Chapter 12
Colton
I just had my first kiss, and I still feel lightheaded as I carry Ollie up the stairs after Ronan. My mouth tingles, and my lips feel swollen. Every time I think about the way he kissed me, the way he looked at me before and after, like I was something precious, my stomach flips all over again.
I wonder if he could tell that I had no idea what I was doing.
I’ve seen people kiss on TV, sure, but that’s not the same thing.
TV doesn’t show you what it feels like when someone touches you like they already know they want you.
It doesn’t show you how your knees can go weak from a mouth on yours.
Ronan glances back at me from a few steps ahead, his expression softer than usual.
And just that look is enough to make my pulse start climbing all over again.
I hope I made the right decision coming back.
I want what Ronan is promising me —safety for Ollie and maybe more for me if the kiss was any indication.
I like Ronan and his no-nonsense way. It’s refreshing to me since I have dealt with so many two-faced people.
The Children of the Fallen is full of them.
Preach the gospel according to Prophet Moses, the evils of the world, hell, and brimstone.
Yet they sell babies to the highest bidder.
I should have gone to the authorities. Guilt plants itself deep in my gut.
Ronan enters a bedroom through large double doors. As soon as I enter behind him and look around, I realize this is his bedroom. He places the pack-and-play in the sitting area. I take a look around. It’s not what I pictured for his bedroom.
A large king-sized bed is in the center, with an open wall on both sides behind it. I can see clothes hanging, so that must be his closet. The room has dark, rich wood furniture that matches the bed. It’s masculine with navy and cream colors. Art hangs on the walls that match the decor.
“This is your room,” I state, confused as to why he brought us in here.
“Yes.” He takes Ollie from me, and after a couple of awkward attempts, he gets Ollie laid down. I huff out a short laugh at him. Babies are not his thing, but he seems to be trying.
“Where am I sleeping?” The couch looks comfortable but small.
“In the bed.” He cocks his head, looking at me with confusion written all over his face. My question is not computing in his brain.
“Okay then, where are you sleeping?” I try again.
“In my bed. Where else would I sleep?”
“You want us to share the bed? Like sleep together… in the same bed?” I just had my first kiss. Now he wants me to share his bed.
“Yes.” He starts unbuttoning his shirt. The flush hits me like a tidal wave.
I need to avert my eyes, but I’m transfixed.
When he gets to the last button, he pulls the shirt from his pants.
I have to bite my bottom lip to keep the groan in.
We weren’t allowed a TV in our house, but I hid an app on my phone.
One of my dirty little pleasures was watching romantic movies.
I always thought that move was sexy. Maybe that should have been my clue that I was into guys.
My gaze drifts up his torso. His abs have abs.
Through the open shirt, I can see his well-defined chest. I’m in shape but on the skinny side.
My anxiety ratchets up another notch. There is no way I will be able to undress in front of this Adonis of a man.
I glance at his face, and he has his eyes on me, one eyebrow raised.
“You going to sleep in your clothes?”
“Yes?” I try to say, but it comes out as a question.
“That won’t be comfortable.” Dear God, his shirt is off.
He folds it and places it in a hamper near the back wall.
Who folds their clothes to put them in the hamper?
Ronan, apparently. I bet if I open any drawer on his dresser, it will be neat and color-coded.
That thought takes my attention away from Ronan for a second.
I jump when I realize that he is standing right in front of me. He makes no sound when he moves.
“You can do that, but I’m sure you will be more comfortable without them.”
I swallow hard. “Umm… I have some sleep clothes downstairs; I can, umm… just go get them.”
Ronan turns away from me, and my brain just… stops. I’m not looking at bare skin. I’m looking at ink.
It stretches across his back from shoulder to shoulder, dark against pale skin, and for a second, I can’t even figure out what I’m seeing.
The lines twist and weave into each other, bands crossing over and under in a pattern so precise it almost hurts my eyes to follow.
There’s no clear start, no obvious end. The design loops back on itself again and again, as if it could keep going forever if there were enough space for it.
It isn’t decorative. It feels… deliberate. Like armor he can’t take off.
The knot work spreads across his shoulders and down over his shoulder blades, fitting the width of his back perfectly.
When he moves, the muscles shift beneath it, and the pattern follows him, the heavy lines emphasizing just how strong he actually is.
At the center, between his shoulder blades, the design tightens into a darker, thicker circle — almost like a seal holding the rest of it together. Then I notice the line down his spine.
It’s simple compared to the rest. A straight vertical line running from the base of his neck to his lower back, with short strokes branching off it. They look less like a tattoo and more like marks carved into wood or stone. Older. Intentional in a completely different way.
I step closer before I know what I’m doing.
“What is that?” I ask.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Irish.”
“Okay, but… what is it?” I hover my hand just above his back, my fingers itching to touch him. I’m not sure why I’m hesitant. Ronan doesn’t pull away from me, but touching him still feels like crossing some invisible line.
“The writing,” I say. “The line down your spine.”
“Ogham,” he answers after a second. “Old Irish.”
I swallow. “And what does it say?”
He’s quiet long enough that I think he won’t tell me. Ronan doesn’t hide things, but he doesn’t volunteer them either. For once, he looks… unsure. Not nervous. Just careful.
“Cosaint thar gach rud,” he says in what I assume is Irish. It’s beautiful the way the words fall from his tongue.
“I don’t understand what you just said, but I like how it sounds,” I admit with a grin.
He turns to face me fully, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, and there’s something unshakably serious in his expression, the same look he gets whenever something matters to him.
“Protection above all.”
The words settle heavily in my chest. No wonder he looked at Ollie the way he did. No wonder he looked at me like that.
My gaze drifts past him to the mirror behind him, to the tattoo winding across his back in endless knots with that single line running down his spine, and suddenly all of it clicks into place.
The way he always watches the exits. The way he notices every person around us.
The way his whole body changed when I told him about Ollie.
This isn’t just a tattoo. It’s a promise. A rule he lives by.
And for the first time since I ran, since it became me against the world with Ollie depending on me for everything, I feel something dangerously close to relief loosen the tight knot that’s been living in my chest.
I take the T-shirt Ronan offers me, my fingers brushing his. I don’t feel quite so alone.