I complied, standing naked before him as he circled me, assessing me like cheap merchandise.
"You're not taking your medication," he stated again. "Dr. Reynolds confirmed your last refill should have run out days ago. Yet, you haven't requested more."
I remained silent. No defence would satisfy him.
"I saw how you looked at him." Patrick's voice held that dangerous calm. "Alexander Moore. The man who wields more power than he should be entitled to and believes himself worthy of sitting at our table."
"I looked at him exactly as you instructed," I countered. "Polite interest, nothing more."
The blow came without warning, the back of his hand connecting with my cheek with practiced precision—hard enough to hurt, not enough to leave marks that couldn't be concealed.
"Don't lie to me." He grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You think I don't know what you want? What you're planning?"
I kept my expression neutral despite the ringing in my ear. "And what am I planning, Patrick?"
"To embarrass me. To undermine me." His fingers dug painfully into my jaw. "To forget your place."
"My place." I allowed a smile to form despite his grip. "As what? Your trophy? Your punching bag? Your medicated doll?"
His eyes narrowed at my defiance. "You're becoming unmanageable again, Beatrice. Perhaps we need to revisit our arrangement."
He released me, moving to his desk drawer. From it, he withdrew a leather case I knew all too well. He unzipped it slowly, revealing the syringes and vials inside.
"Dr. Reynolds is concerned about your manic episodes," he said conversationally, filling a syringe with practiced ease. "He believes a more direct approach might be necessary."
Fear fluttered against my ribs, but I powered through—bold and brazen. "You can't keep me sedated forever, Patrick."
"Not forever. Just until you remember your obligations." He approached with the syringe. "Turn around. Hands on the desk."
I complied, mind racing through options. Fighting would only make it worse. He was stronger, and the office was soundproofed. No one would intervene.
"Perhaps I should invite Alexander to our next gathering," Patrick mused, running his free hand down my spine in a parody of tenderness. "Show him what happens to disobedient wives. The techniques I've developed for proper... discipline."
The implications hung in the air—Patrick's "techniques" went far beyond simple beatings. The humiliation he brought was designed to break something essential inside me. Hisprivate collection of ropes, clamps and other implements was to be envied.
The needle slid into my hip. The sedative burned as it entered my bloodstream.
"You're mine, Beatrice," Patrick whispered against my ear as he pressed the plunger. "Every breath. Every thought. Every moment of pleasure or pain. Mine to give or take away."
As the drug began to take effect, fog creeping back into the edges of my consciousness, I held onto one crystal-clear thought: Alexander had been here, and now I knew who he was.
The hunt could finally begin.My hunt.
Six
AOIFE O'MALLEY
I regainedconsciousness in a sparsely furnished room with reinforced windows, my hands cuffed to a steel chair bolted to the floor. The sedative they must have used on me left my mouth dry, my thoughts sluggish. I fought the urge to struggle against the restraints, keeping my breathing even as I assessed my surroundings for possibilities, noting the reinforced door, the lack of windows, and the camera mounted in the corner.
The metal door scraped open. Moore entered, his dark eyes assessing, and my breathing quickened. He carried my father's ceremonial knife I’d had on me—the emerald and obsidian handle catching the harsh light as he set it deliberately on the table just out of my reach. Instead of showing fear, I maintained my composure, my expression practised to reveal nothing beyond cold disdain.
"Your tendency to underestimate me is quite tedious," he said, circling my chair. He must have tracked my movements for … how long? "This warehouse operation wasn’t the brightest idea. And for what? Revenge?"
I tilted my chin up, meeting his gaze with practiced indifference despite the vulnerability of my position. "If you're expecting me to beg for mercy, you'll be terribly disappointed," I replied.
He moved behind me, his cologne—cedar and bergamot—invading my senses. When his fingers brushed my nape, an unwelcome shiver coursed down my spine.
"Do you always get this... personal with your captives?" I asked, struggling to keep my voice steady.
