Chapter 25 Ronan
Ronan
One Year Later
The gym in the warehouse smelled like sweat, metal, and faint traces of gun oil—the kind of scent that seeps into your skin and stays there no matter how many times you shower. I didn’t mind it. It smelled like purpose.
“Again,” I said, circling the mat. “And this time, don’t telegraph your swing.”
Lane adjusted his stance, breathing hard, the end of his braid sticking to his cheek.
Dorian stood across from him, his movements precise but too restrained, like he was still thinking too hard instead of letting his body lead.
“Come on,” I urged. “You can’t analyze someone mid-fight. They won’t wait for you to figure out their next move.”
Dorian’s gaze flicked to me, annoyed but focused.
Dorian lunged, and they collided hard, the slap of their feet against the mat echoing through the open space. Dorian feinted left, caught Lane’s shoulder, and tried to sweep his leg—only to get elbowed neatly in the ribs for his trouble.
Lane grinned triumphantly at him. “Gotcha.”
Dorian exhaled through his nose, rubbing the spot. “You’re just faster because you’re so little, princess,” he grumbled, scowling at Lane in his pastel pink sports bra and yoga pants.
“Aw, someone’s embarrassed that a pretty twink is beating their ass,” Lane teased.
Dorian rolled his eyes and cracked his neck, his black hair messy in a bun.
“Enough,” I said, but there was a hint of amusement in my voice. “Good. Both of you are improving. Lane, you’re doing great, but don’t get cocky. Dorian, stop hesitating. If you see an opening, take it.”
He nodded, jaw tight, frustration simmering just under the surface. His determination made me proud. He wasn’t a quitter. When Wes had asked me six months ago to take him on as a pupil, I’d been excited.
He’d never killed anyone, never had any training before, but all I cared about was that predatory aura I’d seen the first time we met.
Which, admittedly, I didn’t know who he was back then, but after everything settled down last year and Wes started implementing family dinners, we’d finally been properly introduced.
He and his boyfriend/ex-foster brother, Josh, weren’t technically family, but they were close to the triad and had somehow become regulars at our house.
“Alright,” I said to him, stepping onto the mat. “Pair up with me for a round. Lane, take five.”
Dorian squared up, rolling his shoulders. “You sure?”
I smiled. “Always.”
He struck first—quick, clean, but too predictable. I blocked, shifted, and twisted his arm until he had to drop to one knee. He hissed in pain but didn’t tap out.
“Good,” I said. “You’re learning.”
“I feel weak.”
“You’re not,” I promised, helping him back to his feet. “I just have twenty years under my belt.”
“What about Lane? He only has a few months on me.”
“He also has practical experience, while you’ve never killed. You’re physically much stronger than him, and he knows that, which is why he focuses on speed and agility during your matches.”
Dorian sighed, nodding. “Yeah, you’re right. What should I focus on then?”
The sound of footsteps cut through the room before I could respond. I didn’t need to look to know who it was—that steady rhythm, measured but heavy with quiet authority.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Wes said from the edge of the mat.
Lane immediately straightened up, trying to hide the exhaustion on his face. Dorian just stood, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
I turned toward Wes, and for a second—even after all this time—it still hit me how much had changed.
The scar from Elias ran from the corner of his left eyebrow down to his cheek. It had faded from angry red to light pink, almost white, but it was still striking, nearly regal in a way that made him look older, meaner.
He caught me staring and smiled. “You checking me out again?”
“Always,” I said, tossing Dorian a towel to wipe down his sweaty chest. He caught it and turned away from us, walking over to Lane.
Wes glanced at Lane and Dorian, then back at me. “They improving?”
I nodded. “Faster, more disciplined. Dorian’s a little too careful, but Lane’s getting creative.”
“Creative’s good,” Wes said. “No doubt Grey has something to do with it.”
Lane called out, “Hey, Wes? How long are you planning to make heart eyes at our instructor? I want to know if I have enough time to braid Dori’s hair.”
Wes chuckled, shaking his head. “Five minutes, then you’re back on the mat. And that’s Mr. Cohen to you. I’m basically your father-in-law.”
Lane saluted, getting a deep chuckle out of Dorian, who was sitting cross-legged in front of him with his hair down. “Yes, sir.”
Wes turned back to me, that scar catching the light just right. “Dinner later?”
“Only if you’re cooking.”
“I was thinking takeout.”
“Fine, but I get to pick the place, babe.”
“Deal. Oh, and doll?”
“Yeah?”
Wes leaned in, brushing his lips against my ear. “Don’t forget you still owe me that punishment spanking,” he whispered hotly, making me shiver.
I swallowed thickly and gave him a small nod.
He nipped at my jaw and smirked. “I’ll see you at home.” Wes then turned to leave—his steps light, confident, the kind of easy strength that made me feel safe even in a room full of weapons.
I watched him go before turning back to my students.
“After you guys are done with your male bonding time, we’re heading to the gun range,” I told them.
* * *
The drive home was quiet, the sky washed in lavender and gold as the sun sank behind the Sound. Our house appeared through the trees like something out of a dream—wood and glass, perched above the water with floor-to-ceiling windows that glowed warm in the fading light.
I parked and sat there for a moment, watching the way the branches swayed in the evening breeze.
When Wes and I had toured this place a few months back, I’d immediately fallen in love. It just felt right. It felt like ours.
I smiled to myself, grabbed my keys, and walked up the stone staircase to the entryway on the main level.
When I finally went inside, the air smelled faintly of cedar and the red wine Wes liked to drink after work.
He was in the living room, lounging on the couch, the glass glinting in his hand.
The soft music in the background did nothing to ease the tension that had already begun to hum low under my skin.
Why’d he have to be so motherfucking hot? It was unfair.
He didn’t look up right away, but when he did, his gaze found me and held. It wasn’t unkind, but it definitely showed his intent.
“Welcome home, doll,” he said softly. He set the glass aside and gestured for me to come closer. “Over my lap.”
I blushed, moving forward to obey.
The memory of his words earlier—you still owe me that punishment—had echoed in my mind all afternoon.
He studied me for a long moment, eyes sharp and searching. “Can you tell me why you’re in trouble?”
I nodded. “I didn’t clean my knives like you asked me to.”
“That’s right. And because of that, you’ve earned fifteen spanks with the paddle,” he explained, guiding me face down across his lap.
He held my chin for a moment, thumb tracing my jaw, before letting go and pulling my bike shorts down to expose my bottom.
Wes slid a finger under one of the straps of my cherry red jockstrap and snapped it against my skin.
“So beautiful,” he murmured in awe. I flushed and squirmed, already growing hard from his attention.
Keeping one hand steady on my lower back, he reached over to where the paddle lay on the couch and asked, “Ready?”
“Yes, babe,” I answered.
“I want you to count for this one. Got it?”
“Count—got it.”
“Good boy.”
Something in my chest loosened from those words.
A sharp cry tore from my throat at the feel of the paddle hitting my ass. “One!”
The next hit felt deeper, harder. “T-two!”
“Thr-ree, four,” I cried, listening as the crack of the paddle against my skin echoed throughout the room. I gasped, the jolt sending a rush through my chest.
Each one blurred into the next, the rhythm slow and controlled, steady as his breathing.
“Five!” I shouted. Another hit. “Six!”
The sting burned deep, but what built in me wasn’t just pain—it was everything I hadn’t said. All the tension I carried from the past week, the guilt I was still learning how to let go of. Each impact stripped another layer away until I was trembling, breath hitching.
“S-seven, eight—n-nine!”
“Stay with me, babydoll,” Wes said, his voice commanding yet gentle. “You’re doing so good. Almost there.”
My eyes stung. The sound of the strikes filled the room like a heartbeat, relentless and oddly soothing.
By the time the last one landed, I wasn’t sure if the shaking in my chest was from the pain or the emotional release or the growing urge to come.
Wes’s hand stayed at my back, letting me breathe, letting the quiet settle.
Finally, he spoke, his tone soft. “All done. Such a good boy.”
I nodded, unable to speak. My throat felt tight, but there was a strange calm underneath it all.
He helped me sit upright, his arm still around me, thumb brushing absently against my shoulder. “How are you feeling, doll?”
I whispered, “Good. Thank you.” I nuzzled into him, a faint smile on my lips.
“Good.”
Wes’s hand rubbed slow circles over my back, the warmth of his palm sinking into my skin.
When I finally lifted my head, he met my gaze.
“Hey,” he murmured. “I love you.”
I pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek. “I love you too.”
He smiled, brushing a thumb under my eye. “Now, lie on your stomach, please. I think we both deserve a treat after that.”
I scrambled to obey, hissing at the pressure of the cushions against my cock.
Wes knelt behind me and gripped my hips, pulling them up from the couch. I whimpered needily as he began to massage my ass cheeks, brushing his thumbs into my crease.
“God, this fucking ass, doll,” he groaned, his beard scratching against my reddened skin as he leaned in.
I almost jumped as the wet press of his tongue slid across my asshole. “Oh fuck, yes,” I moaned, pushing my ass back to ride his face.
Wes went to town on my hole, quickly building up my orgasm.
“Please fuck me with your tongue, please, fuck—” I bit my bottom lip hard as he did just that—pushing his tongue into my channel as deep as he could.
Wes moaned at my taste and brought his hand around me, wrapping it around my leaking cock.
“Wes, God, gonna come,” I panted as he began pumping my length, drawing more and more precum from my tip.
He stroked me faster, and that, combined with the slick thrusts of his tongue, had me ready to combust. I rocked back, grinding against his mouth.
“Ah—Wes, I’m coming!” I sobbed, shaking and writhing as I came all over his hand and the couch beneath us.
I collapsed onto my stomach, breathing hard, not caring that I was lying on my release. As I was floating in my post-orgasm bliss, I heard the rhythmic slide of Wes’s dick fucking his fist.
He panted as he worked himself towards orgasm, the sounds gradually speeding up.
“Ro,” he moaned loudly. Splatters of his hot cum rained down on my back. “Fuuuck.”
I smiled at his pleasure. I fucking loved when he came on me—didn’t matter when, didn’t matter where.
Wes lay down on top of me, pressing me into the couch.
I laughed, “We’re a cream sandwich.”
Wes huffed out a laugh. “Guess we are.”
We stayed that way for a while, just breathing in sync, the sky outside fading into deep blue. The glass walls reflected us—a picture of quiet domesticity neither of us would’ve believed we could have a year ago.
Eventually, Wes lifted himself off of me. “You hungry, doll?” he asked.
My stomach chose that moment to growl. I smiled weakly. “Starving.”
“Me too,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Where do you want to order from?”
I debated the options in my head, but apparently took too long.
Scrolling through his saved places, he asked, “Thai or Italian?”
“Thai,” I said without hesitation. “You always forget how spicy I like it.”
“I don’t forget,” he countered. “I just like not always to feel like my mouth’s on fire.”
He placed the order, then set his phone aside and tugged me closer again, guiding me until I was tucked under his arm on the couch. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, and the faint hum of the Sound drifted in through the open window.
I traced absent circles over his thigh, content in the quiet. “We should probably shower before it gets here.”
“Probably,” he agreed.
I looked up at him, catching the way the dim light traced along his scar. It wasn’t something ugly to me, but something that marked survival. I reached up, brushing my fingers along the line of it.
He caught my hand, kissed my knuckles, and smiled. “Come on, I’ll wash your hair.”
“I love you,” I murmured.
“I know,” he said, smirking faintly. “And I love you more.”