4. Ronan
RONAN
The Winslows throw a gala like they run a team: with money, precision, and just enough shine to distract from the blood on the ice.
Their team’s charity events are always the most talked-about social events of the season.
I’d roll my eyes, but they do raise a significant amount of money for the local children’s hospital.
The ballroom of the Elsinore is all marble and mirrored walls, with vaulted ceilings carved in gold-leaf latticework.
Crystal chandeliers drip from above like glass rain, and the air smells like money—aged scotch, perfume with French names, and the kind of polished silence only the truly rich can afford.
Every table is dressed in black linen, crowned with white orchids and tall, flickering candles.
A jazz quartet plays something smooth in the corner while servers in black gloves circle the room with trays of champagne and amuse-bouches I couldn’t name if I tried. Not that I care to.
I sip on my top-shelf whiskey as my eyes roam the room, cataloging everything.
I’ve been here for twenty-two minutes. Long enough to be paraded past donors, photographers, and three different people who have congratulated me on my deal with the Serpents.
I shake their hands. Say the right things.
Smile like I mean it. It’s all muscle memory now, every PR drill and critical comment my parents ever shoved down my throat playing on repeat in my head.
But I’m not here for them.
I’m here for her.
Gwendolyn Winslow.
I don’t know for certain that she’s going to show, but I’m fairly confident of it.
There’s a reason her parents have pulled her back into this life.
From everything I dug up on her, it appears as though she worked hard to remove herself from the public eye as a Winslow.
So why would she step back into this life now?
All I can think of is that it has something to do with her brother.
It was national news when he became a rookie player for his family’s team.
As far back as I can remember, it was always assumed that he would take over for his father some day.
I’m guessing his career pivot has left the family reeling and pulling their daughter back into the fold to take his place—whether or not it’s what she wants.
It doesn’t explain why she’s at Valehurst though. Either she’s here because her parents decided it, or because she has her own agenda…or a little bit of both. Either way, I’m going to find out.
As though thinking of her summoned her, Gwendolyn walks into the ballroom like she’s being led to slaughter.
Her posture doesn’t falter—shoulders back, chin high—but I can see it in the tight line of her mouth.
The stiffness in her fingers. She’s in an elegant black gown.
All clean lines, with a high neckline and a slit up one side.
Expensive and minimally simplistic. The kind of dress chosen to look powerful without standing out from the crowd.
But her eyes…they’re the tell.
Sharp. Cutting. Taking in the room like a general surveying the battlefield. It’s not nerves I see there; it’s strategy. Calculating every move. Ensuring you stay one step ahead of everyone else in the room. I recognize it because it’s exactly how I move through the world.
And maybe that’s what gets me. Not the dress, or the heels.
Not the lips painted in defiance of everything else about her that says, don’t look at me.
It’s the knowing. The fight buried under all that polish.
The quiet challenge, as if she’s daring the world to underestimate her—and sharpening the blade for when it does.
I step behind a column so I can continue watching her without drawing attention.
People start to notice her arrival, crowding around and shaking her hand.
Her parents descend like vultures, tugging her forward like a show pony as they introduce her to donors, old family friends, and men twice her age with wandering eyes.
The entire time, I watch her. She doesn’t speak much.
Doesn’t drink from the champagne glass clutched in one hand like a shield.
She’s perfectly poised, smile picture perfect in its fakeness as she shakes hands with the latest group of donors her parents have dragged her into. The only outward tell of her discomfort is the repeated motion as she twists the ring on her left index finger.
Eventually, her parents drift toward mine. Knocking back the last of the amber liquid in my glass, I place it on a passing waiter’s tray before making my way over.
“Ah, here’s my son, now,” my mother states, noticing my approach. “He’s also a senior at Valehurst. You may be acquainted with him since he’s the captain of the hockey team, and of course, will be starting with the Serpents in the fall.”
Oh, how my mother loves to brag publicly about my ‘achievements’. Yet, behind closed doors, I’m a disappointment for choosing to be a numb-skulled jock instead of going into politics like my parents.
“Yes, my husband and I had the pleasure of meeting him this summer while he was training at our satellite facility in Springview,” Winifred, Gwendolyn’s mother, responds sweetly.
She’s got the same features as her daughter—same auburn hair except hers is pulled back into a strict bun while Gwendolyn’s runs loose and free down her back, same button nose, and honey-brown eyes.
However, Winifred’s run over me like I’m an opportunity, an asset to be obtained.
Meanwhile, Gwendolyn refuses to meet my stare at all.
She’s gone stiff beside her mother, her glare drilling a hole in the floor at her feet.
“Darling, why don’t you take Gwendolyn for a spin around the dance floor?” my mother offers, turning toward me with a practiced smile and a sharp glint in her eyes.
Gwendolyn seems to stop breathing. Her chest stills, and if possible, her spine becomes even more rigid.
“What a wonderful idea,” her mother preens, clasping her hands before practically shoving her daughter in my direction. “Go on, Gwendolyn. Don’t be rude.”
Despite the pressure from both of our parents, Gwendolyn’s red-stained lips part. Before she can voice her protests, I cut in smoothly. “Miss Winslow.”
I hold out my hand, expectantly. I know I’m putting her in a corner. Pinning her between a rock and a hard place. That’s precisely my intention—to leave her with no other option but to accept.
She stares at my hand like it’s a snake about to strike, still refusing to meet my gaze.
“Take my hand, Wren.”
At the soft coaxing of my voice, those honey-brown eyes of hers snap to mine, and what I see in them knocks the air from my lungs. Fire—so much fire—but buried beneath the burning embers is something much more vulnerable. Fear.
It freezes me momentarily. Given everything she has survived, it’s understandable, and yet something about that fear, that fire, feels…personal.
I search those eyes, pushing deeper, craving answers to questions that I have no right asking, and yet I am.
I’ve spent three years asking myself these questions.
Questions I never thought I’d get answers to.
And now she’s right in front of me, but it’s not as simple as outright asking.
It’s clear from the way she moves, the way she scans a room, that there is trauma there.
Demons that she carries. I’m not about to make that worse.
The opposite, in fact. I want to help her.
That’s all I’ve ever wanted.
Since the moment I saw her that night.
As if sensing I’ve seen too much, she wrenches her gaze away. With a bolstering breath, she practically smacks her hand into mine. My lips twitch, enjoying laying witness to her inner strength as I tighten my fingers around hers and lead her to the dance floor.
The ballroom hums around us, polished and golden, while the string quartet plays something soft and classical. The dance floor is crowded with people, but when I guide Wren into the swirl, it feels like the air shifts around us.
Her back is rigid beneath my hand. Her fingers occasionally twitch in mine.
She’s not relaxed—far from it—but she doesn’t pull away either.
There’s heat where our bodies touch, even through layers of expensive fabric.
She smells like something soft and complicated.
Vanilla, maybe. A little citrus. A little bite.
I move slowly, giving her a rhythm to anchor to, and after a few careful steps, she falls into sync.
However, she doesn’t allow her body to relax and flow with the music.
Her every step is practiced, controlled.
Just like everything else about her. Everything about Wren Winslow is wound tight, like a spring that’s about to give. A volcano about to blow.
A few beats pass in silence, and I let them, using the opportunity to soak her in while she looks everywhere and anywhere but at me.
She’s stunning. Anyone with eyes can see that, but that’s not what holds me.
It’s the contradiction.
The strength in the way she holds her chin high, and the fragility in the way her breath catches when I pull her a fraction closer. The fire in her eyes…and the shadows just beneath them.
She’s all sharp edges and soft fractures, but the way she angles her body like she’s ready to bolt if I make one wrong move? The flicker of something in her eyes every time I shift my grip?
Gwendolyn Winslow is afraid.
She hides it well. Dresses it up in confidence, but it’s there for those who care to look close enough.
She’s scared of me…and I hate how much I want to prove she shouldn’t be.