“Go back to sleep, grumpy.”
Focusing on Ronan, who now seemed a bit twitchy. “If I can handle a drunk Kieran, I can handle a grumpy Kieran.”
He chuckled, stepping close again, his warmth curling around me. “I don’t doubt that.”
Then he leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek, his lips lingered just a second longer than necessary, “But can you handle me?”
He pulled away with that damn cute smile and strolled towards the door. As his fingers brushed the doorframe, ready to wake Kieran, I couldn’t help myself.
“Ronan.”
He paused, fingers curling around the wood, muscles tensing, then turned to me, one brow arching. “Yeah?”
I swallowed, shifting where I stood. For once, I didn’t have any snarky comebacks or a biting joke, just this gnawing question clawing at the back of my throat.
“Why are you nice to me? And it can’t just be because you want to get me into bed.” I ask.
“Okay, first, it’s more than that, and you know it. Secondly, what do you mean by ‘why am I nice?”
I motioned to myself, unsure how to make him understand. “You’re… you. I’ve seen what you're capable of. The way people look at you. They’re scared—for good reason, well apart from the women who want you in their bed. But you’re dangerous, Ronan, you all are. But with me…”
He studied me, quiet and unreadable, his eyes narrowing. Then he crossed the room as I twisted my hands together, and when he stopped right in front of me, he gripped my chin to look at him.
“You’re not like anyone else, you don’t flinch, don’t fake it. You don’t treat me like a monster, because Cherry, I’ve done some messed-up shit.”
I held his gaze, my throat tight.
“And maybe I like the way you see me,” he went on, thumb brushing the edge of my jaw. “Because when you look at me… I don’t feel like one.”
I used to think they were just Vesperas soldiers, but they're more than that. Maybe someone did need to stop her, to bring some semblance of peace—and a little order—back to Velmore.
“Life’s short, I’ve seen enough of it to know waiting around just gives the world a chance to take shit from you.”
His tone wasn’t soft; it was pleading. It was steady and honest.
“So yeah, I feel this. I’m not pretending, and I’m not running from it. Whenever you're ready… I’m here.”
His fingers still traced lightly along my jaw, nothing more, but every brush set my nerves alight. I found myself studying him properly—the faint scars on his cheek, the way his eyes held me, like I could drown in them and never surface.
“And when you are ready to trust me, just know I already do.”
Something twisted in my chest, sharp and sudden. Not pain exactly—just the gut-punch ache of seeing someone seeing you too clearly.
I didn’t have words. Hell, I barely had thoughts. I was still untangling this thing between us, still figuring out how I feel without falling apart. So, I said nothing—just let my hands rest against his chest, grounding myself in the steady rhythm of his heart.
Ronan didn’t push; he never did.
“I’ll go wake Kieran, get dressed,” he finally said, his voice gruffer now. His hands skimmed down my waist before he turned and left, not looking back.
I stood there for a second longer, exhaling slowly.
First Malrik, I understood, but now Ronan. Kissing them was a bad idea, because I couldn’t think straight when they did.
A loud thud cracked through the quiet, followed by Kieran’s irritated voice echoing from below.
“Fuck off, Ronan.”
Ronan’s laugh rang out in response, and I kind of felt sorry for Kieran, knowing he would be nursing a hangover and maybe a bad back. I’ve never drunk alcohol before, but I've read about it in books, though, and it doesn’t sound too pleasant.
