"You don't know my father."
"I know Patrick O'Sullivan better than you think." Something dark and knowing flickered in his eyes. "I know what he values and what he doesn't. I know what he's willing to sacrifice."
A chill ran through me that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. There was something in his voice—a certainty, a familiarity—that suggested he wasn't bluffing.
"What do you want?" I asked, hating the tremor in my voice but unable to suppress it. "Money? Is this a ransom thing? Because if it is?—"
"I don't want your family's money." He moved around the side of the bed, closing the distance between us inch by inch. "I have my own."
I scrambled backward until I hit the headboard, nowhere left to retreat. "Then what? What do you want from me?"
He stopped, standing over me now, his expression unreadable in the dim light. For a long moment, he just looked at me, his gaze traveling from my face down to my hands, which were clenched in the silk sheets.
"Everything," he said finally, the word so quiet it was almost a whisper. "I want everything."
Fear and something else—something I refused to name—twisted in my stomach. "You're insane."
"No." He shook his head slightly. "I'm just the first person who sees you clearly. Who knows what you need before you know it yourself."
"You don't know anything about me." I forced steel into my voice, channeling every ounce of O'Sullivan stubbornness I possessed. "And I don't need anything from you except to be let go. Now."
He smiled then, a real smile that transformed his severe features into something almost beautiful. Almost human.
"You will," he said with absolute certainty. "In time, you'll understand."
"Understand what? That you're a psychopath who gets off on kidnapping women?"
His expression hardened, the smile disappearing as quickly as it had come. "Be careful, Grace. I've been patient. I've been gentle. That can change."
The threat hung in the air between us, all the more terrifying for its quiet delivery. This wasn't a man who made empty threats. This wasn't a man who could be reasoned with or manipulated.
This was a man who took what he wanted and made no apologies for it.
I changed tactics, forcing my voice to soften, to sound reasonable. "Look, I don't know what you think is happening here, but this isn't the way to start... whatever it is you want to start. Let me go, and we can talk. Like normal people."
"We're not normal people." He reached out, his fingers hovering just above my cheek but not quite touching, as if he was restraining himself. "You and I... we're something else entirely."
I jerked away from his almost-touch, pressing myself harder against the headboard. "My father will find me. And when he does?—"
"Your father," he interrupted, his voice suddenly cold, "has more important things to worry about than his wayward daughter. The O'Sullivans are about to face challenges that will make your disappearance seem insignificant."
The certainty in his voice sent ice through my veins. This wasn't just about me. This was something bigger, something connected to my family, to the business I'd tried so hard to distance myself from.
"What have you done?" I whispered.
He straightened, taking a step back, his expression closing off like shutters being drawn. "Nothing that wasn't already in motion. Nothing that changes what's happening here, between us."
"There is nothing between us." I spat the words, anger overtaking fear. "Nothing except a crime. Kidnapping. False imprisonment. Do you have any idea what the sentence is for those?"
He laughed, the sound genuinely amused. "Are you threatening me with the law, counselor? You, an O'Sullivan, appealing to legal justice?"
The irony wasn't lost on me. My family had operated outside the law for generations. The law I was studying, the justice I believed in—they were concepts my father would find laughable in this situation.
"I'm not like them," I said, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears.
"No," he agreed, his voice softening slightly. "You're not. That's part of why you're here."
Before I could respond, he turned and walked toward what I now saw was a door, blended seamlessly into the wood paneling of the wall. He paused with his hand on what must have been a concealed handle.
