“That won’t be comfortable.” Dear God, his shirt is off. He folds it and places it in a hamper near the back wall. Who folds their clothes to put them in the hamper? Ronan, apparently. I bet if I open any drawer on his dresser, it will be neat and color-coded. That thought takes my attention away from Ronan for a second. I jump when I realize that he is standing right in front of me. He makes no sound when he moves.
“You can do that, but I’m sure you will be more comfortable without them.”
I swallow hard. “Umm… I have some sleep clothes downstairs; I can, umm… just go get them.”
Ronan turns away from me, and my brain just… stops. I’m not looking at bare skin. I’m looking at ink.
It stretches across his back from shoulder to shoulder, dark against pale skin, and for a second, I can’t even figure out what I’m seeing. The lines twist and weave into each other, bands crossing over and under in a pattern so precise it almost hurts my eyes to follow. There’s no clear start, no obvious end. The design loops back on itself again and again, as if it could keep going forever if there were enough space for it.
It isn’t decorative. It feels… deliberate. Like armor he can’t take off.
The knot work spreads across his shoulders and down over his shoulder blades, fitting the width of his back perfectly. When he moves, the muscles shift beneath it, and the pattern follows him, the heavy lines emphasizing just how strong he actually is. At the center, between his shoulder blades, the design tightens into a darker, thicker circle — almost like a seal holding the rest of it together. Then I notice the line down his spine.
It’s simple compared to the rest. A straight vertical line running from the base of his neck to his lower back, with short strokes branching off it. They look less like a tattoo and more like marks carved into wood or stone. Older. Intentional in a completely different way.
I step closer before I know what I’m doing.
“What is that?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Irish.”
“Okay, but… what is it?” I hover my hand just above his back, my fingers itching to touch him. I’m not sure why I’m hesitant. Ronan doesn’t pull away from me, but touching him still feels like crossing some invisible line.
“The writing,” I say. “The line down your spine.”
“Ogham,” he answers after a second. “Old Irish.”
I swallow. “And what does it say?”
He’s quiet long enough that I think he won’t tell me. Ronan doesn’t hide things, but he doesn’t volunteer them either. For once, he looks… unsure. Not nervous. Just careful.
“Cosaint thar gach rud,” he says in what I assume is Irish. It’s beautiful the way the words fall from his tongue.
“I don’t understand what you just said, but I like how it sounds,” I admit with a grin.
He turns to face me fully, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and there’s something unshakably serious in his expression, the same look he gets whenever something matters to him.
“Protection above all.”
The words settle heavily in my chest. No wonder he looked at Ollie the way he did. No wonder he looked at me like that.
My gaze drifts past him to the mirror behind him, to the tattoo winding across his back in endless knots with that single line running down his spine, and suddenly all of it clicks into place. The way he always watches the exits. The way he notices every person around us. The way his whole body changed when I told him about Ollie.
This isn’t just a tattoo. It’s a promise. A rule he lives by.
And for the first time since I ran, since it became me against the world with Ollie depending on me for everything, I feel something dangerously close to relief loosen the tight knot that’s been living in my chest.
I take the T-shirt Ronan offers me, my fingers brushing his. I don’t feel quite so alone.
Chapter 13
Ronan
Colton’s eyes stay fixed on my tattoo, tracing over the lines like he’s trying to understand every piece of it. For me, it’s more than ink. It’s a reminder, a rule, and a promise to myself about who I am and what matters.
“You can change in the bathroom, right through there.” I point to the open door — his hand trembles when he takes the clothes from me. I reach out and take his hand. “Why are you shaking?”
“I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I… umm…” he clears his throat. “I’ve never slept with anyone before.”
