Chapter Forty-Nine #2
Ronyn meets her gaze without shifting, without filling the space with unnecessary words. There is no pressure in him, no impatience, no demand. Just certainty, like he has already decided what he is willing to offer and does not need her to meet him halfway for it to remain true.
“You don’t have to decide anything right now,” he says, calm and even. “You can walk away. Or you can stay. It doesn’t change what I meant.”
The words are gentle, tender, but they burst through her walls like a godsdamned battering ram. Because he is not trying to win her. He is simply… there. And that… that is hard to deny. Impossible to ignore.
Jax exhales slowly, her arms loosening at her sides as the tension begins to break.
The anger has always been easier. It gives her something to hold onto that feels like power instead of the hollow ache that sits beneath it. Anger sharpens her, makes her untouchable, turns every interaction into something she can win instead of something she can lose.
It has cost her more than she will ever admit out loud.
Friends.
Family.
Allies.
Whatever it is Ronyn keeps trying to be to her.
She knows it. Feels it every time she lashes out and watches something good fracture under her hands.
And still, she reaches for it. Because anger does not ask anything of her.
It does not require trust. It does not leave her exposed.
It is reliable—always there when she reaches for it.
And that certainty is everything to a woman who has felt disposable for so long.
But now? Staring at the unruly chestnut hair, genuine eyes, and sincere lop-sided grin of this man, it does not come when she calls.
Anger does not flare in her chest.
Cruelty does not take root on her tongue.
So all she has left to reach for is neutrality.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” she says.
“It doesn’t have to,” he replies smoothly.
He is not disappointed. Not even surprised by her words. Perhaps he expected them to be harsher, more cutting. And that would be fair. But all that stares back at her is a man grateful for whatever she is capable of giving, and that alone threatens to rip down every wall in a heartbeat.
Her gaze lingers on him a moment longer, then she turns and moves toward the furs laid out in the hollow of the cave. It’s not an outright invitation—she would never. But it’s not a refusal either.
Ronyn follows without comment. Too scared, maybe, or just not stupid.
She lowers herself completely onto the blankets, posture rigid, shoulders tight, every instinct still braced as though she is preparing for impact. She stares at the roof of the cave, awkward, too still.
He doesn’t touch her immediately. He settles beside her first, close enough that she can feel the heat of him, but not so close that it traps her. He gives her space to pull away.
She doesn’t. She simply rolls to her side like she’s not completely opposed to being held.
That is all the permission he needs.
Oh gods.
Ronyn shifts behind her slowly, one arm coming around her waist, the contact light at first, testing, giving her time to resist it if she chooses.
She doesn’t.
Because anger may come when she calls, but maybe it lies, too.
His arm settles more fully, anchoring her without holding her in place. Jax stiffens anyway, her breath catching as every instinct sharpens in response to the closeness.
This is where it changes.
This is where it turns.
She knows this part.
Her fingers press into the blankets beneath her, grounding herself against the urge to twist out of his hold and reclaim something she cannot name.
Ronyn does not tighten his grip. He does not adjust. He simply remains steady behind her, his presence constant and unshaken, like he has no intention of taking anything she does not give.
After a moment, his hand lifts.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His fingers slide into her hair, careful as they move through the strands. Just touching.
The gesture is unhurried. Absent of intent beyond the contact itself. His hand moves again, smoothing through her hair from crown to ends, the repetition gentle, grounding.
Jax’s breath falters.
That is new.
It is real.
And it is godsdamned terrifying.
So for the first time in years, she stops fighting it. Because she knows what she has been doing. She knows what it costs. She knows who it hurts. And now, the cost feels heavier than the risk.
Her breath leaves her slowly. And instead of pulling away… she stays.
Ronyn continues, his fingers threading through her hair again, slower this time, his touch steady, patient, like he understands that this is not something to rush.
There is no joke half-formed on his tongue. No smirk lifting his lips. No theatrical performance.
Just Ronyn.
Like they’ve both decided to place their armor to the side, and reveal themselves.
Gods, she feels naked.
But the tension in her shoulders begins to shift, loosening and melting in a way she has not felt before.
Her body leans back before she fully registers the movement, her weight settling against him as though her instincts have decided before the rest of her can catch up.
He adjusts slightly to support it, his arm firm at her waist, his other hand still moving through her hair, smoothing, steadying, repeating the same quiet rhythm.
Just presence.
Jax exhales, long and uneven, her eyes falling closed as the sensation settles under her skin in a way that feels dangerously close to safety.
Her throat tightens. She swallows against it. It doesn’t hold.
No. Not here. Not now.
But the first tear slips free without warning, tracing hot along her temple before disappearing into her hair.
She stills.
Embarrassment flares sharp and immediate.
“Don’t,” she says, her voice rough.
Ronyn’s hand doesn’t stop.
“Don’t what?”
She shakes her head, the motion small, frustrated.
“Don’t be like this.”
Because if he is, she will not be able to hold the rest in place.
His fingers slow slightly, then continue, just as steady as before. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says quietly.
That is exactly the problem.
The next breath breaks in her chest, uneven and unsteady, and she cannot stop what follows.
The tears come harder this time, pulling something loose in her that she has held rigid for too long. Her hand lifts, gripping his forearm—not to push him away, but to hold onto the solidness of him as everything else shifts.
Ronyn doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
He lets her take what she needs from him without comment, his arm firm around her, his hand still working gently through her hair, grounding her in a way that feels real, honest, solid.
Her shoulders shake once. Then again. The sound she makes is quiet, but it feels louder than anything she could say.
“I don’t…” she starts, her voice catching. “I don’t know how to do this.”
His thumb presses lightly against her arm, a small, steady reassurance. “You do,” he says. “You just need to let yourself.”
She does not know how to be different.
Not really.
The habits are too ingrained, the instincts too sharp, the damage too old to unravel in a single moment.
But she knows this: what she has been doing is not working. It has never worked. And if she keeps going the way she always has, she will lose him. Just like she has lost everything else that ever mattered.
Her fingers tighten slightly against his arm. Holding on. This is not change. Not yet. But it is something.
A decision. Small. Fragile. Dangerous.
She exhales.
And lets herself try.
Something in her finally gives.
Jax leans into him fully then, no hesitation left in the movement, her body seeking the contact instead of resisting it.
Her fingers tighten on his arm. Holding. Taking. And for the first time in longer than she can remember, she lets herself.
Her breath shudders as she exhales, the words slipping out before she can stop them.
“I need you.”
The admission hangs there, fragile and unguarded.
Ronyn stills behind her. He doesn’t pull away, though some part of her expects him to, and he does not tighten his hold. He just steadies, absorbing the weight of it.
Jax swallows, her throat tight, but she forces herself to continue, because if she stops now she will lose the courage to say it at all.
“Make love to me.”
Make love to me.
She has never said those words before. Has never wanted to.
Ronyn stills behind her.
For a moment, he says nothing.
Then, quietly, he says, “Jax…”
There’s hesitation in it. But she knows the kind of man he is. He is man who understands the weight of what she’s asking.
“I don’t think now is the time.”
It’s not a rejection.
She knows it’s care.
It’s him giving her the out she didn’t get before.
Jax exhales, her fingers tightening around his arm as she turns slightly in his hold, enough to look back at him.
“Now is exactly the time.”
Her voice is rough, but steady. There’s no bite in it. No deflection. Just truth.
“We go to war tomorrow,” she says, her gaze holding his, unflinching. “We might not come back from it.”
Ronyn’s jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t try to soften it.
She swallows, her throat working as she forces herself to keep going.
“I have spent my entire life surviving,” she continues. “Enduring. Fighting. Being used. Being careful. Being hard enough that no one could take anything from me again.”
A moment passes.
“And I have never…” she hesitates, the words catching—not because she doesn’t know them, but because she has never said them out loud. “Had something that was mine.”
The silence that follows is different. Not the fragile, tense kind. Just… full.
Her fingers shift against him, grounding herself in the contact.
“I don’t want to die like that,” she says, quieter now. “I don’t want to leave this world having never known what it feels like to… let someone give to me without taking something in return.”
Ronyn watches her carefully. Taking in every nuance of expression on her face. Every awkward movement of her body. Every fear, doubt, and hesitation in her eyes.
Just… seeing her.
Fully.
And she lets him—that might be the most dangerous part.