Chapter 7 Ronan #3
I sat down and shifted in my seat, my knees jiggling under the table. The leather-bound menu in front of me might as well have been written in code.
Wesley sat across from me with that unshakable composure, reading over the wine list like he’d memorized half of it already.
I cleared my throat. “Don’t think I’ve ever had French food before.” I tried to make it sound casual, not defensive. “Unless you count chocolate croissants from the grocery store.”
Wes’s gaze lifted from the page, eyes sparkling with fond amusement. “No, I don’t think that quite makes the cut.”
My ears burned. I shrugged, trying not to squirm. “Well, guess I’m in for a new experience, then.”
“You are,” he said simply. Then, with the same quiet authority he’d had last time, he closed the menu, handed both his and mine to the waiter who’d approached, and ordered for us both without even asking what I wanted—again.
Something prickled in my chest. Irritation, mostly. “You know, I can order for myself.”
“I know,” Wes said, unbothered. He picked up his glass of water and took a sip, like that was the end of it.
The thing was—it was the end of it. My protest fizzled in my throat, leaving me sitting there like some sulky kid while the waiter disappeared with the menus.
I just hoped he hadn’t ordered snails.
I huffed out a laugh, shaking my head. “Do you usually boss people around like that?”
His eyes sharpened with a glint I didn’t trust. “Yes. But I don’t usually take this much pleasure in it.”
The words shot through me like a spark to kindling, and my chest tightened before I could stop it. “Oh.”
Fuck. My palms felt damp against my thighs.
When the wine arrived, he poured for both of us, his motions steady. He slid my glass across the table. “You’ll like this.”
I took it, though I wanted to snap that he didn’t get to tell me what I would or wouldn’t like. But when I tasted it, smooth and rich on my tongue, I had to admit—it was good.
Wes’s lips quirked, just slightly, like he’d read the thought right off my face.
“Such a good boy,” he murmured.
The stem of the glass nearly slipped through my fingers.
Soon after, the first course came—a small plate with something delicate and green, dressed with vinaigrette I couldn’t name. I stared at it, then at Wes.
He gestured to my fork. “Try it.”
I rolled my eyes, muttering, “I was going to.”
“You’ll be polite even if you don’t like it, Ronan.”
My chest gave an involuntary jolt. I stabbed the fork into the fancy salad just to break the tension, shoving a bite into my mouth. It was crisp, sharp, with a citrusy flavor, and annoyingly good.
Wes didn’t say anything, but the faint curve of his mouth told me he didn’t need to.
By the second course—a steaming bowl of onion soup, rich and fragrant—I was keyed up. The melted cheese stretched across the surface, gooey and golden. I blew on the spoon, feeling his gaze on me like a physical weight.
“You’re staring,” I muttered.
“I’m watching,” he corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”
I grumbled, then slurped down the spoonful a little too loudly just to spite him, but all it earned me was another flicker of that knowing smile.
When the main course arrived—steak with a buttery sauce I couldn’t pronounce—Wes cut his meat with clean, precise motions, while mine sat barely touched.
He looked at me over the table, his tone mild but firm. “Eat.”
Something about the way he said it made my hand move before my brain caught up. I sliced into the steak and brought it to my mouth, chewing slowly. It was tender, juicy, the flavor melting on my tongue. I moaned at the taste.
Wes murmured, sipping his wine, “You learn quickly.”
Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I shoved another bite in, like maybe that would drown out the twisting in my stomach.
By the time the plates were cleared, I felt strung out, every nerve wound tight from the push and pull between us. Wesley set his napkin neatly beside his plate, then leaned back, studying me.
His voice cut quietly and sharply through the lull. “Tell me something, Ro. What exactly do you hope to achieve by following me around, joining me at my tables, and not even attempting another try at killing me?”
My stomach clenched. That was the opening. The line Elias had drilled into me echoed like a script in my head.
And so, even though I wanted to scowl and yell that he was the one who kept dragging me into restaurants, I dropped my gaze and let my voice roughen just enough. “…I need help.”
Wes tilted his head, eyes narrowing in measured interest. “Help?”
The words felt like glass in my throat, but I forced them out. “I can’t get out of this alone. Elias, my… my handler—he won’t let me go. You’re the only one who can… who can pull me out.”
I hated how small it sounded, how true it felt as I said it. My fists curled tight under the table.
Wes didn’t speak right away. He just watched me, eyes dark, calculating, like he was peeling back each layer to see where the lie ended and the truth began.
Finally, he said, voice low and steady, “I find it hard to believe that you aren’t capable of destroying that man.”
The words hit me harder than the wine, harder than Elias’s slap the night before. My mouth went dry, my chest tightening with something that wasn’t fear—not exactly.
Something worse. Something I couldn’t control.
My throat worked around a swallow I couldn’t force down.
“I’m not—I can’t kill him,” I muttered, forcing my tone sharp. “I’m just—fuck, I need help… He watches me, he pays for where I live, my clothes, my food, everything. I need to cut myself out of his life without him pulling me back in. I’m not… I’m just saying you’re my best option. To get help.”
Wes’s brow arched. “Best option,” he repeated softly, like he was tasting the words. “Not a very flattering way to ask for help.”
My brows drew together. “I’m not asking. I don’t beg.”
“Mm.” He leaned in slightly, resting one elbow on the table, his voice lowering until it hooked right into my gut.
“That’s not true. You’ve been begging from the moment you sat down on my lap that night, and you’ve been begging with every look since, every twitch, every time you put food in your mouth just because I told you to. ”
My jaw clenched. “You don’t know shit about me.”
“I know enough. I know you’re conflicted. That you want to run, but you also want to stay. That you hate that I can read you—but you crave it, too. You need guidance. You supposedly need my help escaping your owner.”
I shifted in my chair, suddenly restless, hands gripping my thighs under the table. “Stop.”
“Why?” The word came like a challenge, a growl buried under velvet. “Does it scare you to be seen?”
Every nerve lit up in my body. I could hear Elias’s voice in my head—stick to the plan, boy, you’re too dumb to remember otherwise—and I tried to cling to it. “Look, I just—just need you to get me out, okay? That’s it. Nothing else. You don’t need to act like you’ve got me figured out.”
For the first time, Wes’s expression hardened, the amusement cooling into something sharper. “And if I do?”
My breath caught. “You d—”
He leaned back in his chair, cutting me off. “If I decide I know you better than you know yourself, Ronan, what then? What will you do?”
I had no answer.
The silence stretched, and Wes’s gaze stayed locked on me, unrelenting, until the weight of it made me want to crawl out of my own skin.
I forced out, quieter than I meant, “Then I guess I’d be fucked.”