Chapter 21 Ronan
Ronan
Pain blossomed in my chest before I was even fully conscious.
A dull, throbbing kind that felt like something had been scooped out and crudely stitched back together.
The first breath I took burned all the way down.
I winced, reaching instinctively for the source—only to pause when my fingers met thick, wrapped gauze.
My brain lagged a few seconds behind my body, registering the texture, the tightness. Bandages.
What the hell—
My eyes opened, heavy-lidded, pupils narrowing against the dim light above me. The ceiling came into focus first. Where was I?
The air didn’t reek of blood and mildew. It smelled clean—laundry detergent and warm cotton. It smelled the way Wes’s clothes always smelled.
Wes.
The thought hit like a shock to the spine, propelling me upward before the pain in my chest slammed me back against the mattress. A strangled sound left my throat. My vision swam for a moment before settling again.
The room was his. I knew it instantly, recognized it from that night I’d broken in and sucked off his gun like a horny psycho.
I was in Wes’s bed.
My heart hammered as memory tried to claw its way through the haze.
I remembered driving—no, speeding—toward my family’s old house, my hands slick on the wheel.
I remembered the nausea that hit me when I’d walked through the front door. It looked like a tomb, not at all like the cozy, always a little messy, home I’d loved. There was nothing—no furniture, nothing on the walls, just the bare bones of the place.
It had filled me with a deep sense of dread.
Then I remembered the scene I’d walked down into.
The basement I used to spend my best days in, relishing in my father’s attention, was just concrete, wood, and pipes. Elias stood at the base of the stairs; Wes was bloody and seated in a chair at the center of the room.
I hardly remembered reaching the bottom of the stairs or what words Elias had said to me.
But I did remember pulling out the gun, aiming, firing.
Click. Boom.
Then—chaos.
Gunfire. Heat. Pain.
And then—darkness.
I pressed a hand against my chest again, the ache pulsing under my palm. The memory of the bullet was too clear now, a phantom weight still lodged inside me. But someone had patched me up—wrapped me tight, stopped the bleeding.
Wes.
He must’ve gotten us out.
The realization sent a faint tremor through me, half relief, half dread. My stomach twisted as another thought followed: Elias.
Was he dead?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to piece together the fragments that followed the shot. There’d been shouting—stern, commanding voices I didn’t recognize. Men rushing into the basement, guns drawn. Wes was cradling me.
It all blurred together after that.
My throat felt dry as sandpaper. I swallowed hard, glancing toward the door. I could hear the murmur of voices, but couldn’t make out the words they were saying.
I forced myself to breathe, slow and steady.
My fingers drifted to the bandages again, tracing the edge where clean white gauze met pale skin. Whoever had tended to me knew what they were doing. The wound didn’t feel fresh anymore. It was sore, but not bleeding. A few days old at least. Had I been asleep for that long?
I exhaled shakily and leaned back into the pillows. The ceiling above me blurred and refocused.
The door creaked open.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was imagining it—the soft shuffle of feet, the faint hitch of breath—but then Wes stepped inside, and every muscle in my body went rigid.
He froze when he saw me awake. The relief on his face was immediate and staggering, like the tension holding him up snapped all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes went glassy, and he just stood there in the doorway for a second, staring at me like I might disappear if he blinked.
“Ronan,” he breathed, voice cracking around my name.
It hit me then, in the quiet between us—the patch over his left eye, the dark bruise along his jaw, the splint around his wrist.
My chest ached with something that wasn’t physical. “Wes… You’re hurt.”
That was all I managed before he was crossing the room, dropping to his knees beside the bed, and cupping my face with shaking hands.
“Babydoll, you—” His voice broke again. “You were shot. You were fucking shot.” He swallowed hard, pressing his forehead to my arm. “I thought you were gonna die.”
I blinked at him, stunned by the raw fear in his tone. His hands trembled against my skin, his breath uneven. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I’m okay,” I lied, the words rough and small.
“The hell you are.” His hand brushed the bandages, featherlight, his thumb trembling. “You scared the shit out of me, Ro. You bled out in my arms, you—” He broke off, shaking his head like he couldn’t finish the thought.
I reached up and brushed my fingers against his jaw, tracing the line of the bruise there. “You’re hurt,” I repeated.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” I said quietly. “Your eye—”
“It’s fine,” he interrupted, but I could see the way his mouth tightened when he said it. “Just a cut.”
“What about your vision?”
“Don’t know yet,” he said, his uninjured eye still flitting around my face and chest, as if looking for proof of life—like he couldn’t fully believe I was awake and talking to him.
“What does that mean?” I asked, reaching out to brush my thumb along the edge of the bandage.
He sighed. “It doesn’t look good. The doctor who treated us said we won’t know for sure until the wound heals, but that it’s possible I’ll be blind in that eye.”
A distressed whimper slid out of my throat. “Blind? Oh, Wes.”
He shook his head, giving me a sad smile. “It’s okay. All that matters is that you’re alive.”
“What about your wrist? And the bruise on your cheek? Are there more injuries—”
Wes leaned in and pressed a kiss to my lips, silencing me.
As he pulled back, he said, “Please, doll, I’m fine.
I broke my wrist to get out of the restraints.
I have a few bruises here and there, but that’s it.
Nothing some pain meds can’t handle. Which, speaking of, it’ll be time soon for your next dose of antibiotics and oxy. ”
“You broke your wrist?”
Wes grunted and wrapped his good hand loosely around my neck. “Ronan. Be good and drop it. I promise I’m okay. The best thing that you can do for me now is let me take care of you, alright?”
I nodded, leaning into his hold.
His lips tilted up, and his eyes softened. “That’s my good boy. Thank you.”
I bit my lip, almost frightened to ask the question that’d been on my mind since I opened my eyes.
He, of course, noticed. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”
I lowered my eyes. “Is he…”
Something flickered in his expression—bitterness and a quiet fury. Still, he replied, “He’s alive. I have my team holding him. I was… going to kill him. I wanted to.” His eyes shifted away, focusing on my bandages.
“Why didn’t you?”
“I realized something.” He met my eyes, and there was something heavy in his gaze. “You don’t miss your mark.”
“Are you forgetting—”
“No.” He cut me off. “You never actually tried to kill me, no matter what you say. If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead. And now… It’s the same with him.”
I looked away, staring at the ceiling because I didn’t trust myself to look at him. “I didn’t want him to have an easy death,” I murmured.
There was a long silence. I could feel him watching me, the weight of his stare pressing against the side of my face. Then he said quietly, but without hesitation, “I know, Ro. So we kept him alive. He’s yours to deal with, just not until you’ve healed a bit, okay?”
I turned my head toward him. His good eye was bright, fierce, unwavering. “Okay,” I whispered, a bit choked up.
“I don’t care how you need to do it,” Wes said. “But I need to be there with you when you do.”
Wes’s hand slid over mine. His skin was warm.
He felt like home.
“Whatever you decide,” he murmured, “I’ll be right there. I’ll never leave your side. I fucking love you, Ronan. Andreas. Whoever you are or whoever you want to be.”
I stared at him for a long time, at the patch covering half his face, at the lines of exhaustion and grief that hadn’t been there before.
“Thank you,” is all I could say.
Wes looked at me for a moment, his gaze contemplative. He gave me a small smile as he stood from the ground to join me in bed. Careful not to jostle me, he scooted back to sit against the headboard.
I adjusted my upper body so that I could lay my head on his thigh, gritting my teeth through a slight jolt of pain that faded as I settled.
Wes’s hand drifted into my hair, brushing through the tangles absently. His touch was so gentle it ached. For a while, neither of us said anything. The room was quiet except for our breathing.
Then, his voice cut through the silence, low and a little hesitant. “Ro… there’s something I need to tell you.”
I tilted my head slightly on his thigh, just enough to see the tension in his jaw. “What is it?”
He exhaled hard through his nose, his fingers pausing in my hair. “When I was with Elias, he said some things. About what happened with your family.”
Every nerve in my body went on alert. “What kind of things?”
“He said…” Wes’s throat worked as he swallowed. “He said you killed them. Your parents.”
My whole body went rigid.
The air left my lungs in one sharp, painful rush. “No.”
Wes kept his voice soft, cautious. “Ro, you don’t need to hide from me.”
I tried to sit up. The movement sent a bolt of pain through my chest, but I didn’t care.
“Ro.” His tone dropped, quiet but firm. His hand moved fast, steady against the side of my neck, pressing down just enough to keep me from rising further. “Hey—don’t do that. Lie back.”
I froze, breath shaking, my pulse pounding under his palm.
“Let me up,” I hissed, though my voice broke halfway through.
“No,” he said, gentler this time. “I won’t let you tear your stitches open. You’re going to stay right where you are.”