Chapter 7 Ronan #2
I curled forward, elbows digging into my knees, tugging at my own hair until my scalp ached. “Stupid,” I muttered under my breath. “Fucking stupid.”
Elias wanted me to play the game, slip on the collar, wag my tail—pretend. That should’ve been easy for me—it used to be easy. I’d built my whole life on pretending. But then Wes had looked at me like he saw more than just a pawn, like he saw me.
And that was the problem.
I shouldn’t have cared about the way his voice dipped when he took control at the restaurant. I shouldn’t have cared about the way my pulse had jumped, not from fear but something darker, hungrier, when he leaned in just close enough to brush against me.
Elias wanted me to use Wes’s leash to pull him close enough to cut his throat. But the image that played in my head wasn’t of Wes falling, wasn’t of blood.
It was me on my knees.
It was Wes looking down at me with soft, reverent eyes, happy to have me between his thighs.
I swallowed hard and stood up quickly from the couch.
No. No, no, no. That wasn’t me. That wasn’t who I was. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t someone to be handled or dominated. That was Elias’s lie, the story he’d forced into me, over and over until it had become a reflex.
And yet—my body still ached with the memory of Wes’s calm command, the way it made me want to fold in on myself, not out of fear but out of a twisted craving for release.
I shut my eyes, whispering it again, desperate for it to stick this time. “Stupid. Just stupid.”
And when sleep finally dragged me under, it wasn’t Elias’s hand in my hair I dreamed of.
It was Wes’s.
* * *
I blinked my eyes open, head heavy, mouth full of cotton from the sleeping pills I’d forced down the night before.
I dragged myself into my bathroom, staring at my reflection as I splashed cold water over my face.
The man in the mirror looked too pale, with hollow, dead eyes; every single inch of him seemed frayed at the seams. I straightened my shoulders anyway, sighed, then washed and moisturized my face.
After all, it was part of the job—to look pretty and soft, that is.
It was almost laughable how men so often allowed lust to be their cause of death.
Elias’s words echoed in my throat as I watched my reflection, going through my morning routine, or at least the semblance of one.
You’ll be better tomorrow. Tomorrow, you’ll remember who you answer to.
My stomach turned. I gripped the edges of the sink, thinking back on the events of the previous day.
This was supposed to be easy—Elias had laid it out step by step.
Approach the target, feed him the story of wanting to escape, and let him feel like he was rescuing me.
Get close enough to be trusted, then end it.
Clean and simple, just like all the others.
But nothing about Wes felt simple.
After brushing my teeth, I wiped my mouth with a nearby hand towel, then trudged out of the bathroom and to my closet. I chose neutral layers, nothing too polished, nothing too ragged. Enough to make me look nonthreatening, maybe even a little vulnerable.
I tugged the beige cashmere sweater over my head, fingers fumbling at the hem. Honestly, it was nice being able to dress down a little.
But what if Wes looked at me with those steady eyes again, sifted through my act, and saw more than I wanted him to? He was bound to be suspicious that I was suddenly donning a whole other personality.
Even worse, though—what if he believed it, and I found myself wanting it to be true?
I cursed under my breath, yanking on my pants and shoving my knife into the hidden sheath at my side.
Heading out the door, pulse sharp and uneven in my throat, I couldn’t help the sick twist in my gut because part of me wasn’t dreading Wes seeing through the lie.
It was dreading that he wouldn’t.
The short drive into the heart of downtown from my apartment on the outskirts of the city was uneventful; my Uber driver was content to sit in comfortable silence while the radio played softly in the background.
I had a car, a beat-up old thing, but parking downtown gave me way too much anxiety to be healthy.
He dropped me off at the curb outside the bustling farmers’ market. I weaved my way through the herds of tourists, sellers, and locals alike, my head on a swivel for any sign of Wesley.
I hadn’t been able to plant a tracker on him, so I was stuck wandering around his known haunts, just hoping to cross paths.
It had to have been at least an hour until I finally spotted him standing at a booth displaying colorful art pieces.
Wes stood with his hands tucked neatly into the pockets of his coat, posture loose but self-assured as he examined a painting of a stormy coastline. Even from a distance, he carried an air about him that commanded attention.
My steps slowed, the crowd moving in waves on either side of me while I just… stared.
He looked a bit older today—maybe it was the streaks of gray in his beard catching in the weak daylight, or perhaps it was just my imagination. But somehow that made him appear even sharper, steadier—formidable.
I took a breath and forced my legs to move, walking through the press of bodies until I reached him.
Without speaking, I slid into the empty space beside him, close enough that my sleeve brushed his coat.
He didn’t look at me right away. He hummed low in his throat, his eyes still fixed on the canvas in front of him. Then, calmly said, “I was wondering when you’d catch up.”
“You make it sound like you’ve been waiting.”
Wes finally turned his head toward me, those dark eyes taking me in like he had all the time in the world. “Maybe I have been.”
My stomach dipped, though I kept my face smooth, lips curling lazily. “Well, sorry for the wait. I haven’t been in here before.”
He smiled, the crow’s feet at his eyes crinkling. “There’s certainly a lot to see, isn’t there?” His voice was low, almost drowned out by the shuffle and chatter around us.
Heat prickled at the back of my neck in response to the deep cadence of his voice. “Yeah, lotta people too. Is it even safe for you to be here? Someone could stab you and disappear into the crowd.”
His smirk was subtle, a flicker of amusement tugging at his beard. “Are you worried for me?”
I rolled my eyes, the corners of my mouth pulling up against my will. “Course not. Just don’t want someone else stealing my prey.”
Wes laughed, a booming sound that made my heart lurch. “Of course, how silly of me.” Shaking his head, he reached up and tapped the edge of the painting with a single finger. “Pick something for me.”
I blinked at him, thrown. “Huh?”
“You heard me, babydoll.” His tone didn’t waver, calm and commanding all at once. “Pick out one of these pieces for me.”
My pulse tripped, and I glanced at the row of paintings, fingers twitching against my thigh.
My instincts screamed to scoff, to walk away, to sneer at his smugness—but my body betrayed me.
I pointed to a smaller canvas, far more muted and quiet than the rest, with a lone figure standing against the crashing waves.
Wes’s gaze flicked there, then back to me. “That one is beautiful. Different than the others, too.”
I nodded faintly, still feeling off-kilter, watching silently as he got the artist’s attention and exchanged payment. The woman beamed at Wes, smiling widely as she wrapped up his purchase and handed it over.
After thanking her, he turned back to face me, bag in hand.
I swallowed hard, forcing my voice steady. “You didn’t have to buy it. I don’t know anything about art, you know. What if the others were better?”
“I wanted the one you chose,” he said casually, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Now, come on, let me treat you to lunch.”
He stepped away from the booth, not waiting to see if I’d follow. He already knew I would.
I swallowed, forcing my steps steady as I caught up to his side. “God, what is it with you and feeding me?” I awkwardly laughed.
Wes chuckled as he led us through the market. “Maybe I just like taking care of you.” Those steady, seemingly ageless eyes glanced over at me, meeting my gaze, and I swore my knees almost buckled.
I cleared my throat. “You’re… uh. You’re not exactly what I expected.”
“Mm.” His voice was deep, rumbling, unbothered. He looked ahead, guiding me through the aisles. “And what is it you expected, Ro?”
The way he said my name made something hot curl low in my stomach. I forced a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Less… I don’t know. I mean, wouldn’t most people not want to hang out with the guy ordered to kill them?”
Wes placed a hand on the small of my back, making me hold in a whimper. “Like I’ve said, you haven’t even tried it yet, doll. I’m waiting patiently,” he murmured into my ear.
I ducked my head, hoping to hide the blush that was no doubt coloring my cheeks. “I’m just biding my time.”
“Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe you’re here because you don’t quite know what to do with yourself anymore.”
My nails dug into my palms. “You think you’ve got me figured out that easy?”
Wesley’s hand seared heat into my skin even through my sweater. “I don’t need to figure you out. You’ll show me everything I need to know,” he answered languidly.
I bit the inside of my cheek. Elias’s plan was supposed to be simple: play the role, lure Wes in. But Wes wasn’t being lured—he was leading, and I hated how badly I wanted to follow.
Scratch that—how I was following.
I forced myself to laugh, even as it shook. “Christ, you’re really full of yourself, old man.”
The corner of his mouth curved—just slightly, just enough to feel like a win he wasn’t bothering to hide. “Maybe.”
We stopped in front of a small bistro nestled within the market stalls. Inside its walls, it sheltered its patrons from the noise outside.
We were led to a small, cozy table in a back corner, where a tealight flickered in the dimness.