across the beige carpet in my living room toward my front door. I hear them talking. There is a female voice now too, but last night it was just men. I'm not sure what to think about that, but it does make me feel better that at least they're cleaning. If I had to clean up that blood myself, I'd have thrown up. I'm a fucking surgeon, and I'd still have tossed my cookies while scrubbing and remembering that gun against my head.

When I peek around the corner of the kitchen, I see them—well, the people in my home. The men are new, two I don't recognize, and a petite brunette with a pixie cut and tattooed arms. She has more steel on her face than the car I sold when I moved to the heart of the city. It's a major turn off for me—all those piercings and studs—but it just goes along with the entire persona of these people.

The O'Rourkes aren't new to me or this city, though I've never had any dealings with them. I know of them, what they do, where they congregate. I've been amply warned by coworkers and family members. Which is why I chose where I live and work selectively. I'm not from around here. My hometown was Killarney, a four-hour drive from here. Mom hates this city, but I was drawn here. I just had to come. Now I regret that choice.

I eye the front entryway just out of reach. They think I'm still sleeping, or knocked out. Judging by the throbbing in the back of my head, it's the latter. I can't imagine they'd have allowed me to lie down and rest, not with their chief laid up and on death's doorstep. After seeing how bad those injuries were, I'm surprised he made it through surgery. He had no anesthesia, no numbing agent. And the alcohol thinned his blood to the point I thought he would never stop bleeding. By the time we got him in the bath to clear away the blood, I was practically falling asleep sitting up.

If I can just get to the door and out onto the street, at this time of the morning, there's bound to be pedestrian traffic or cars driving. I can flag someone down and get the hell out of here. I have to get out of here. I will not be pushed around by maniacs who think it's okay to storm into someone's house in the middle of the night. I could scream, draw attention to myself, but they'd just knock me out again, so this is my only option.

I brace myself, sucking in a deep breath and closing my eyes for a brief second. All I have to do is run. The door is mere feet away, obscured only by the small entryway and a Ficus I have next to the welcome mat. I open my eyes and slow my breathing, hoping the dizziness will subside. It's likely I have a mild concussion from being pistol whipped—I imagine that's how they did it. I don’t even know if I can walk straight, but I try.

My feet start moving before my mind gives them permission, and I’m off. I stumble a few feet and slam into the wall, and as I round the corner to the entryway and see that my path is blocked by men wielding hammers and screwdrivers, I almost collapse. I cling to the wall and let out an exhausted whimper as I see the pile of splinters on the floor next to a man's black boots, thentrace my eyes up his body to see his construction vest and hard hat.

"Mornin', lady. You might wanna go lie down." He grins at me, and I see a gold tooth in his mouth. He has tattoos too, on his neck and face, and a few on the knuckles of his left hand. I shudder and swallow hard. The lump in my throat is worse than the knocking inside my skull now.

"Look, bitch, you aren't leaving." I hear a voice before the iron grip of a man's hand wraps around my bicep. I recognize him from last night. I didn't see him in the kitchen, so it means he was somewhere else in the house.

"Leave me alone," I snap, trying to jerk my arm out of his grasp, but he hauls me back into the house.

They're cleaning up, making it look like nothing happened here. They're covering their tracks, which is what they do. It's how they don't get caught, and I won't be just another victim.

"Get in here," he snarls, and he shoves me toward the kitchen. With the already uncertain condition of my weak legs I stumble and fall. My hands slap the hardwood that's still moist, and the stench of bleach is stronger down here. Of course, they're removing DNA.

"Why's she still alive?" I hear the woman ask, and her voice is whiny and grating.

I blink my eyes slowly and push myself upward until I'm standing, bracing myself on the island that is also now clean and back to normal. In fact, it's cleaner than I normally have it, and my mail, fruit, and decorations have been replaced by new accessories I've never seen. It feels surreal, like I’m not in my own home anymore.

"Ro's orders. Just finish up here. The bathroom is done now." The large man who looks like Ronan O'Rourke glares at me as he gives her orders, and I feel a shudder of terror wash over me. The leader of the Irish crime syndicate ordered them not to kill me? For what reason? If he wants me alive, it can't be for anything good.

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