If he cannot move toward her…
She will become something that cannot be held back at all.
She runs until her lungs feel carved from fire.
Runs until motion is the only thing left.
Runs because standing still hurts more.
Runs because if she stops moving, she might finally admit how badly she wants him to run beside her.
Runs because he taught her to enter force…
And she finally understands what that truly means.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The safest mask is worn so well
Even its maker cannot tell
Ronyn stumbles outof the tavern like a man drowned in ale. His feet trip over one another, unstable and uncooperative, an almost-empty bottle of amber liquor dangling from his hand.
He lets out a loud belch, and promptly hiccups. Loud enough so those on the tavern’s balcony can hear. He rounds the corner, out of sight of the tavern, and tosses the bottle, stands upright, and clears his throat.
Fucking idiots.
He knew he was right—ale loosens lips. So does winning easy coin from a stranger.
Ronyn steadies his gait into a smooth, lethal stride. The way he always walks when he’s tracking. The steady scrape of a blade whispers in the humid night air, and he follows the sound.
“Jaxxy?” he half-whispers, half-yells.
A noncommittal grunt travels from the narrow alley—practically a personal signal from Jax.
He checks over his shoulder for anyone following, casts a gaze across open windows for leering eyes, and when he thinks he’s safe, cuts around the corner into the alley.
Jax leans against the grime-coated wall, unfazed and at ease. A woman comfortable with both beauty and blade, desire and dirt. She has one boot propped against the wall while she knives dirt out from under her fingernails.
She doesn’t look up, so Ronyn takes her in. Deep-brown eyes, raven-black hair that falls across her back and shoulders all the way to her waist, deep-red lips that look sensuous and soft, but spit more venom than any woman he’s ever met.
And he loves it.
A woman of fire and rage, and something undeniable—something that means being liked isn’t on her agenda. She is unabashed. Unapologetic. Stripped back to the marrow of herself.
It is godsdamned magnetic.
Finally, she pushes off the wall, dragging her eyes to Ronyn, silencing his thoughts immediately.
“You look rather pleased with yourself,” she teases, a little bite in her tone.
“I’m always pleased with myself, Jaxxy,” Ronyn counters, slapping that goofy smile on his face that he knows she secretly loves.
“I suppose youdidput on quite the show tonight. Very impressive,” she condescends, but he knows she means it. He knows compliments taste like vinegar to Jax. Perhaps it’s because warmth is where betrayal happens. Or because kindness feels like weakness.
But Ronyn knows there are rules with Jax, too.
Rule one: Let the snide remarks go.
