Chapter Thirteen
Berkley
What the hell am I doing?
I shouldn’t be here. Not like this. My cover’s already in pieces, shattered the moment Ronan looked at me and didn’t just see me—but recognized me. And still… I haven’t run.
My weakness is what’s keeping me here. The part of me that never really stopped aching for him, that never stopped replaying his voice in my head when the nights got too long and the silence too loud.
Being near him again—his voice, his presence, the way he looks at me like I never left—it’s unraveling all the walls I’ve spent years building.
But maybe this weakness gives me something else too.
An opportunity.
Because now I’m inside the house. Their house. The one they’ve lived in since before everything fell apart. And being here, being close to Ronan, might give me access to the answers I came back for. Specifically, Reign.
I need to know where she is—if she’s safe. But I can’t just ask. Not yet. Not when there’s a real chance Dean’s watching, listening, monitoring every trace of communication like he always did. Asking the wrong question too soon could cost me everything. Could cost her everything.
So, I wait.
And Ronan… he’s waiting too. I can see it in the way he holds himself, that same hesitation coiled tight inside my chest. He isn’t calling his brothers.
He isn’t tearing this open and forcing answers.
He’s just here—suspended in the moment, barely keeping everything together by a thread.
Maybe he wants a few quiet hours before the storm finally hits.
Maybe he doesn’t trust what comes after either.
We circle each other like two wounded animals who remember what it felt like to be whole.
And for now, that’s enough.
For now, I’ll play my role.
Because my heart may still beat for him… but my mission has always been for her.
Ronan takes my hand again—gentler than I expect from someone who burns so hot—and guides me down the hall like muscle memory’s pulling him.
I know this hallway. My feet remember it even if my eyes don’t have time to take in the changes.
It’s familiar in that haunting, aching way, like walking through a dream that’s one breath from turning into a nightmare.
He stops at a door near the end of the hall and opens it without a word.
He doesn’t need to tell me this is his room—the same one he had back then.
I know the second I step inside. The space feels familiar, but changed.
The air is heavier, lived-in, shaped by years that kept moving without me.
It isn’t a boy’s room anymore, but it isn’t erased either.
It’s grown up with him… just like I did once, only apart.
I don’t get the chance to study anything—not the walls, not the furniture, not the fragments of his life that might explain the man standing in front of me now.
The second we cross the threshold, the door shuts behind us, and he steps in close, his body boxing me in, leaving no space to breathe.
He plants an arm on either side of my head and leans in, his gaze never leaving mine. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches back and flips the lock. The click echoes in the room, sounding less like a simple latch and more like a promise… or a warning.
His gaze sharpens, scanning my face as if he’s cataloging every detail. “Your eyes,” he murmurs, voice low, almost thoughtful. “They’re not the same.”
I tense, barely resisting the urge to look away. Of course they’re not. Colored contacts—a necessity for keeping my cover.
He studies them a second longer before he adds, “They used to be blue. Bright. Like the sky right before it turns into a storm.”
His words land in my chest like a strike, sharp and unguarded.
“I liked your eyes the way they were.”
It’s not a complaint. More like a confession. Quiet, nostalgic. Honest in a way that scrapes something raw in me.
“But the hair…” he grins now, a lopsided smirk tugging at his mouth as his eyes flick up to the mess of purple strands framing my face. “It suits you. All wild and chaotic. Like the little pixie you are.”
I grunt in mock annoyance, crossing my arms. “Still calling me small, huh?”
He chuckles, and it’s that deep, rough sound I remember from the late nights we used to spend tangled in blankets and whispering secrets.
“You are small,” he says, leaning in just enough for his breath to tickle my cheek. “But we didn’t coddle you just because of your size.”
I freeze, caught by the meaning behind his words.
He watches the realization settle over me, the truth I hadn’t seen back then. They weren’t gentle with me because I was fragile. They were protective—possessive, even. Not because I was weak… but because I mattered.
I swallow hard, but the lump in my throat doesn’t move.
This room holds more than just memories. So does this boy-turned-man, who now has me caged in with nothing but truth and tension between us.
And I’m not sure which one is more dangerous.
His eyes are on me, steady and unflinching, as if the truth has been building in his chest for years and he’s finally ready to let it out. His voice is low, rough around the edges when he speaks—but there’s no hesitation.
“I waited for you,” he says simply. “All these years… I never gave myself to anyone else.”
The words land like a blow straight to my chest. Not because I ever doubted Ronan was capable of that kind of loyalty—but because I knew he was.
And hearing it out loud, knowing he’s held onto something that pure for so long, something sacred in a world determined to tear us apart…
it cracks me open in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
My lips part, trembling. I try to steady them, to push the emotion back, but it slips out anyway. “It’s only ever been you. All of you,” I whisper, voice catching. “But… Rowen was the first, and last.”
The silence that follows is dense, weighted with disbelief.
It’s written all over his face—the shock, the slow assembling of a truth he never saw coming.
His jaw tightens, then eases, like he’s not just absorbing my words but everything they carry with them.
Then, unexpectedly, a short, breathless laugh slips from him, more stunned than amused.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Figures.” My brows draw together, confused, but before I can ask, he looks back at me with that crooked smirk that always meant trouble.
“Rowen’s been keeping a secret,” he says, voice dropping into something conspiratorial.
“All these years, I’ve wondered… and now I know. ”
“What are you talking about?” I ask cautiously.
He steps closer, eyes glinting with a mix of amusement and heat. “That’s partly how I knew it was you,” he says. “When I saw your fight. When I heard you. My body knew before my brain did.”
I blink. “What?”
Ronan shrugs one shoulder, unabashed. “Haven’t gotten hard for another woman since you disappeared, Berk. Not once. Not even a twitch.”
I blink again. “You’re serious.”
He just nods, like it’s the most natural confession in the world. “It’s always been you. My body never forgot.”
The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—sharp, startled, and a little disbelieving. “So, what you’re saying… is that a boner gave me away?”
He grins now, wide and wicked. “Dead giveaway.”
I shake my head, laughing harder this time, the weight between us lifting just enough to let the warmth in. Of course he would say that. Of course, that’s what gave me away. Leave it to Ronan to make something so simple feel like a declaration of devotion.
And somehow, I love him even more for it.
My fingers grip the front of his shirt, slowly curling into the fabric as I tug him toward me—not forcefully, just enough to close the space that’s been stretching between us for years.
His eyes lock on mine, searching, raw and unreadable.
I search back, hoping my gaze says everything my mouth is too afraid to speak.
We’re both searching for something in the other—some fragment of what we were, a hint of what might still be possible, some anchor in the chaos that’s been dragging us under.
Our foreheads meet, breaths blending, skin pressed to skin. My nose brushes his, slow and gentle, and the tight coil in my chest loosens just a fraction.
“I love you,” I whisper, the words slipping from my lips like a confession I’ve carried too long. My voice trembles, but I don’t pull back. “If you can forgive me…” I pause, letting the weight of it settle between us. “I’ll love you forever.”
I failed to protect her, and I stayed silent for years.
I don’t explain what I mean. I don’t have to. Not yet. There’s too much we both don’t say. Too many truths are fractured into different versions of the same story.
But none of it matters in this moment.
Before he can speak—before he can ask the questions I’m not ready to answer—I rise to my toes and slam my mouth to his, silencing the words before they ever form.
His breath catches against mine for a heartbeat, then he responds—completely, fiercely—like he’s been holding this in for just as long as I have.
Between kisses, I mumble against his lips, “There’ll be time for words tomorrow…”
His answer comes not in speech, but in the way his hands grip my waist, in the way his mouth devours mine like it’s the only truth he needs tonight.
Because if there’s anything we’ve both learned in this life, it’s that moments like this are rare. And when they come, you hold on to them with everything you have.
My fingertips graze the hem of his shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin is warm and tense under my touch, a map of muscle and memory I trace with reverence. He watches me like I’m something sacred, like he’s terrified if he blinks, I’ll vanish again.