Chapter 13 Ronan #2
My fingers tapped against my coffee cup, restless. Go to Elias’s place. Slip into his study. Pretend like I wasn’t crawling through my own graveyard.
A sick kind of nostalgia tried to claw up my throat—memories of rough rope, broken skin, of words whispered like promises but carved like knives. My pulse spiked just at the thought of stepping over that threshold again.
“I’ll think about it,” I muttered finally.
Wes leaned back, studying me as if he could read the hesitation written on my face. “That’s all I ask.”
But I knew he was lying. He wouldn’t be satisfied with me just thinking about it. He wanted action. He wanted me to deliver Elias on a silver platter, no matter how deep I had to crawl into hell to do it.
I stared at him across the table, watching the way the light from the window cut across his face, sharp as the shadows he carried with him.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that, one way or another, this was going to end with me bleeding on Elias’s pristine floors.
Or his godforsaken billiards table.
* * *
I hadn’t been back in months. Not because I wasn’t allowed—I had a key, technically—but because the air got tight in my lungs whenever I crossed that threshold. Elias knew I hated being there, hated everything about it.
Oh, he was well aware, and he loved joking about it.
If I suddenly wanted to stroll in now, he’d know something was up.
I dropped onto my couch, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles. I needed a reason. I couldn’t just call him up and say I wanted to hang out, or that I missed home, or some shit he wouldn’t buy into.
My gaze landed on the weapon case tucked under the coffee table. Knives, pistols—a small collection I maintained myself. Most of them were gifts from him over the years, chosen not for their practicality but because he enjoyed watching me use them. He liked the artistry.
The aesthetics.
He’d never question my appetite for a new weapon. He was usually the one offering them to me, but I had asked him for specific weapons before. It wasn’t a stretch that I’d want to get my hands on something new.
My fingers hovered over my phone for too long before I pressed his contact. It rang twice.
“Ronan,” Elias’s voice purred on the other end. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I forced my voice into casual ease. “I need something from you.”
A pause, sharp enough to make my skin itch. “…Is something wrong?”
“No,” I said quickly—too quickly. “No… I just… felt like my arsenal could use an upgrade. Something new.”
Another pause. I could hear the smile in his silence. “Oh, that’s what this is about.” His tone warmed, the suspicion draining into amusement. “For a moment, I thought you were calling to tell me you missed me.”
I swallowed. “You know I’m not sentimental.”
“You say that,” he murmured, “and yet I suspect otherwise. What did you have in mind?”
“Not sure. Something interesting. I’ve just been getting bored with my current stuff.”
“Mm. I’ll make some calls.” His voice was now pleased. “And I’ll have a car pick you up in an hour. You can browse while I speak with a dealer I trust.”
My hand tightened around the phone. “An hour?”
“Yes. Oh, and Ro?”
“Yes?” I asked.
“Wear something nice, please.”
My throat went tight, but I made my voice even. “Okay.”
“Good boy,” Elias said, soft and indulgent. “I’ll be waiting.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone to my lap, heart thumping. An hour. That was all the time I had to steel myself before stepping back into his gilded prison.
And if I slipped even once, he’d know.
Over the next hour, I showered, shaved, blow-dried my hair to perfection, and got dressed.
I knew what he wanted me to wear, but I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of showing up half-naked and bedazzled.
So, instead, I opted for sleek leather pants, heeled booties, and a gauzy taupe tank top.
It was still pretty damn sexy, so I was hoping that it’d pass as acceptable in Elias’s eyes.
The car pulled up outside my building right on the hour, a black sedan with tinted windows.
I slid out the front door of my apartment, jogged down the steps of the building, and ducked into the backseat without a word. The driver didn’t look at me—they never did. They were just hands on a wheel, another extension of Elias’s control.
The car smelled new, the kind of rich chemical scent that made my stomach twist. I leaned back against the seat, eyes fixed on the blur of city lights outside the window as the car wound its way out of my neighborhood and toward Elias’s estate.
The ride was quiet, but my mind certainly wasn’t.
I hadn’t set foot in his house for months, only going when it was absolutely necessary. Elias always laughed when I told him I didn’t like it there, and said that meant the place was doing its job.
And now here I was, practically begging to be invited in.
Calling it a house was generous. It was a fortress of exuberant wealth, built on a battleground of tortured blood. Light burned from tall windows, warm and golden, but the warmth didn’t reach me. It never had.
The car stopped at the front steps, but I didn’t move right away. My throat was dry, and my hands were clammy against my thighs.
The driver cleared his throat softly, and I took a breath, pushing the door open and stepping out, my shoes crunching on the gravel. The night air was cool against my face, but it did nothing to ease the tight coil in my chest.
The heavy doors opened before I even reached them, and there he was. Elias.
Dressed in dark slacks and a half-buttoned shirt, he leaned in the doorway like he owned the world—which he did, in his own way. His eyes found me instantly, cutting and bright, and that predatory smile curved across his face like usual.
“Ronan,” he drawled. “You came.”
I forced a smile. “Well, I did ask to and all.”
“Mm.” His gaze slid over me, taking in my outfit. “You really are determined to test me, aren’t you?”
I shrugged, feigning ease I didn’t feel. “The shirt is pretty…”
Elias chuckled like I’d told a joke, stepping aside to let me in. “Maybe for someone without your looks… Well, it’s fine. Come in. Let’s see if we can find something to satisfy you.”
The sound of the doors closing behind me was final, like a lock sliding into place. I dug my nails into my palms, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
The foyer was all marble and echo, the chandelier above blinding me. I squinted against it, blinking, as Elias’s hand landed against my shoulder, steering me farther in.
“I’m glad I had the foresight to bring over one of my stylists,” he said smoothly, voice echoing faintly off the vaulted ceiling.
I forced a laugh, even as my stomach twisted. “These are clothes you bought me.”
“Yes, but for more casual situations. Like lounging around or grocery shopping,” Elias said, walking ahead, expecting me to follow. “Not for when I specifically request that you look presentable.”
My shoes thudded quietly against the polished stone as I trailed him down the vast hall, keeping my expression loose while my eyes worked overtime.
A maid was dusting an alcove mirror, a man in a black suit was carrying a tray of glasses toward the dining room, a guard leaned in a doorway, hand at his belt, gaze flicking toward me and away again.
Too many eyes. There were always too many.
“You’ll be pleased,” Elias continued, tone light but threaded with steel. “I also called in a weapons specialist with rarities you can’t find anywhere else. I think you’ll love what he’s brought for you.”
“I’m sure I will,” I answered softly.
We passed another staffer—this one in the livery Elias liked his housekeepers to wear, pressed black and white, with an expression as neutral as a mask. She bowed her head as we passed, though I caught her eyes dart up to me, curious and wary.
My jaw tightened. Everyone looked. Everyone knew. Even if they didn’t know, they knew.
Elias’s hand brushed my back as he led me toward the parlor. “You should be flattered. This is all for you.”
I hummed noncommittally while cataloging exits. Double doors at the end of the hall. Windows tall enough to climb through if it came to that. Guards—two so far, maybe more.
I knew this place was a cage. The problem was, tonight, I was the one who’d walked right into it.
“I know. Thank you.”
The parlor was staged like a magazine spread—velvet couches, low golden light, a fire burning under the mantel. I hated it. It smelled like cigars and expensive perfume.
Two people were already inside waiting.
The first was the stylist—a lean man in his mid-to-late forties with slicked-back hair and glasses that caught the firelight. Garment bags hung from a rack behind him, silk and sequins glinting through them. He lit up at the sight of me like I was his canvas.
“Ah, Elias was right. The face, the hair—it’s criminal to hide it in…” His gaze slid down my shirt, his smile tightening. “…that.”
I tugged the hem of my top like I didn’t care, even though my pulse ticked hard. Was the issue that it wasn’t form-fitting? I didn’t think it looked bad enough for two people to comment on.
The other man stood near the far wall, arms crossed. He was stockier, with a scar cut through his brow. A heavy case sat at his feet—metal, with reinforced corners. He was the weapons dealer, no doubt. His silence was the opposite of the stylist’s chatter, but it still rang in my ears.
Elias gestured between them, pleased. “Darling, these men are here to ensure you’re both beautiful and deadly. They’re some of the best.”
The stylist stepped forward eagerly, holding up a glittering dress that probably cost several thousand dollars, if not more. “This would bring out your eyes beautifully. With your complexion, we should stay away from earth tones—stick with jewel shades and metallics.”
My gaze slid past him to the case on the floor. The dealer’s hand rested on it, possessive. I counted the veins on his wrist, the way he shifted his weight—ready, alert. Definitely armed.