Page 6 of The Chief's Captive

"Sure thing, Clan," the woman says, eyeing me. Her lips purse, and she gives me a look of disgust. She's got black lipstick, matching the black in her hair, and even her eyes are dark. I look away and feel tense.

"Make us some coffee. We have some work to do before we can leave." The large man is now giving me orders—ones I'm afraid not to follow. Mr. O'Rourke told them not to kill me, but apparently, he didn't tell them not to hurt me. My head is proof of that, and the way he shoved me to the ground.

I don't make eye contact as I walk around my island and reach into the cupboard to pull out the coffee capsule. My head hangs, focusing on my task only and not angering the large man. He's dressed in all black, like most of the others. It's menacing and intimidating, the way I suppose it's meant to be. He hovers behind me as I take out mugs and fill my Nespresso's reservoir with water.

"How many?" I ask, but he only grunts. I only have five mugs—four in a matching set, and one souvenir mug Mom sent me after her trip to the US. It's special to me, fond memories and all, but something tells me these assholes aren't here for the nostalgia or sentiment.

I make five cups of coffee and take out the milk and honey, but the man carries them away two at a time without doctoring them at all. When he doesn't return, I again think of escape—the window in my bedroom, the back door that leads to the alley behind the house, an air vent to crawl to the roof, but they'll just find me and stop me.

Then I hear coughing. It's coming from my bedroom. The door just off the kitchen is open. The sound reaches out to me from inside. He's in my bed. Those sick fucks put that bleeding man in my fucking bed? I feel anger knot my chest and I clench my jaw. With the final mug of coffee in my hand, I turn and walk across the kitchen and into my bedroom.

It's dark, except for a finger of light peeking in through my ceiling-to-floor drapes. I whisk them back and the room is bathed in morning light, though it's a cloudy day in Dublin, so it's still not bright.

Ronan O'Rourke lies on my bed, eyes hazily droopy. He looks like he's in a great deal of pain, because I know there’s no drugs. And he polished off the whiskey, so he can't be drunk now, either. Unless they went for something to help him… I don't see the man in the corner until he clears his throat, and as I turn and take him in, I'm gripped by how large he is. His form dwarfs the petite armchair I sit in each morning to put my shoes on for work.

"Check on him," the man says in his low rumble of a voice. Lochlan, I think. I remember that name standing out to me. I heard it somewhere… I wonder if that's him.

Turning, I walk to the bed and set the mug of coffee on the nightstand. Mr. O'Rourke should not have any of it. The caffeine will raise his blood pressure, making the strain on his vessels too much. He could rupture one of the sutures or something. It was a touchy operation. He's lucky to have breath in those lungs of his.

I fold the blanket down and expose his chest, and as I do, he jumps. His hand flies to my wrist, grabbing me so hard I wince and whimper.

"Fuck," I breathe, and his eyes pop open.

It takes a moment for him to find me with his gaze, and then he relaxes and sighs. He coughs again, and I smell the stench of whiskey and infection. It's going to take a while for him to heal if he can survive the bacteria teeming in his blood. He'll likely go septic, and I know if he dies, I die.

"How do you feel?" I ask, letting my medical training take over. My hand shakes as I touch around the wounds, feeling the heat there. They’re all red, though they're not seeping puss. He's definitely getting the worst of it.

"Water," he grunts, and I look at the nightstand where a half-empty glass of water sits next to the coffee. I lift it up and help him rise slightly so I can bring it to his lips. His large hands cradle around mine as I tip the glass and he sips from it. His grasp is gentle now, but firm. Compassion wells up in me as it always does when I care for a patient. I can't stop it. It's engrained in my core being.

"There, now…" I set the glass down and lower his head back to the pillow. "How's the pain? We're going to need antibiotics soon. I don't know how to get those without access to my prescription pad at my office."

I could care less whether this criminal lying in my bed staining my sheets dies, but I do care if I die. And at the same time, he's a human being, and life is precious. I sigh and perch on the side of the bed from exhaustion as I continue to examine his wounds. Ihave no way of treating him outside of getting him to my office. Even at my office, though, he doesn't stand a good chance.

"Lock," he grunts, and the large man in the corner stands up. He picks up a black cloth bag and takes a few steps before tossing it onto the bed. As it lands, bottles of pills and syringes spill out, scattering on my comforter right in front of me.

I grasp at them, frantically picking them up and reading the labels—Tazocin, Keflex, Cipro, Vancocin, Dalacin, Morphgesic, OxyContin, Codipar… They had to have knocked off a pharmacist to get this many drugs. I raise my eyes and look up at the man towering over me now and then lower my eyes back to the drugs. They'll do anything they want—including kill me.

"Uh… yes…" I select the Tazocin syringe and stand, taking a deep breath. "We need to get this in you quickly to begin fighting the infection." I fold the side of the blanket back, exposing his lower body. He's wearing slacks, and I sigh hard. I can't do the hip injection, so I opt for the shoulder instead.

"It might pinch…" I say, and as I do, I feel stupid. This man was shot thrice and endured surgery without any anesthesia. Of course he can tolerate a shot. I glance around and quickly realize there are no alcohol swabs, no gloves, none of my typical PPE. I guess they expect me to take my personal protection lightly.

Ronan looks up at me as I stare at his arm and the dark ink staining it. The shoulder cap or bicep is the best place, but just looking at his tattoos scares me. He's done horrible things. I just know it. He's a murderer and a thief, and now he says he owns me. How am I supposed to save him? But how can I let him die?

I give the injection, but the entire time, I'm wrestling with my moral choices. If I let him die, I die, but it takes a killer off thestreets. The world would never call me a hero. I'd be his victim, but I may save others.

"Thank you, Maeve." His voice is soft, and I can tell he is truly grateful. Why wouldn't he be? He will live on to murder and pillage.

"I want you to leave my house." If they just walk away, my kitchen is clean, my door is fixed, and my lips are sealed.

"I'm afraid we can't do that." Ronan's emerald eyes are stern and locked on me. He's serious. He's not going to let me go. Not now, not ever.

When the man behind me moves, I spin around, but it's too late. He covers my mouth with a white cloth, and I smell it—chloroform. It's thick, and it chokes me, and then my eyes shut.

Heaven help me.

I belong to the clan…

5

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