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“I am,” Ronan said.
“You were. He’s gone,” Raj said.
“Gone?” Ronan asked, and the cool mask he usually wore was lifted and he showed real surprise.
“Car in the driveway, keys in the house. Wife and kids have no idea what happened to him.”
Ronan sat back, blinking.
“You think he’s dead?” Raj asked.
“Maybe,” Ronan said. “But who killed him?”
There were only two answers. And they were the same people who were after us. I pulled Ronan’s coat tighter around my shoulders.
CHAPTER FIVE
Poppy
I suppose I should have been used to it by now, how at nearly every turn I was incredibly wrong about Ronan Byrne. But Ronan’s “apartment” was the top floor of a four-story brick walk-up in Brooklyn Heights.
Right along the river with views of the city out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the house.
It wasn’t a shitty hole-in-the-wall or a sleek sky-rise penthouse apartment. No. It was a goddamn home. With rugs and lamps and art on the wall. He shut the door behind me, locking a complicated series of deadbolts. There was a kitchen to my left, a small galley that was impossibly clean. A pegboard wall with cooking utensils and fancy copper-bottomed pans. In front of me were the windows and the lights of Manhattan, surrounded by the dark moat of the Hudson River. A low sofa with blankets folded on the edge sat in front of a fireplace and bookshelves.
Fucking bookshelves full of books. And I wanted to be mad, because I wanted to be mad about everything. Being mad felt like it might keep me safe. But Ronan hadn’t lied to me or misled me. He just never told me anything.
Married to an Absolute Stranger: The Poppy Story.
“It’s nice,” I said, appreciating the warm paint colors that made it seem cozy at night but during the day with all the sunlight that came in through the windows probably looked sophisticated. He didn’t say anything. Just walked through the apartment, opening doors and turning on lights.
“Do you think someone is here?” I asked. More silence.
“Ronan!” I snapped as he came back into the living room.
“Yeah?” He looked at me, his dark hair falling over his eyes. He swept it back with one hand and watched me. “You hungry?”
I was exhausted. Scared. Sore. I wanted to fuck him and kiss him and smack him.
“No,” I said. He ducked back into the kitchen and opened the fridge. A smile ghosted over his face. I’d fucked him and he didn’t smile at me like whatever was in that fridge.
“Niamh set us up,” he said. “I can make you an omelet.”
“You can?”
“The monster can cook.”
“I never called you a monster.” Did I? Maybe I did. I was suddenly surrounded by monsters. They seemed to look a lot like humans. And fuck me like their life depended on it. I really had to stop thinking like that. What happened on the plane obviously would not happen again. Not ever.
“Sit down on the couch,” he said. “I’ll bring you some food.”
“I don’t want food.” I was being childish, exerting control where I could.
“Okay.”
“I’d like to order some clothes,” I said. “But I don’t have any money—”
He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to me. “Use the black card.”
An American Express Black card. He found a piece of paper and a pencil and wrote down his address. “Get what you need.”
I took it all and stood there, awash with uncomfortable gratitude and prickly resentment. “Thank you.”
“It’s just clothes, Poppy,” he snapped, clearly more comfortable with my surliness than my gratitude. God, we were such a mess.
“I’m sorry, but you don’t have to do it.”
“Stop apologizing all the fucking time.”
“Stop yelling at me,” I yelled back at him, the words ringing through the apartment. I held up the card. “For that I’m going all in at Armani.”
I whirled like I was wearing one of Eden’s fur coats and sat down on his leather couch. There was a lamp beside me and I flicked it on. The floors were dark wood with a bright red and green and beige rug thrown over it. Everything in the house looked expensive but also like someone had picked it out by hand. Ronan in this house was dangerous. To me. To my heart. Because I wanted the version of him that lived here, that walked these rugs and picked out these photographs to be real.
To be mine.
I had to remind myself that the version of Ronan when we pulled up to this brownstone, we all came in together—that was the real Ronan. Walking past men dressed in black carrying guns. They looked like soldiers and they treated Ronan like he was their king.
“Quiet?” he’d asked one man as we walked by.
“Yes, sir.” That was the Ronan I understood. But now I was buying clothes on his Black card and there were photographs on the wall.
