Chapter 50
Chapter Fifty
LILY
What is he waiting for? Understanding? Acceptance? Forgiveness?
The pressure inside me winds tighter, begging for an outlet. I turn away, but it doesn’t help. My breathing is ragged, my hands are shaking, my eyes burn. There’s nowhere for this feeling to go.
And Ronan stands there, watching me.
He was dying. He pushed me away to protect me. He chose how he’d be found so I wouldn’t come back and find his body. The information cycles through my head, each pass shredding me more.
He was right. Knowing doesn’t make anything better. It makes it worse. But he still had no right to keep it from me.
“You really thought I shouldn’t know all that?” My voice comes out uneven, breaking on the last word.
He doesn’t answer. I spin back to face him. That silence, that fucking silence, sends me straight over the edge. A laugh rips out of me, ugly and bitter.
“I hate you.”
His mouth twists, jaw locking, and he still says nothing.
I move before I can think, my palms slamming against his chest and shoving him hard. He rocks back slightly on his heels. I do it again. He doesn’t make any move to defend himself. He just takes the hits.
That makes it worse.
My fingers form into fists and I hit him again, my breath coming faster.
“You don’t get to act like it was mercy. You don’t get to decide what I could have lived with.”
I punch him again, harder this time. He takes a half-step back.
“You don’t get to stand here and act like it was better that way.”
My hands hurt from the impact against his breastbone. His expression doesn’t change. So I keep going. Because it’s not enough. My fingers curl into his shirt, fabric bunching in my fists. I pull him closer just to shove him away again.
“You let me think I meant nothing.” Tears fill my vision. “You knew I would have stayed with you. You knew I’d have done anything to help you.”
His body is rigid under my palms, every muscle tense. And that … his restraint, infuriates me more.
“Say something!” I hit again, fists against his chest. Not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to feel it. “Anything!”
He grunts, but doesn’t move, letting me spill out every ounce of pain and anger choking me up inside.
“You let me believe you didn’t love me.” My breath catches, a sob tangling with my words. I shake my head. “You destroyed me.”
“Don’t you understand?” He finally speaks. “I couldn’t let you see me like that.”
“It wasn’t up to you.”
“Yes, it was.”
The certainty in his voice, the absolute conviction that he’s right, makes me want to scream.
I shake my head, another sob breaking free, and then I hit him again.
Fists against his chest, over and over. He takes it.
Every hit. Every sob. Every broken, unintelligible word.
Until my arms are shaking, and my hands ache, and I can’t breathe past the tears.
It’s too much. I should do what I said in the parking lot and walk away, keep him away from me.
But I don’t. Because the anger isn’t enough.
Because knowing isn’t enough. Because, even after everything—trying to forget him, convincing myself I was better off without him, focusing on my career—I still love him.
I always have.
My knees buckle, strength draining away all at once. His arms shoot out, catching me before I crumple. The shift from motionlessness to the way he cradles me gently, the solid strength of him as he holds me against his chest, sends another storm of sobs tearing through me.
My hands fist in his shirt, but this time, I cling to him instead of pushing him away. Desperation knots in my chest, twisting pain and longing into a confusing mess of emotion. I need him closer. I need to be sure that he's real.
I hesitate for only a second before lifting my head and pressing my mouth to his. Pain flares through my lip. I ignore it.
Ronan freezes … but only for a second.
His hands lift to cup my face, thumbs brushing over my cheeks, wiping away the tears. His mouth is careful against mine at first, but that’s not what I want.
I yank at his shirt, needing more, and rise up on my toes to press my lips more firmly against his.
He groans, a deep rough sound that vibrates through his chest into mine, and then the kiss isn’t gentle at all.
It’s frantic, and urgent, and desperate.
His hands slide into my hair, fingers tangling, tugging until I tilt my head back.
His tongue slides against mine, and I shudder, pressing closer.
One hand drops, stroking down my spine before slipping beneath the fabric of my sweater. His palm is hot against my skin, and I arch into the touch. He makes another sound, a half-groan, half-growl.
Our lips separate long enough for him to drag my sweater off. The cold air rushes over my skin, raising goosebumps. But I don’t care, it doesn’t matter because he’s here, his warmth, his touch, everything I’ve missed.
My hands are just as greedy, pushing at his jacket, pulling at his shirt, needing to feel his skin against mine.
“Fuck. Phare.” His breath is hot against my jaw before his lips move down my neck, teeth nipping at the pulse hammering at the base.
I whimper, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body arching into him. Every nerve ending is on fire. Every breath is coming too fast.
I’ve been starving for this. For him.
His hands move to my hips, and he lifts me, turning until my back is against the wall, and my legs are around his waist. I have a wild thought that he’d never have been able to do that when we were younger, then it’s gone, and I’m gasping at the way he rolls his hips against me.
My head tips back against the wall, my breath coming in uneven gasps.
“Ronan.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and burning, before dipping his head to kiss me again.
Deeper this time. Slower. His hands are everywhere.
One wrapped around my thigh, holding me steady against him, the other tangling in my hair.
Mine are doing their own exploring, smoothing over his shoulders, down the muscles of his arms, before winding around his neck to pull his head back to mine.
The heat between us winds tighter, a desperate pull that neither of us even tries to fight.
Another roll of his hips makes me gasp, pleasure sparking through every nerve, setting my body on fire.
I can feel how badly he wants me. The evidence presses against me.
And I want him just as much. I need him with an intensity that should terrify me.
And then …
A shiver rolls through me that has nothing to do with desire. My skin prickles as the cold finally overtakes the heat between us, seeping through the places where we’re not pressed together. Reality intrudes—the freezing air, the hard wall against my back, the fact we’re in an abandoned factory.
Ronan’s breath hitches. His grip loosens slightly, and his head lifts. His gaze moves over my face slowly, tracking every bruise, every tear track, the swelling of my split lip. Then he exhales, long and slow, and a little frayed at the edges.
The sound that follows is unexpected and completely unfamiliar—a deep, throaty, slightly breathless laugh.
I blink at him, confused. “What are you laughing about?”
His head dips, forehead almost touching mine. He takes another slow breath, as though he’s trying to pull himself back from the edge we were both about to fall over.
“How the hell did we ever manage to do this here when we were kids?” His voice is rough, edged with amusement. “It’s fucking freezing.”
A startled laugh escapes me before I can stop it. Of all the things I thought he might say, that wasn’t one of them. The absurdity of it—us, tangled together against a wall in the middle of October, half-undressed—hits me.
“Adrenaline?” I offer with a shaky smile.
“More likely poor judgment.” His thumb brushes over my cheek again, gentle now. “Though, I’m not sure our judgment has improved all that much with age.”
We’re both still a little breathless, still tangled up in each other. But the tension has shifted, softened into something easier to manage.
My legs drop from around his waist, feet finding the ground. His hands steady me, making sure I’m stable before he steps back slightly. Not far, just enough that we’re not pressed together anymore.
The loss of his warmth is immediate and jarring. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly very aware of being half naked and cold.
He bends to retrieve my sweater from where it landed. When he hands it to me, our fingers brush. The contact sends another spark through me, but I ignore it and pull the sweater on.
His voice is quieter when he speaks again. “I missed you, Lily.”