Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Lila led him through the back door and into the house she'd grown up in.
The kitchen was dark except for the light over the stove, the one her mother always left on. She didn't turn on anything else. Didn't need to. She knew this house by heart—every creaking floorboard, every shadow.
Ronan's hand was warm in hers as she pulled him through the living room, past the photos on the mantel, past her father's reading chair. She didn't look at any of it. Not tonight.
Tonight was for the living.
Her bedroom was at the end of the hall. She'd redecorated it years ago, but some things remained. The window overlooked the backyard. The ceiling fan that wobbled on high speed. The bed where she'd spent so many nights staring at the ceiling, wondering if she was losing her mind.
She wasn't. She'd never been.
Ronan stood in the doorway, watching her.
"You okay?"
"No." She turned to face him. "But I don't want to think anymore. I just want to feel."
He crossed the room in three steps and kissed her.
Not gentle. Not careful. The kind of kiss that consumed, that demanded, that left no space for tomorrow or the FBI or the men who would be arrested at dawn. His hands cupped her face, tilting her head back, and she opened for him, tasting the desperation that matched her own.
She grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer. Felt the heat of his body through the fabric, the rapid beat of his heart against her palms. He walked her backward until her legs hit the edge of the bed, and then he stopped.
"Lila." His voice was rough.
She pulled his shirt over his head. Ran her hands across his chest, feeling the planes of muscle, the ridges of old scars. He sucked in a breath when her fingers found a sensitive spot along his ribs.
"Your turn," he said, and reached for her blouse.
He undressed her slowly. Blouse first, then bra, his mouth following his hands—pressing kisses to her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the soft skin of her stomach. She arched into him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, heat pooling low in her belly.
"Ronan."
"I've got you."
He unzipped her pants and slid them down her legs, her underwear with them. She stood naked before him. She felt powerful and provocative. The way he looked at her—like she was everything—made her feel invincible.
She reached for his belt. Unbuckled it. Unzipped his jeans and pushed them down, freeing him. He was hard, and when she wrapped her hand around his length, he groaned against her neck.
"Bed," he managed. "Now."
They fell onto the mattress together. He settled over her, his weight braced on his forearms, his hips pressing between her thighs. She could feel him against her, sliding through her wetness, and she lifted her hips, trying to take him in.
"Not yet." He kissed her jaw, her throat, the spot behind her ear. "I want to taste you first."
He moved down her body. Pressed his mouth to her breast, sucking her nipple until she gasped. Then lower, kissing across her stomach, her hip, the inside of her thigh.
When his mouth found her center, she cried out.
His tongue traced her folds, slow and deliberate. He circled her clit with maddening precision, building pressure until she was writhing beneath him, her hands fisted in the sheets.
"Ronan—please—"
He slid two fingers inside her, curling them against the spot that made her see stars. His mouth never stopped, sucking and licking while his fingers moved in a rhythm that had her climbing fast.
The orgasm crashed through her. She arched off the bed, thighs clamping around his head, wave after wave rolling through her body. He didn't stop until she was trembling, until she pushed at his shoulders because it was too much.
He kissed his way back up, his lips wet with her.
"I need you inside me."
He reached for his jeans on the floor and pulled a condom from his wallet. She helped him roll it on. The guttural sound that came from his throat sent a rush through her.
He positioned himself at her entrance.
"Look at me," he said.
She met his eyes. Dark. Intent. Full of something she'd spent her whole life looking for.
He pushed inside.
The stretch was perfect. She was still sensitive, every nerve alive, and feeling him fill her completely made her gasp. He held still, giving her time, his forehead pressed to hers.
"Okay?"
"Yes."
He moved. Slow at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Long, deep strokes that made her moan. She wrapped her legs around his waist, changing the angle, and he cursed under his breath.
She silenced him with a kiss. Didn't need words. Just needed this—his body moving with hers, the friction building, the connection that went deeper than skin.
He picked up the pace. The bed creaked beneath them. She matched his rhythm, her hips rising to meet each thrust, her nails raking down his back. He hissed at the sting but didn't slow down.
"I'm close," she breathed.
He shifted, reached between them. Found her clit and rubbed in tight circles while he drove into her.
The second orgasm hit harder than the first. She cried his name, her body clenching around him, pulling him deeper. He thrust twice more, three times, and then he came too, his whole body shuddering, his face buried in her neck.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
His heart was still racing. So was hers.
Later, the ceiling fan turned lazy circles above them while Lila traced the map of scars on Ronan's chest.
"You’ve resisted talking about things," she murmured. "About staying. About the risks."
"I have?"
She propped herself up on one elbow. "About the syndicate and the possibility of targets on our backs."
"And?"
"And I've had a target on my back since the day I started investigating. The only difference now is that I'm not alone." She held his gaze. "I'm not asking you to protect me, Ronan. I'm asking you to stay."
"Those might be the same thing."
"They're not." She laid her palm flat against his chest, felt his heart beating steadily beneath her hand. "Protecting me means keeping me safe. Staying means building something. A life. Together."
He covered her hand with his. "That's what I want."
"Then stop warning me about the dangers and start planning the future."
His nostrils flared, his eyes held her motionless. The operative calculating risks gave way to something softer. Something hopeful.
"What kind of future?"
"I don't know yet. But I know it starts tomorrow." She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Almost midnight. "Warren was supposed to give the keynote at the dedication ceremony. Talk about legacy and sacrifice and what it means to build something that lasts."
"He won't be giving that speech now."
"No. Someone else will have to." She paused. "I'm thinking it should be me."
Ronan's eyebrows rose. "You?"
"I'm the event coordinator. And after tomorrow, everyone's going to know what Warren did.
What Fielding did. What's been happening in this town for thirty years.
" She pulled the pillow over her face and held it there, breathing into the cotton, until the urge to scream passed.
"They're going to need someone to tell them it's okay.
That Blossom Springs is more than the people who corrupted it. "
"Do you believe that?"
She thought about it. Really thought about it—not the anger she'd been carrying, not the grief, but what she actually believed about the place she'd lived her whole life.
"My father believed it," she said. "He loved this town. Loved the people in it. That's why he couldn't look away when he saw something wrong." She took a breath. "I want to believe what he believed. That the truth matters. That doing the right thing matters, even when it costs you."
Ronan lifted her hand from his chest and pressed his lips to her palm.
"He'd want to hear that speech," he said. "If he could."
Not, he'd be proud of you. Not a sentiment wrapped in a bow. Just a simple truth that hit her harder than any platitude could have.
Her eyes burned. She blinked it back.
"Yeah," she said. "I think he would."
She slept in fits.
Dreams she couldn't hold on to—her father's face, Warren's voice, the sound of handcuffs clicking shut. She'd surface into consciousness, feel Ronan's warmth beside her, and sink back down into restless darkness.
At four a.m., she gave up.
She lay in the gray stillness, listening to Ronan breathe, cataloging the aches in her body. The pleasant soreness between her legs. The tender spots on her neck where his stubble had scraped. The rawness in her chest that had nothing to do with physical touch.
In two hours, Warren Caldwell would be arrested.
In two hours, the man who killed her father would be in handcuffs.
She should feel triumphant. Vindicated. Instead, she felt hollow. Like something had been scooped out of her, leaving only the shell behind.
Ronan stirred beside her.
"You're awake."
"Couldn't sleep."
"Nervous?"
"I don't know what I am." She rolled onto her side to face him. In the darkness, she could barely make out his features—the line of his jaw, the shadow of his eyes. "I thought I'd feel different. When this moment finally came."
"How did you think you'd feel?"
"Relieved. Satisfied. Something." She reached out and touched his face. "Instead, I just feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop."
His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
They both went still.
Ronan reached for it, checked the screen. His expression changed—tightened—and Lila's stomach dropped.
"What is it?"
"Mitch." He read the message, then read it again. "Fielding's house is dark. His cruiser's gone. Mitch drove by twenty minutes ago on his way to the parade staging area."
"What does that mean?"
"It means either he's at the station early, or—" Ronan was already typing a response.
"Or he knows."
"Or he knows."
Lila sat up, her heart pounding. The hollow feeling was gone, replaced by something sharper. Fear. Adrenaline.
"What do we do?"
Ronan's phone buzzed again. He read the message, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
"Caleb tracked Fielding's phone. He's at the station. Pulled in fifteen minutes ago." Ronan let out a breath. "Fielding chose to show up rather than run because running confirms guilt. He’s likely hoping Caldwell’s network will protect him."
"Or he's destroying evidence."
"If he had evidence to destroy, he would have done it weeks ago." Ronan set down the phone. "The FBI knows where he is. They'll pick him up at six with everyone else."
Lila's hands were shaking. She pressed them flat against her thighs, trying to still the tremor.
“How would he know? The time, I mean.”
“He’d have access to search warrants, and he’d recognize all the names, including his.”
“Why wouldn’t he skip town?”
“That makes him look guilty.”
“He is guilty.”
“We know that. I suspect he’s still hoping Caldwell, or the powers that be, will protect him.”
Lila took a deep breath. "I can't just lie here. I can't just wait."
"Then we won't." Ronan swung his legs out of bed. "Caleb has surveillance feeds at the hotel. Every arrest, every location. If you want to watch it happen, we can be there."
"Yes." The word came out before she could think. "I need to see it. I need to know."
They dressed in the gray light filtering through the curtains. Lila pulled on yesterday's clothes—wrinkled blouse, creased pants—and didn't care. Her hands were steadier now, purpose replacing panic.
Five fifteen. Forty-five minutes until the world changed.
She paused at the bedroom door and looked back at the bed. The tangled sheets. The indent in the pillow where Ronan's head had rested. The room where she'd spent so many nights alone with her suspicions and her grief.
After today, nothing would be the same.
"Lila." Ronan was waiting in the hallway. "You ready?"
She took one last look. Let herself feel the weight of the moment—not just the fear, but the hope underneath it. The possibility that, after five years of darkness, something like light might finally be breaking through.
"Let's go watch them burn," she said.
They walked out into the predawn stillness together, toward whatever came next.