26. Wren #2
He watches me for a second too long. His smile fades, replaced by something unreadable. Something flat. Blank.
“I used to think you were just shy,” he says, voice softer now, as though trying to lure me in. “But maybe you just like your men with sharper edges. The kind who could break you.”
The room tilts. The lights hum too loud. My skin crawls as unbidden memories threaten to rear up and pull me under. My breath catches. The silence between us stretches. I’m acutely aware of the fact that we are alone in here.
And that I’m spiraling, losing control.
He leans forward slightly, head tilting.
“Just make sure you know which ones are holding you together…and which ones are pulling you apart.”
I flinch like he’s struck me.
It’s not his words that affect me, though. It’s his proximity. The dark room. The fact we’re alone, that no one would hear me scream...
My eyes dart to the door, to the rack of weights, to the narrow space between us that feels smaller with every breath I take. He hasn’t touched me. He hasn’t raised his voice. But I’m trapped all the same.
My breathing is ragged, my heart beating wildly in my chest.
I need to get out of here.
I don’t remember moving. One second, I’m frozen; the next, my legs are carrying me toward the exit like they’ve decided for me.
The door handle is slick in my sweaty palm.
For a second, I fumble it. I actually fumble it.
Grabbing at it again, I throw open the door as I hurry into the hallway.
The air feels thinner out here. Colder. I suck in a breath as I try to steady myself.
Before I crash right into someone.
Large hands catch me instantly, steadying me. The grip on my arms is solid and sure, fingers warm where they close around my biceps, like he’s bracing me against the world.
“Whoa—hey.” Ronan’s voice. Concern and surprise wrapped into one.
I blink up at him. His face tightens immediately when he sees mine, his gaze dropping to my hands. He takes everything in. My breathing. The way I’m shaking.
“What happened?” His hand is still on my arm, the other hovering like he’s not sure whether to touch my face or pull me into him.
“Nothing.” My voice is small. Shaky. I clear my throat. “I’m fine. Just…startled.”
His jaw flexes. “Did someone—”
“No,” I cut in too fast. “I just—I’m okay.”
He searches my eyes, not believing me, but he doesn’t push.
He lets out a low breath, one arm wrapping around my shoulders and the other settling at my waist as he pulls me firmly into his chest like he’s drawing a protective circle around me.
With my ear pressed against his pec, I can hear his heartbeat. Feel the steady rise and fall of his breath. It’s slow. Controlled.
“It’s alright, Little Serpent,” he murmurs. “You’re with me now.”
His hand strokes slowly down my spine, grounding me. He doesn’t ask questions or make demands. He’s all quiet reassurance and steady breath, and the kind of safety you don’t realize you’ve been craving until it’s wrapped around you.
And just like that, the panic starts to ease, burned out by the steady warmth of him, by the way he doesn’t flinch from me, doesn’t press, doesn’t run. Just stays. Solid, unmoving, and safe.
“Come on, let’s get out of here. I was just thinking a slice of pie at the diner in town sounded like the perfect end to the day.”
Throwing my head back, my laugh is loud and unfiltered. “I can’t believe your mother thought a five-year-old would eat escargot.”
“Right? The look on her face when I threw a complete tantrum in front of all her guests. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so embarrassed.” His laugh is as deep and carefree as my own.
We’re at a quiet diner on the outskirts of town. It’s late, with only a trucker occupying a booth near the windows, and two college students sitting in the far corner arguing over a laptop. A radio plays from behind the counter.
Ronan sits across from me in a booth in his puffy jacket and jeans, watching me with a glint of amusement and slight lift to his lips, like he can’t look away.
After I basically crashed into him in my escape from Isaac, he brought me here, and I have to admit, it’s the best thing he could have done.
Instead of going home to ruminate over what happened, I’ve managed to put it behind me.
Isaac was in a bad mood after today, and it was a situation of ‘wrong place, wrong time’.
“I like that laugh,” I tell him quietly. “It’s not like the one you gave donors at that charity event, or fans at games.” My lips lift. “It feels more real.”
“When I’m around you, I feel more myself. I’m not putting on an act or playing it up for the cameras. I’m just me.”
I nod, understanding completely.
“I like the real you.”
He flashes me a white-toothed grin.
“I like the real you, too, Wren.” His eyes drop briefly to my lips. “I like you a lot. There’s an authenticity around you that’s rarely found in our world.”
A smile stretches across my lips, the two of us sharing a brief moment over pie.
“How did your mother react when you told her you wanted to be a hockey player?” I ask, changing the subject.
He laughs, but there’s a cold edge to it. It’s nothing like his laugh from a moment ago. That one I like, this one…not so much.
“As you can surmise, she wasn’t happy.”
“Let me guess, she expected you to follow in her footsteps.”
“Yup. Law school followed by my own prosperous political career—which of course would all be thanks to her and her reputation.”
“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “She must be proud of you, though? You’re one of the top college players in the country. You could have your pick of NHL teams.”
He scoffs. “Oh yeah, she’s proud.” Except, he says it as though she’s not really. “She was just more excited about how it would help her campaign.”
My nose scrunches in distaste. “Always all about the optics.”
“Yeah,” he sighs. “You get it.”
I nod, a comfortable silence lapsing between us.
“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asks, coming over to check on us.
“We’re good, thanks,” Ronan responds before taking a bite of his apple pie. “What was it like growing up in your household?” he asks, shifting the focus away from him. Unfortunately, I don’t have anything more uplifting to say.
I shrug, pushing a bit of pie around my plate.
“Much of the same, really. Carson was the golden boy. The one who was supposed to inherit the team and continue the family name.”
“And you?” Ronan asks, curiously.