#Chapter1

Ronan Elmore had never really understood the expression 'the calm before the storm' until the rocky atmosphere that saturated the candle-lit dining room seemed to crystalize beneath the withering look Adam Lang flung towards him.

Everything seemed to fall into a suspended timewarp; the spears of illumination that stabbed between them seemed to cease their wild dance, and the air thickened, swelling under the slow-burning emotions that simmered in the other man's eyes. It had Ronan swallowing hard. Had him considering that perhaps, that just maybe, he'd gone too far this time.

Adam didn't speak. He didn't have to. The message was very clear: don't say another word.

If Ronan was smart, he would have heeded that warning. Would have bowed his head and drowned his argument beneath a forkful of Chinese noodles. But he wasn't smart, and he had a tattoo of a sprinkled doughnut on his hip to prove it.

The anger that had ridden him all day, the spite and confusion, the restless, soul-crushing need to reconnect, they settled on the tip of his tongue, soaking into the muscle with a venomous taint, ready to fire at will. And he tried to contain it. He really did. But the more he tried to force the wayward emotions into an orderly line of submission, the rowdier they became.

/"I found out all the pictures I ever drew for you,/" Ronan said spitefully, but an undercurrent of hurt had his words sounding feeble and weak, like a clumsy child reading his lines for the school play for the first time. /"I found them, and I scribbled big, fat dicks on them, cuz that's what you are./"

There was a time when such disrespect would have been reprimanded with a harsh, but apt punishment. There was a time when Adam wouldn't have tolerated such disrespect, let alone the colourful language. But if nothing else, his reaction was just another score mark on the tally that proved that everything was changing; everything had changed.

In a violent thrust, his fists rained down on the table so hard that the plates jumped and one of the candle holders wobbled dangerously. His shoulders had stiffened, as tense as a snake preparing to make a killshot, and his mouth warped into a tight-pressed line.

And it was as Ronan froze beneath the first wave of the upcoming storm, as the other man's anger bled from him like a severed artery, that he realised this was the hardest part. Not necessarily the fighting. When it came to love and war, Ronan had crowned himself the king of pettiness. Poking holes in the soles of Adam's shoes so his feet got wet when it rained, unscrewing the lid on the salt shaker so it went 'whoopsie' when used by the unsuspected . . . yup, he had those antics down to a tee.

No. That wasn't the hard part. It was that he still looked the same. He was still the same dark-skinned beauty that had swept in and stolen his heart. Still the same parma-tanned eyes that had once stunned him to silence. His name had been like a prayer that had filled every crevice of him, and his words, his silky tone, had been like Ronan's very own lullaby.

But he wasn't the same. Inside, something had changed. It had been a slow change at first, but then it had been like gravity, momentum building and carrying it down into an unstoppable decline. His moods became fouler. His patience, once saint-like, had become a thin wick that was attached to a dynamite stick.

And it had left Ronan feeling like a little kid presented with a big read button that read: DO NOT PUSH.

Yup. That was working out great for everyone.

/"Ronan./" No purr of affection. No teasing, warning edge. Just cold. Hard. A tentative battle between rage and self-control. /"Just for once, shut your mouth, eat your food and let us have one meal in peace./"

Squeezing his eyes shut, turning away from the untouched plate in front of him, Ronan fought the part of him that desperately wanted to obey; Adam had made it abundantly clear that he no longer wanted to be his Daddy, or was willing to tolerate him when he was feeling Little.

Which had been yet another trigger for tonight's unpleasantries. The incessant reason why Ronan couldn't just sit back and make nice for the sake of a peaceful evening.

He'd made him a gift. Spent hours at some dumb pottery class, learning how to mould clay and getting disgustingly yucky hands until he'd managed to create a dejected mug, and then he'd spent an entire afternoon painting it to perfection. He'd been proud of it. It had been so fun that he'd even slipped a wee bit. Which was where the problem lay. He hadn't thought of it as a big deal. Had still kept it and tried to give it to Adam as a peace brokering between them; Adam had declared war.

Ronan hadn't even cared that it had turned out so lopsided that it was unlikely that Adam would have used it. Hell, he didn't even know if it was safe to drink from. He could have dealt with a polite thank you and the thing being shelved for life. But because he'd engraved the word /"DADDY' into it when making it, the gift had been unacceptable. Adam had refused to accept it. Shouted at him that they were done with that Little space nonsense and threw it in the outside trash can. It had broken. All his hard work had been for nothing.

And it was why for as much as he wanted to be good, for as much as he wanted to shut his pie-hole and just have an easy night, he couldn't. The hurt still stabbed at him like a poison soaked dagger. Still drop kicked the air from his body every time he thought back to it.

/"I hate you,/" he whispered at last, shaking his head as the memory refused to submerge itself. The sound of glass shattering had his eyes springing open.

Adam had risen so fast that his chair had skidded backwards, the thing clattering to the floor, and one of the glasses of water had knocked over and rolled, hitting the hardwood. The poor pitcher's wounds were fatal. He was dead on impact. Shards sprayed everywhere.

But it wasn't really the glass he was worried about. Not when Adam pushed forward with a menacing stride, his beauty contorted beneath a mask of bitter annoyance.

/"You're done eating,/" Adam said flatly, grabbing at his arm, yanking with enough force that his ass lifted from the spongy seat. His grip was harsh, and his fingers had tightened around his bicep almost to the point of pain.