Chapter 19 Ronan
Ronan
It’d been six days since Elias had given me a deadline. One week to make a choice. One week to finish the job.
One week to watch the light fade from Wesley’s kind eyes.
Tomorrow was the last day.
I tried not to think about that part as I lugged a couple of bags of groceries up the stairs and into my apartment. We had plans to meet up tonight to go over the plan once more before D-Day.
The plan was to cook us dinner, although I’d never actually cooked for someone else before, and the most I ever cooked for myself was macaroni and cheese or scrambled eggs. Still, I wanted to try this for him. I wanted to try living for him, instead of just surviving.
As I set the bags down on the kitchen counter, I looked down at my phone, thumb hovering over the message I’d typed out in the car.
Do you like German food?
I hesitated, then added a smiley face.
Deleted it.
Typed it again.
Deleted it again.
It looked stupid either way, so I just hit send—smiley included.
The message went through instantly, the little “delivered” bubble mocking my impatience. I waited a minute. Then two. Then five.
No reply.
Wes was probably busy. After all, it was the day before he planned to liberate three warehouses of trafficking victims and take down Elias. He was probably super busy.
He’d answer later. He always did.
I set the phone face down on the counter and rubbed at the back of my neck.
German food.
Right…
I didn’t actually know how to make German food.
I just… after the nightmare the other night, I realized how hard I’ve always tried to push my family into the deepest, darkest crevices of my psyche.
It was always easier than being plagued with the memory of them, knowing that I’d never hear my sister sing along to Disney movies again, and I’d never help my mom set the table again, I’d never listen to music in the basement with my dad again, and I’d never be jealous of Henri stealing our parents’ attention again.
Mom liked to make a mix of American and German recipes. She was almost always in the kitchen, cooking or baking. She loved it. And she especially loved watching our reactions when she’d try something new.
I couldn’t remember her favorite dishes anymore, or even the basic German I’d learned growing up. I couldn’t even remember if Lia liked to eat her vegetables or not.
My heart ached from the realization that I had been erasing my memory of them.
I wanted to fix that. I wanted Wes to know them, even if that was never truly possible. And so when I decided that I wanted to cook for the two of us tonight, my first instinct was “something German.”
Maybe that was dumb, but the idea had lodged in my head.
I pulled up a recipe on my phone—something about bratwurst and onions in beer sauce—and squinted at the instructions.
“Okay,” I muttered, glancing toward the stove. “How hard can it be?”
Very.
Within ten minutes, the kitchen smelled vaguely of onions and panic. Which was kind of what I imagined a men’s locker room would smell like. Not the most appetizing scent.
I wasn’t even sure if I was supposed to brown the sausages before the beer went in, but it was too late to fix it now.
Still, there was a weird kind of satisfaction in it.
Cooking for someone. Thinking about Wes walking through the door, the soft sound of his laugh when he realized I’d tried to make something for him.
I caught myself smiling.
It was ridiculous, but the thought made my chest warm.
I stirred the pan, humming under my breath, glancing every few minutes at my phone on the counter. Still nothing.
“Busy,” I told myself. “If he doesn’t like German food, it’ll be his fault for not texting back in time. I’ll shove it down his throat if he says he doesn’t want to eat it.”
The sizzling of the pan filled the silence, and I tried to focus on that instead of the building anxiety in my chest. I plated the food—if you could call it that—and was just reaching for a towel to wipe down the counter when my phone started to ring.
I smiled, thinking it was Wes finally calling.
Then I saw the name on the screen.
Elias.
Fuck, of course it was. Because only he would somehow sense that I was beginning to spiral and rush to bank in on it.
I clutched the edge of the counter and took a steadying breath, hoping that I could put on a calm and collected front. I didn’t want him to smell my anxiety and get tipped off that something was up.
My hand shook as I reached for the phone.
“…Hello?”
The silence on the other end was brief, then came that voice—smooth as glass, warm as honey, and sharper than a knife.
“Ronan,” Elias said softly. “How is my favorite little toy?”
I swallowed hard, forcing a laugh that sounded too thin. “Just, uh… cooking dinner.”
“Dinner?” Elias repeated, sounding amused. “How domestic of you. I didn’t think you knew how to make anything edible.”
His tone made my skin crawl. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t tell if he already knew what I was doing, or if he was baiting me into confessing it. With him, it was always both.
There was a pause, filled with the faint crackle of static.
“Tell me, Ronan,” he murmured, “do you ever think of me when you’re in that little kitchen of yours? Or are your hands busy for someone else these days?”
My throat closed.
“Why are you calling?” I managed.
Elias laughed softly, the sound curling through the speaker. “Straight to business. You wound me, my love.”
“Elias—”
“I was just thinking,” he cut in smoothly, “it’s been nearly a week, hasn’t it? I gave you so much time. I thought perhaps you’d forgotten what happens when my patience runs out.”
My stomach dropped. “What do you mean?”
A quiet, delighted sound came from him—half laugh, half happy sigh. “Oh, Ronan. You really do lose track of the days, don’t you? Your time is up.”
Wes.
I gripped the counter so tightly my knuckles ached. “No. I had one more day.”
“I suppose you’re technically right,” Elias agreed lightly. “But it was taking too long. You were hesitating. I could hear it in your voice every time we spoke. I didn’t think you could handle it anymore.”
My pulse roared in my ears. “Handle what?”
“The weight of it,” he said simply. “The guilt. The indecision. The affection that was growing.” He said the last word as if it disgusted him. “So I handled it for you.”
A cold dread sank through me. No, no, no. He couldn’t have.
“Elias… what did you do?”
He chuckled, low and indulgent, as if I were a child asking a silly question. “I had some men collect him for me.”
My breath caught. “Is he—”
“Mr. Wesley Cohen,” Elias said softly. “Such an interesting man. Honestly, quite a fighter. He shot three of my men before they were finally able to knock him out. One of them died.” There was a pause, as if he was savoring my silence.
“Don’t worry, Ro. I haven’t started the real show yet. I wanted to wait for you.”
The world tilted. The smell of burnt onions hit me like a wave, nauseating.
“Why?” I whispered. “Why wait for me?”
“Because,” Elias said, his tone softening into something almost tender, “it’s only fitting you see what loyalty costs. You’ve been trying so hard to pretend you’re his precious little boyfriend, but we both know what you really are.”
He let the words hang there, heavy and poisonous.
“Come home, Ro,” he murmured. “It’s time you stop pretending.”
The line clicked, and the silence that followed was deafening.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
The phone slipped from my hand, clattering against the counter.
His words ricocheted in my skull until they didn’t sound like words anymore—just noise.
“No,” I whispered, my voice breaking on the word. “No, no, no—”
My chest burned, every breath sharp and useless. I pressed my palms to the cool countertop, trying to steady myself, but the world kept swaying. Wes’s deep laugh flashed in my mind, his stupid grin, his voice calling my name—then Elias’s words slid over it, catching the memory ablaze.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Breathe.
This wasn’t helping.
Panicking never helped.
He was alive. Elias said so.
He wanted me to come for the “show.”
That meant Wes was still breathing—for now.
I forced one long inhale, then exhale, grounding myself in the motion. My hands still shook, but I could think again.
I snatched the phone off the counter and hit Ichabod’s number. He picked up halfway through the first ring.
“Who is this?” I may have taken his number from Wes’s contacts without either of them knowing.
“Elias has Wes,” I cut in, words tumbling over themselves. There was no time for introductions. “He took him—I don’t know how long ago. He called me—he’s at the house, I’m going there.”
“What?” Ichabod’s voice rose, sharp and alarmed. “Is this Ro?”
“Start the plan,” I said. “Start it right fucking now.”
“Ro—”
I ended the call and shoved the phone into my pocket. My hands moved automatically—drawer, holster, gun, clip. Check the chamber. The sound of metal sliding into place was grounding, a small mechanical rhythm I could rely on.
The electric knife lay on the counter beside the ruined dinner—don’t judge how I store my weapons. I stared at it for half a second, then grabbed it too.
He wanted me to come home.
Fine.
It would be the last time.
I was already moving before I knew it, my boots pounding against the floor. The front door slammed behind me, the evening air hitting my face. I ran down the building’s steps two at a time, not stopping until I reached my car in the parking lot.
The car keys bit into my palm as I slid into the driver’s seat. My pulse was still hammering, but the panic had turned into something sharper—focused, burning.
It was telling that he hadn’t sent a driver.
* * *
The drive was a blur of red lights and screeching tires. My hands ached from how tight I gripped the wheel, the steering column trembling under every swerve.
Elias’s house sat at the end of a long, winding road that cut through the hills like a rotted scar.
The front gates were already open when I drove up.
That wasn’t right. Elias never left the gates open.
He liked control. He liked barriers.
Every door, every lock, every inch of that mansion was designed to make people feel trapped.
I parked crooked in the drive and didn’t bother turning off the car.
Gun in hand, I went to the front entrance. The doors were locked at least. I pounded against the frame with my fist, a little too worked up to calmly go back to the car and grab my keys.
“Open the door!” I yelled. “Open this fucking door!”
It didn’t take long for an attendant to swing the door open, wide-eyed and scared. When he saw my gun, he gasped and took a step back. I pushed past him, running through the illustrious halls, dodging shocked staff at every turn.
“Where is he?!” I stopped in the sitting room, spinning on my heel to face the poor man who’d followed me from the door. “Elias? Or a man named Wesley? He’s older, has a beard, dark hair—”
“Sir, p-please,” the attendant stuttered, his hands up in a placating motion. “Mr. Craig hasn’t been home since he left after breakfast this morning!”
“But he said he was here!”
The man flinched. “I’m sorry, sir. I wouldn’t lie to you.”
I took several heaving breaths before answering him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just—are you sure no one’s brought in a man who may have been unconscious?”
His eyebrows raised, then furrowed. He stammered, “N-no, sir. None of Mr. Craig’s… associates… have been here all day. It’s just been the house staff.”
“Fuck!” I kicked a nearby end table, rattling the decor on top of it.
A few other workers peeked in from the hall, fear and worry etched on their faces.
My nerves started to buzz. My brain caught up to the pieces too slowly.
“I’ll check upstairs, maybe they snuck in.” I brushed past the door attendant and the small group gathering outside the sitting room.
“Sir, he’s not here!” the attendant called after me as I jogged toward the grand staircase.
He wasn’t here.
He hadn’t been here, not since this morning.
I was halfway up the stairs when it hit me, so sudden and violent that I stopped cold.
He hadn’t meant his home.
He’d meant mine.
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t breathe.
The air left my lungs in a single jagged exhale as the blurry image of a modest single-family home at the end of a cul-de-sac crashed into me.
“No,” I whispered, shaking my head as if that could undo it. “No, he wouldn’t—”
But of course he would.
Of course he fucking would.
Elias had always known how to dig deepest, where it would hurt most.
He wanted me to come home because he knew exactly what that word meant, what it represented.
This was a punishment.
I stumbled back from the top step, heart slamming against my ribs. “You son of a bitch,” I breathed, and turned, sprinting down the stairs two at a time.