Illicit Captor by Maggie Cole

2

Aidan

Potato soup boils in the pot. I stir it, turn the heat down to simmer, then put the lid on top. I grab the plates and bowls from the cupboard and set them on the counter.

My ringer goes off. The hairs on my neck rise, and I pull my cell out of my pocket. There's a message from my brother.

Brody: Where are ya?

I double-check that the tracker's off on my phone. I send him one message.

Me: Tell your wife I have her and she's safe.

I turn off my phone. There's no point in having it on. He'll bombard me with messages, and I don't need to deal with them.

I grab the spoons and a butter knife out of the drawer. A movement catches my eye.

Scarlet's standing in the doorway. The sweatpants and sweatshirt hang on her frame as if they're going to fall off.

Jesus, what size is she?

She shouldn't be standing, let alone walking around.

She's weak. If she falls, I can't take her to the hospital. Tommy would surely find out. So in all reality, I don't know what I would do if she got injured.

My voice comes out as a bark. "What are ya doing out here?"

She jumps, startled.

"Sorry, I didn't mean for that to come out harshly," I confess.

Her eyes widen. She asks, "Can a girl wee?"

I wipe my hands on the towel and then walk over to her. I put my arm around her waist and steer her toward the bathroom.

"I can walk. I'm not an invalid."

"I don't need ya breaking any bones. I thought I was clear about this." I move her into the bathroom. It's small. The two of us barely fit in it.

She looks up. "I'm not going to break any bones. I'm fine. I'm going to go to the bathroom and then I'd like to take a shower in peace...if...if I'm allowed?"

"That's not a great idea," I state.

She looks at me appalled. "No? I have to stay stinky? You're not going to let me shower either?"

Another wave of anger rolls through me. The ways Tommy neglected her piss me off. I keep my voice calm and answer, "Ya can shower, but not by yourself. I'll get in there with ya. You're too weak."

Outrage fills her expression. She declares, "I'm not letting ya take a shower with me."

"I'll keep my clothes on if ya want."

"If I want?" She arches her eyebrows.

I arrogantly claim, "Most women prefer me naked in the shower with them."

Her cheeks heat as she glares at me. "Well, I'm not one of them."

"No?" I reprimand myself for even saying this to her, but I'm unable to stop myself. I don't usually flirt, but something about her brings it out of me.

She intensifies the darts she's shooting at me with her glower. "No. Can ya please leave before I wee myself?"

I debate for a moment.

She adds, "I'm serious. I have to go."

"Fine," I grumble. I step outside the door, continuing, "But you're not showering alone."

"I need to get clean."

"Ya can shower with me or take a bath when you're done."

"Fine. I'll bathe." She waits, holding on to the counter.

I motion to the toilet. "Well, go on. Ya have to sit to wee."

"Can I have some privacy?"

"No."

"Ya don't expect me to use the loo in front of ya, do ya?"

"I don't trust ya," I admit.

"To wee?"

"To not jump in the shower."

"Well, trust is a two-way street." She huffs.

I shrug.

"Shut the door," she orders.

I debate again, then decide, "I'll shut the door halfway and stand against the wall. But this door is never to be locked. If ya disobey me—"

"Disobey ya? So you're going to be my ruler like him, huh?"

I freeze, my pulse creeping up.

Hatred fills her expression.

I tell her again, "I can't have ya hurting yourself. If ya lock the door, I'll bust it down. Ya won't have privacy the entire time you're here. Do ya understand me?"

She tilts her head, seething. "So I'm back to being a prisoner, only this time I'm yours."

I ignore the tightening in my chest, arguing, "It's for your own good."

She stares me down a moment, then gives in. "Whatever. Just let me go to the bathroom with a bit a privacy."

I give her a final look of warning, then shut the door halfway.

"Ya can shut the door all the way," she snaps.

"No, that's all ya get. Now go, or I'm coming back in."

She sighs, and several minutes pass. She admits, "This is stressing me out with ya standing right there."

"When I can trust that ya won't do something that'll result in a bad consequence, I'll give ya more privacy."

"Jesus, you're impossible," she mutters.

"Ya aren't the first woman to tell me I'm a grade-A asshole. Glad ya understand me," I claim.

She huffs, and it takes another moment, but then I hear her go to the bathroom. I wait until she flushes and then I walk back in.

She's standing, pulling her pants up. Disdain fills her expression, and she hurls out, "And ya really don't understand privacy."

"Guess the meek, scared woman I rescued is gone," I mutter, then realize what I said.

Her eyes turn to slits. She turns away, blinking hard.

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Is that what ya want me to be? Meek? Scared? Worried you'll hurt me with every breath I take?" she asks, her voice low.

Guilt eats me. I shake my head. "No. Not at all."

"Ya sure?" she challenges.

"Aye."

"I'd rather know now if that's my fate."

"It's not what I want at all," I assure her.

Tense silence fills the air.

I decide it's best to change the subject. I try to keep my tone soft, but I don't really have a soft version of me. I remind her, "I don't need ya hurting yourself."

"I can wash my hands and stand." She reaches for the dispenser, pumps some soap onto her palm, and turns on the faucet.

I lean against the doorframe.

"This would be easier if ya weren't in the room. It's not a large space, and you're..." She glances over my body.

"I'm what?" I ask.

Her face heats again. "You're rather large."

"Yep, I sure am," I cockily state.

Her cheeks flame redder.

My lips twitch, and my grin grows larger.

"Ugh," she groans, putting her hands under the running water.

She finishes, and I hand her a towel.

"Such service," she chirps.

"See, that's a much better way to think about it," I tease.

She tosses the towel on the counter, then crosses her arms over her chest. "Ya can go now so I can take my bath."

I put the lid down and point to the toilet. "Sit."

"Why?"

"Are we really going to play this game?" I ask.

"What game?"

"Where ya ask questions about everything I tell ya to do."

She smirks. "I don't know. It depends, oh dear ruler of this cottage in the middle of nowhere."

I chuckle. It's another thing that doesn't happen very often. Most women bore me with their conversation and desire to please me for any cause. I rather enjoy her sarcastic rebuttals.

She rolls her eyes. "You're impossible." She sits on the toilet lid.

I reach around her, turn the bath water on, wait for it to warm, then plug the hole.

She announces, "I'm capable of taking a bath myself. Ya don't have to turn the water on for me either."

I ignore her. I grab the bath wash and squirt some in the tub so bubbles form.

"Ooh, you're getting fancy now. I must have done something good in my former life."

I glance at her. "Maybe ya did."

Her cheeks turn the color of her hair.

I add, "All right, time to take those clothes off again."

Her eyes turn to slits. "Like I said, I'm capable of taking a bath myself."

"So ya can slip getting in? I don't think so. Not only will ya have broken bones, but ya can add a concussion to that list."

"Are ya always such a Negative Nellie?"

"If that's what ya want to call it. But I told ya that I'd protect ya from Tommy. What do ya think will happen if ya end up in the hospital?"

Her face falls. She looks at the floor, mumbling, "Tommy and my da will already have everyone looking for me."

I don't tell her that her da is dead. It's on the tip of my tongue, but I'm unsure how she'll take the news. She's dealing with a lot, so I keep it to myself—for now. I soften my tone. "Which is why I'm going to help ya do this if ya want a bath, so don't fight me."

She closes her eyes and shakes her head, scrunching her face.

I add, "I'll try not to look."

Her eyelids fly open. "Try?"

I shrug. "I'm a guy."

Her eyes glow hotter. She orders, "Look at the wall."

I wait a moment to watch her expression turn redder, then turn.

A few seconds pass, and then she says, "Okay, look at my head only."

"This is kind of silly. I have seen ya naked a few times," I point out.

"Do ya really have to make this harder for me?" she sneers.

"Like I said, I'm a dude."

"A dude? That sounds more American to me. Are ya sure you're Irish?" she questions, assessing me.

Shit.

My father ensured my brothers and I could speak American and Irish. We've been in Ireland for a while now. Our accents come out as soon as we step over here, and we speak the lingo. But every now and then, I have to catch myself. The last thing I want her doing is finding out I'm an O'Connor. I'm unsure how she'll take the news that she's living with her family's archenemy.

"I watch a lot of American shows," I lie. I put my hands under her armpits and keep my focus on the top of her head, commanding, "Okay. Step over the tub."

She obeys. Once she's standing in the water, I say, "I'm going to lower ya down now."

She groans. "This is so ridiculous."

"It's not," I insist and help her until she's sitting in the water.

"Okay, ya can go now," she says.

I hesitate. Her hair's matted. I ask, "Do ya want your hair washed?"

"Yea, I'm going to do that. Don't worry. I see ya have some shampoo there. Good to know ya use it. And conditioner. Quite impressive. Then again, ya have some pretty thick locks, don't ya?"

"Glad ya noticed my stunning hair," I dryly say. I leave the bathroom and go out to the kitchen.

I grab the biggest glass I can find and return.

She's sunken down into the tub with her head back. Her hair floats in the water. The only thing popping above it is her nose and her mouth. Her eyes are shut. I stare at her for a minute and then sit on the toilet lid.

She opens her eyes and puts her hands over her chest. She squeezes her legs together, blurting out, "Jesus, what is wrong with ya?"

I hold the glass out. "Time to wash your hair."

"I can wash my own hair."

"Your hair is full of knots. It'll take a little more TLC than just a normal shampoo and condition." I open the drawer and grab a comb out of it.

She orders, "Just give that to me, and I can do it myself."

"Chill out," I say. I don't know why I'm pushing her on this, but I am. I grab the shampoo, put a palmful in my hand, then work it through her hair.

"This is ridiculous," she states again.

"Ya should get a better vocabulary. You're overusing that phrase," I taunt.

"And you're even more annoying."

"Sorry, petal." I scrub the shampoo into her scalp, massaging it.

She shuts her eyes.

"There ya go. Ya can admit it feels good," I tease.

Her eyes fly open.

"Relax. Shut your eyes again. Pretend you're at the hairdresser."

"Hairdresser? Jesus, how long's it been since I've been to the hairdresser?" she mutters.

Goose bumps break out on my skin. Whenever I learn about more things she's lost in her life because of Tommy, the anger resurfaces.

I finish shampooing her hair, turn on the faucet, put fresh water in the glass, and pour several over her head until it's rinsed out. Then I repeat everything with the conditioner. After I'm done, I take the comb and work the knots out of her hair.

She dryly states, "Such skills. Where did ya get them from?"

"My little sister. Well, she's older now, of course. My mom used to make us help out, and she always had stuff in her hair. She got gum in it a few times, and I was the only one home to help her."

"Gum?" Scarlet asks.

I chuckle, remembering. "Aye. There was this boy at school who liked her. He used to put gum in her hair."

"Another awesome thing that boys do," Scarlet mumbles.

"Yep. My brothers and I ended it. My oldest brother broke his nose. He didn't do it again."

She stays quiet.

I continue de-knotting her locks. I set the comb down. "Do ya want out now, or do ya want to stay in a little longer?"

She locks eyes with me. "I want to stay in."

"Okay." I turn the faucet on. I drain some of the colder water to warm it up again.

"Such service," she teases again, but there's some gratitude in her voice this time.

I turn the water off and state, "I'm taking the towels out of the bathroom. When you're ready to come out, yell for me."

She gives me another nasty look. "Ya really are annoying the hell out of me right now."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"Again, I don't need ya breaking bones."

"So ya claim is your excuse," she retorts.

I grab the towels and leave. I go back to the kitchen and check on the soup. I turn the heat off, stir it, and put the lid back on. I remove it from the hot burner.

Then I open the oven, take the bread out, put it on a breadboard, cut it up, and put a towel over it. I put the butter and knife on the table with the bread, fill two water glasses, and ladle soup into the bowls. I set both on the table and put towels over those as well.

I go back to the bathroom. "Dinner is ready whenever ya are."

She glances at me. "Dinner?"

"Aye. Aren't ya hungry?"

She thinks for a moment, then nods. "Yea, I am."

"When did ya eat last?"

She goes quiet and shrugs. "I don't know. It's..." She ponders some more. "It's been a few days."

I breathe through my anger. "Okay." I grab a towel and hold my hands out. "Are ya ready?"

"I can get out myself," she says and starts to move up, putting her hands on the sides of the tub.

I grab under her armpits and pull her out of the tub.

She groans. "Jesus!"

I haul her onto her feet.

She looks up. "If I fall, it'll be because of your jerky movements."

"Highly doubt that."

She rolls her eyes again.

I tighten my grip around her so her body presses against mine, and then wrap the towel around her. "I need to dry ya off."

"This is ridiculous. I'm getting ya all wet," she says.

"And that's a bad thing?" I challenge.

She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. Her eyes widen, and a fetching shade of maroon sprawls across her cheeks.

I chuckle, then return to drying her off. When she's completely dry, I put the towel on the toilet and help her sit, ordering, "Stay here. I'll get ya fresh clothes."

She scoffs. "So dramatic."

I go into the bedroom and pull out fresh sweatpants and a T-shirt. I go into the bathroom and hand them to her.

"When you're done getting dressed, let me know. I'll help ya to the table."

"Aye, aye, sir," she sarcastically says.

I go back to the kitchen. I sit at the table and tap my fingers on the wood.

"Ya almost done?" I shout a few minutes later, right as she appears. I jump up, accusing, "I told ya to tell me when ya were ready."

"And ya haven't been listening," she says, quickly approaching the table.

I reach her right as she gets near the chair. I pull it out. "Sit."

"Ya can't do this every time I want to walk around. I'm fine."

"You're still drugged up."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Are we going to go over this again? And I did give ya a choice."

She tilts her head. "Is that your excuse for drugging me? Ya gave me a choice?"

"I did what I had to. Would ya rather be back at Tommy's?"

Tension fills the air.

She stares at the food.

I sit next to her and pull the towels off everything. Lines appear on her forehead as she studies everything.

"Don't tell me you're an Irish lass who doesn't like potato soup and bread?"

She looks up. "I do."

"Then why aren't ya digging in? Why are ya staring at it?"

Confusion fills her face. She looks back down.

I cautiously state, "I thought ya were hungry."

She bites her lip and nods.

"Then eat up."

"I'm allowed?" she blurts out, her greens glistening.

"Of course ya are. Why wouldn't ya be?"

She turns away, staring at the wall and blinking hard.

It hits me. Of course. Tommy probably ate in front of her and made her just watch.

I grab her hand. "Scarlet, whenever there's food, ya can eat. Ya don't need my permission. If I get food, ya get food."

She keeps her head turned away from me, closes her eyes, and breathes deeply a few times.

Her pain makes me want to kill Tommy even more.

She finally turns and lifts her chin but still stares at the soup. Then she meets my eye.

"Is something else wrong?" I ask.

She glances at our hands. "I can't eat if ya don't give me my hand back."

"Oh right. Sorry." I reluctantly remove my hand from hers.

She takes a bite, keeping it in her mouth for several seconds before chewing and swallowing it. She takes another spoonful, and once she swallows it, she says, "Are ya going to stare at me the whole time?"

"Nope." I take a mouthful of soup. Then I pull apart a piece of bread, butter it, and put it on her plate. I make one for myself too, then dip it in my soup.

We eat silently for a few more moments, then she states, "This is good."

"Ya sound surprised," I note.

She glances at me. "Ya don't really look like ya can cook."

I chuckle. "No? What do I look like?"

She blurts out, "Someone who can snap me in half."

My pulse skyrockets. I debate about what to say. She looks away.

I lower my voice, firmly restating, "I told ya I'm not going to hurt ya."

"Lots of men say they won't hurt people, women especially," she claims.

"Yea. Well, my word is my word." I point to the bread on her plate. "Have some before it gets cold. Ya need to gain some weight back."

Embarrassment floods her cheeks. She mutters, "I know. I look like a skeleton. I'm gross." She blinks hard again.

I lower my voice. "I didn't mean it as an insult. And there's nothing gross about ya."

She squares her shoulders and tears at the bread. She puts a piece in her mouth and chews slowly.

More tense silence follows until she declares, "The men in my family don't cook. How do ya know how?"

The uncomfortable sensation I always get whenever I think of my mother erupts in my belly. She left us when she didn't want to stay in my father's clan. He let her go, and she moved to California but never returned. But before she left, there were good times.

So I admit, "My mum said if you're Irish and ya can't make potato soup, then ya can't expect to survive in this world."

Scarlet laughs. It's soft, and I like it. I realize how much I love to hear her laugh. She declares, "Your mum sounds like a smart woman."

"She was," I say.

Scarlet's smile falls. She arches her eyebrows. "Was?"

I shrug. "Yea, I don't see her anymore."

"Why not?"

"She left us."

Scarlet's eyes widen. "I'm sorry."

"It is what it is."

"Who's us?"

"My brothers, sister, and Da."

"Sorry," she offers again.

I don't reply. We continue eating in silence. When we're done, I get up, and she tries to help me clear the plates. I command, "Just sit down."

"I'm not an invalid," she repeats.

I sigh, staring at her.

"Fine. Am I allowed to go sit on the sofa?" she asks.

"I'll help ya over there."

"No, I don't need your help to walk from the table to the sofa. I'm not going to fall. I'm not dizzy. I'm fine," she insists as she rises and takes her hand off the table.

I study her like a hawk waiting for its prey.

"Ya can't carry, guide, or do whatever every time I want to walk. I'm fine," she reiterates.

I hold my hands up. "Okay, but if ya get dizzy..."

"If I get dizzy, I'll stop. I won't make any quick movements. Ya have my word."

"And can I trust your word?"

She glares at me. "Of course ya can."

"I couldn't earlier," I toss in her face.

She puts her hand on her hip. "Maybe ya should let that go. Ya did drug and kidnap me."

I try to keep a straight face. "I prefer to say rescue."

She mutters, "Straight-up knight in shining armor, complete with your syringe."

I disregard the syringe comment, arguing, "Ya still lied to me." I don't know why I'm holding it against her. In all reality, I can't blame her for wanting to see sunlight after what Tommy put her through.

She gives me another exasperated look. "I'm going to the sofa now." She smirks, then crosses the room.

I hold my breath until she's safely seated.

She takes the blanket from the back of the sofa, hugs her legs to her chest, and puts the worn material over herself. She bats her eyes, declaring, "I guess I'll sit back and watch ya do the dishes."

"Ya do that," I tease, studying her until her cheeks heat again.

She takes a deep breath, quietly asking, "Why are ya staring at me?"

My pulse skyrockets. "I'm not."

Her eyes drift down my body until they reach my groin, then she gapes a brief moment before quickly turning away. Her chest rises and falls faster.

I glance down at the bulge in my joggers, realizing I have a raging hard-on.

Shit!

I go to the sink, muttering, "I wasn't staring."

"Seems to me ya were," she mumbles.

I do the dishes, wondering what I'm getting myself into. I figured she'd be a handful once she realized she's safe, but Scarlet's a bit more than I anticipated—in all the ways I don't need her to be.

My only goal should be to utilize her to make Tommy pay. But those green eyes and defiant attitude are everything I don't need to keep me on track with my plan.