Chapter Twenty-Five — You Still Want Me
RONAN
Ronan should have been thinking about Saint.
Nathan. Detective Vance. The five names written inside a notebook that should never have connected to each other.
The anonymous account that had apparently spent months talking to both Nathan and Elliot while one man watched and the other killed.
Any one of those things deserved every functioning part of his brain.
Instead, Ronan was staring at Elliot’s throat.
The bruise Nathan had left there was darkening.
Finger-shaped shadows pressed into pale skin beneath his jaw, ugly against the softness everyone associated with Elliot Mercer.
His damp hair curled slightly at the ends.
His black shirt hung loose enough that one side had slipped toward his collarbone.
Ronan stared. Then realized he was staring.
Then became furious with himself for staring. Elliot noticed. Of course he fucking noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Elliot’s mouth twitched. Ronan pointed at him.
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is innocent.”
“Your face is literally the least trustworthy thing about you.”
That smile grew. Small. Pretty. Dangerous now that Ronan understood what could exist behind it.
Maybe it had always been dangerous. That was the problem.
Ronan looked away. The kitchen was a disaster.
A broken glass had been swept into a pile near the wall.
One cabinet remained open from the struggle.
Blood had been cleaned from the hallway, but Ronan could still see the faint pink smear someone had missed near the bottom of the stairs.
Nathan’s blood. Elliot’s knuckles. His own arm.
Too many things had happened in too few hours.
“You should sleep,” Elliot said.
Ronan laughed.
“Sure.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“So are you.”
“I’m fine.”
Ronan looked at him. Elliot paused.
“Bad word choice.”
“Very.”
Silence settled again. Elliot stood on the opposite side of the island.
He had been doing that since Vance left.
Keeping furniture between them. Keeping distance.
Waiting for Ronan to decide what happened next.
It was so unlike him that Ronan almost hated it.
Elliot had spent their entire relationship taking.
Space. Attention. Kisses. Control. He crowded Ronan when jealous.
Bit when words failed him. Put his hands wherever he wanted and looked almost offended whenever Ronan reminded him that other people existed.
Now he stood six feet away like Ronan might shatter if he came closer. Ronan hated that more.
“Why are you over there?”
Elliot frowned.
“What?”
“You’ve been standing on the other side of the kitchen for ten minutes.”
“I’m giving you space.”
“I didn’t ask for space.”
“You said earlier—”
“I know what I said.”
Elliot went quiet. Ronan exhaled. This was impossible.
He wanted Elliot close. He wanted Elliot gone.
He wanted to grab him. He wanted to ask five hundred more questions.
He wanted to forget every answer he had already received.
None of those things canceled the others. That was apparently his life now.
“Come here.”
Elliot didn’t move. Ronan stared.
“Seriously?”
“You’re angry.”
“Yes.”
“You’re confused.”
“Yes.”
“You might turn me in tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
Elliot swallowed.
“And you want me closer.”
Ronan’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Something changed in Elliot’s expression. Not triumph. That would have pissed Ronan off. Hope. That was worse. He came around the island slowly. Stopped two feet away. Still too far. Ronan looked at him.
“Closer.”
Elliot stepped forward. One foot between them now. Ronan could smell his soap. Feel the heat of him. See the tiny split in his lower lip from Nathan’s fist. His stomach tightened. Wrong fucking reaction. Or maybe not. That was what Ronan no longer understood.
“You almost killed him.”
Elliot’s face changed.
“Yes.”
“For cutting me.”
“Yes.”
“You would’ve done it.”
“Yes.”
No hesitation. Ronan looked at the bruises across Elliot’s knuckles.
“Even with police coming upstairs.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“I know.”
Ronan almost complained about the phrase. Didn’t. Because this time Elliot did know. He simply didn’t care.
“Would you have regretted it?”
Elliot looked directly at him.
“No.”
Ronan’s pulse jumped. There should have been disgust. Maybe there was.
Somewhere. Buried beneath everything else.
But there was something uglier beside it.
Heat. Ronan hated that. He hated Elliot for putting it there.
He hated himself more for recognizing it.
Elliot noticed the change. His eyes dropped briefly toward Ronan’s mouth.
Then immediately lifted again. He didn’t move.
That restraint felt more intimate than touching. Ronan whispered:
“Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Waiting.”
Elliot frowned.
“I thought that was what you wanted.”
“I don’t know what I want.”
“That makes two of us.”
“No.”
Ronan stepped closer. Elliot went still.
“You always know what you want.”
Silence.
“Yes.”
“What do you want right now?”
Elliot’s eyes dropped again. This time he didn’t hide it.
“You.”
The answer moved straight through Ronan. Fuck. He looked away. Elliot didn’t touch him. Still waiting. Ronan’s heart beat harder.
“You find this funny?”
“No.”
“You look like you do.”
“I’m trying very hard not to look like anything.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently my face is incriminating.”
Despite everything, Ronan laughed. One short breath. Elliot smiled. Then Ronan looked at his throat again. The bruise. His anger returned.
“Nathan put his hands on you.”
Elliot’s smile disappeared.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t like it.”
“I noticed.”
“I mean before the knife.”
Elliot stared. Ronan continued.
“When he had you against the wall.”
Something dark moved through Elliot’s expression.
“You were scared.”
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
“I was angry.”
“You were scared when he talked about me.”
That landed. Elliot looked away. Ronan reached up. Stopped before touching the bruise.
“Can I?”
Elliot looked at his hand. Then him.
“Yes.”
Ronan touched carefully. Elliot inhaled.
Not pain exactly. Something else. Ronan traced the edge of one bruise with his thumb.
Nathan’s fingerprints. Someone else’s claim temporarily written across Elliot’s skin.
The thought made something vicious move through Ronan.
He hated it. He understood Elliot a little more because of it. He hated that most.
“You’re doing it,” Elliot whispered.
“What?”
“Looking at me like that.”
“How?”
Elliot swallowed beneath Ronan’s thumb.
“Like you want to hurt whoever touched me.”
Ronan stared.
“Maybe I do.”
Elliot’s pupils widened. There. That reaction. Ronan knew that one. His hand remained around Elliot’s throat. Loose. Careful. Nothing like Nathan. Elliot leaned into it anyway. Ronan’s stomach tightened.
“Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Yes.”
“At four thirty in the morning after confessing to five murders.”
“Yes.”
“After somebody tried to kill us.”
“Yes.”
“After my parents found out.”
Elliot’s mouth twitched.
“That part might actually be helping.”
Ronan laughed. Then Elliot laughed. Then neither was laughing. Because Ronan’s hand was still around his throat. Because Elliot had stepped closer without either of them acknowledging it. Because their bodies were touching now. Barely. Enough. Ronan could feel Elliot breathing.
“You’re fucked up,” Ronan whispered.
“I know.”
“So am I apparently.”
Elliot’s expression softened.
“No.”
“Don’t.”
“What?”
“Don’t make me better than you because you’re afraid I’ll leave.”
Elliot went still. Ronan tightened his fingers slightly. Not enough to hurt. Enough to make Elliot look at him.
“I lied to Vance.”
“Yes.”
“Three times.”
“Yes.”
“I hid evidence for you.”
“Yes.”
“I know you killed five people.”
Elliot’s breathing changed.
“And I’m still standing here.”
“Yes.”
The word barely existed. Ronan stared at him. There it was. The thing neither wanted to say. The thing Ronan had been avoiding since the storage room. Knowing had changed everything. Except this. The wanting. That remained. Maybe it was worse now. That realization frightened him. Elliot whispered:
“You still want me.”
Not a question. Ronan’s jaw tightened.
“Don’t sound so happy about it.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You’re failing.”
“I know.”
Ronan’s thumb moved along Elliot’s jaw. Elliot closed his eyes.
That tiny surrender did something terrible to him.
Everyone thought Elliot was sweet. Everyone thought he was harmless.
Everyone thought Ronan was the dangerous one.
Only Ronan knew what lived beneath the pretty face.
And Elliot was standing here offering that hidden thing to him.
Not the mask. Not the killer. Him. All of him.
“You should hate me,” Elliot whispered.
Ronan’s hand tightened.
“I’m working on it.”
Elliot opened his eyes.
“Try harder.”
Ronan kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. Maybe it should have been.
After the night they had survived, after the confession, after the blood and police and lies, maybe tenderness would have made more sense.
Ronan didn’t want tenderness. Apparently neither did Elliot.
Elliot kissed him back immediately, one hand gripping Ronan’s shirt before abruptly stopping himself.
Ronan felt it. The hesitation. He pulled back.
“What?”
Elliot’s breathing was uneven.
“Your arm.”
“It’s fine.”
“And you said—”
“I know what I said.”
“You might regret this.”
“Probably.”
Elliot’s face fell. Ronan caught his jaw.
“That wasn’t me telling you to stop.”
Hope again. Dangerous fucking thing.
“Ronan.”
“What?”
“Tell me what you want.”