Chapter 12
T he first thing I felt was heat.
Not Miami heat—the kind that clung to your skin and kissed your scalp—but body heat. Ronan’s. It radiated like a furnace behind me, steady and grounding, one massive arm wrapped around my waist.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t want to.
The curtains were still drawn, the room bathed in a sleepy amber glow. I could hear the ocean faintly beyond the glass. My body ached, but not from sex. From anticipation. From running. From the storm he’d stirred and never quite quelled.
He hadn’t touched me last night. Not in the way I thought he would. Not in the way I’d begged for with every glance and whisper and breathless stare.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Better.
Worse.
I rolled slowly onto my back, careful not to dislodge his arm.
His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheek, his lips parted just enough to prove he was human and not some fever dream conjured by need and exhaustion.
I studied his face—the strong jaw, the faint scar near his brow, the shadow of stubble that scraped against my skin when he pulled me close in the night.
And I wondered.
What would it feel like—really feel like—to have him inside me? A man this big, this hard, this built for war. I thought about the size of his hands, the flex of his forearms, the brutal, effortless power in the way he moved. He could lift me. Hold me down. Flip me over like I weighed nothing.
Most men I dated were soft in the ways that made sense. Gentle with their words. Measured in their movements. Always so careful, like they were afraid I might break or get mad or tweet about it later.
But Ronan?
He moved like someone who handled threats. Like someone who didn’t need to apologize for wanting to take.
And I wanted to be taken.
The kind of taking that left marks. That ruined me for anyone else.
My thighs clenched, slow and involuntary, and I felt the ache that hadn’t left me.
He’d promised to wreck me.
And now, every cell in my body was primed for detonation.
God.
He looked peaceful.
But no one like him could ever really be at peace.
I let myself trace a single fingertip along the edge of his forearm, over veins and muscle. He didn’t stir.
He trusted me here .
That realization sat heavy in my chest.
I slipped out of bed quietly and padded into the bathroom, steam still lingering from the bath. My reflection in the mirror made me pause—hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips swollen. A girl undone.
No. A woman remade.
I turned on the shower and stepped into the spray. Hot. Cleansing. Necessary. I scrubbed my skin like I could erase the wildness from the night before, but it was in me now. Permanent.
When I stepped out, he was waiting.
Leaning against the doorframe, towel slung low around his hips, eyes hot and possessive.
My breath caught.
His body was obscene. Cut from stone and heat and something darker.
Broad chest dusted with a light trail of hair that disappeared beneath the towel.
Abs tight and defined, like his entire core had been carved by discipline.
His shoulders were massive, the kind that made you feel small just by standing near them, and his arms—God, his arms—thick with muscle, like he could hold me down without trying.
There was a faded tattoo on his ribcage, black ink curling just under the line of muscle, but I couldn’t read it from here. It only made me want to lean closer. Read the rest. Lick the lines.
The towel sat dangerously low, clinging to the sharp V of his hips, defying gravity and my self-control.
He didn’t flex. Didn’t posture. He didn’t need to. The threat was already written across every inch of his body. But right now, he was watching me—like I was the dangerous one.
“Good morning,” he said.
“I thought you were asleep. ”
“I was.” He pushed off the frame and moved toward me. “Then you left.”
I smiled. “You missed me?”
He didn’t answer. Just kissed me—slow and sweet and utterly devastating. Like a promise. Like an apology. Like he already knew he was in too deep.
We dressed in silence. He handed me a crisp white dress shirt—his, clearly—and I slipped it on, buttoning it halfway and cinching it at the waist with a belt. He watched me the whole time. The way I moved. The way the shirt fell against my hips. The way I rolled the sleeves.
I knew what he was thinking.
Because I was thinking it, too.
It would’ve been so easy to stay in that room. To climb back into bed and let the day pass in a haze of heat and tangled limbs. But he had other plans.
“Hungry?” he asked as he strapped on his watch.
“Starving.”
He grinned. “I know a place.”
I expected high-end. Somewhere discreet and decadent with velvet booths and unspoken rules. But he surprised me.
Again.
The car dropped us in front of a faded stucco building tucked between a pawn shop and a laundromat, with a sun-warped sign that just said Mami’s . The kind of place you’d walk past without noticing unless you knew better.
Ronan knew better.
The second he stepped inside, a chorus of Spanish erupted from behind the counter. A woman no taller than five feet came out from the kitchen and smacked his arm with a dish towel before pulling him into a hug .
“Finally,” she said. “You bring a woman.”
I blinked.
Ronan glanced at me, amused. “Mami, this is Zara.”
The woman turned to me and gave me a once-over that felt like a full-body X-ray. Then she smiled, warm and wide. “Pretty. I like her. Sit. Eat. He always looks angry. Maybe you soften him.”
I smiled, charmed despite myself.
We sat in a booth near the window, the Formica table scratched and the napkin holder lopsided. But the smells—sweet plantains, roasted pork, something spicy and bright—made my stomach growl audibly.
He ordered for both of us, not even looking at a menu.
I studied him across the table. The way he leaned back with one arm draped over the seat. The way the waitress brought our coffees before we even asked. The way he made this dingy little spot feel like a secret worth keeping.
“You come here often?” I asked.
He nodded. “First place I found when I got to Miami. Felt like home.”
I sipped the coffee. Strong. Sweet. Perfect. “You’re not from here.”
“No.”
“But this place—this neighborhood?—”
“It doesn’t ask questions.”
I understood that.
There was something about anonymity. About not being seen too closely. About choosing where to be known and where to stay hidden.
“You like being invisible?” I asked.
He looked at me then, serious. “I like choosing when I’m not. ”
That landed.
We ate slowly, savoring every bite. The food was comfort incarnate—no frills, just flavor. And somehow, that made it feel more intimate than the bath. Than the bed. Than the letter that started it all.
He kept glancing at me between bites, like he couldn’t quite believe I was there.
Like he didn’t want me to disappear.
At one point, our knees touched beneath the table. Neither of us moved.
And then he said it.
“I want to see you in Charleston.”
The words dropped like a stone in my stomach.
Charleston meant reality. Bills and deadlines and the sound of my mom’s voice on the phone, a little too cheerful lately.
She and Dad had been working overtime to keep the nursery running, but I could hear the strain in the background—the missed shipments, the quiet seasons, the help they couldn’t afford to hire.
I hadn’t asked for details, and they hadn’t offered them.
But I could feel it. Like a crack under the surface that might split open if I pressed too hard.
I stiffened. Just barely. But he caught it.
“What?” he asked.
I reached for my water. “It’s just … I don’t know how that would work.”
“Why not?”
I gave a tight laugh. “Because I have a life. A job. A mom who calls every day. A reputation.”
“And I’m what? A secret?”
I met his eyes. “You’re a fantasy.”
He leaned forward, all steel and shadow. “I’m real, Zara.”
“I know. ”
“Then why are you scared?”
I paused. Because I was. And not just of him. Of what he made me feel. Of the way he peeled back every layer I’d built to survive in a world that didn’t know what to do with women like me—sharp and soft, needy and defiant.
“I don’t want to explain you,” I whispered.
“You don’t have to.”
He said it so simply. So surely. Like it could be that easy.
But nothing about this was easy.
“You’re not exactly … mainstream,” I said, trying to keep it light. “You don’t blend.”
He smirked. “I’m not trying to.”
“But in Charleston,” I pressed, “where everyone’s polite to your face and then reports you to the HOA behind your back? Where brunch is a blood sport and bumper stickers are political warfare?”
He raised a brow. “What kind of bumper stickers are we talking?”
I gave him a look. “You know.”
He leaned back. “Ah. The coexist crowd.”
“And I suppose you’re the tactical vest and Punisher skull type?”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t deny it. Just tilted his head and studied me.
“I’ve told you, I’ve read your work, Zara.”
That caught me off guard.
“I know who you are. I know the platforms you write for, the pieces that went viral, the panels you’ve spoken on. Feminist, progressive, sharp as hell. You believe in the system, even when you say you don’t. You want to fix it.”
I blinked .
“You think I came in blind?” he added, voice lower now. “I’ve read your column on institutional corruption. Your takedown of the Florida governor. The one where you called out billionaire tech donors and their ‘libertarian cosplay’—that one was cute.”
My lips parted, speechless.
“I think the world’s a lot uglier than you want to believe,” he said evenly. “And sometimes uglier things are required to keep the worst of it at bay.”
I swallowed. “That’s a very … diplomatic way to say you believe in necessary violence.”
“I believe in balance,” he said. “And in consequences.”
“For who?”
“For people who don’t care about consequences until they’re choking on them.”
There it was.
That flash of something dark and resolute beneath the surface.
A conviction forged in fire. He didn’t wear it like a badge.
He didn’t posture or puff his chest. But it was there.
In the way he cut his steak. In the way his jaw flexed when he talked about people getting away with things they shouldn’t.
I wondered what he’d done. What he’d seen. What kind of justice he believed in.
And whether he’d delivered it with his own two hands.
I picked at the edge of my napkin. “You’re not who I’m supposed to want.”
“But you do.”
The words were a knife to the gut. Not cruel. Not gloating. Just true.
I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t deny it.
He reached across the table again, brushed his fingers over mine. “You think I fit neatly into some box you’ve written about in your columns? Another man with power he shouldn’t have? Another cautionary tale for liberal girls who think love should be safe?”
“That’s not fair.”
He smiled faintly. “No. But it’s accurate.”
I felt the flare of heat rise in my chest—not anger, not exactly. Something closer to shame.
He was reading me too well.
“You’re not a monster,” I said softly.
“But you think I could be.”
“I think you make me question the lines I’ve drawn.”
His eyes darkened. “Good.”
The silence stretched again. But it didn’t feel cold. It felt … clarifying.
Because the truth was, I didn’t want to change him.
I wanted to understand him.
Even if I didn’t agree. Even if I knew he lived in a world I couldn’t survive in.
Maybe especially because of that.
He took a final sip of his coffee and set the mug down with quiet finality.
“I’ve done things you wouldn’t write about,” he said. “Things your readers couldn’t stomach.”
My mouth went dry. “Because they’re violent?”
“Because they’re final.”
I didn’t ask what that meant.
He didn’t offer specifics.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t shrink back.
Because even now—especially now—I felt safer with him than with anyone else.
“You scare me,” I admitted.
He nodded. “Good. ”
“But you also …” I swallowed hard. “Make me feel seen.”
That softened something in his expression.
“You are seen, Zara. Every complicated, messy, brilliant part of you.”
I should’ve argued. Should’ve said he didn’t get to decide that. But the words died on my tongue.
Because the part of me I usually had to quiet—the part that wanted to be owned, not explained—was wide awake now.
And she didn’t want to run.
He rose slowly and offered his hand.
“Come on,” he said. “Let me show you the beach before I lose my nerve and drag you back to bed.”
I took it.
Because for all our differences—for every jagged belief and mismatched worldview—we fit.
Not like puzzle pieces.
Like fire and wind.
Destructive. Alive. Dangerous in the right conditions.
And I was ready to burn.