Amara
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Ronan's lips curved into a dangerous smile. "I wouldn't expect anything less."
The words lingered between us, heavy and unshakable. For a moment, I thought he might say more, might let that razor-sharp control of his slip just enough to reveal something real. But then his phone buzzed on the counter, and his attention shifted, breaking the spell.
His expression darkened as he read the message on the screen. He didn't curse or react outwardly, but the tension in his shoulders told me all I needed to know—something was wrong. Very wrong.
"What is it?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
He didn't answer immediately, his gaze flicking to me as though weighing how much to tell me. Finally, he slipped the phone into his pocket and turned toward the door. "Stay here," he said, his tone curt, leaving no room for argument.
"Excuse me?" I stepped forward, crossing my arms. "You can't just walk out without telling me what's going on."
"I can, and I will." He grabbed his jacket, his movements brisk and deliberate. "Don't open the door for anyone. Don't answer any calls you don't recognize. Do you understand?"
The way he said it sent a chill down my spine, but it also fanned the flames of my frustration. "You're being ridiculous, Ronan. If this involves me, I have a right to know—"
"This isn't a debate, Amara." His voice cut through my protests, sharp and unyielding. "The less you know, the safer you are."
And just like that, he was gone, the soft click of the door echoing through the suddenly too-quiet penthouse.
••
The silence after his departure felt oppressive, pressing down on me with an almost physical weight. I paced the length of the living room, my thoughts a tangled mess of frustration, fear, and something I couldn't quite name. Ronan's cryptic words only added to the growing list of questions I had no answers to.
After what felt like an eternity, I stopped in front of the wall of windows overlooking the city. The lights below sparkled like stars scattered across the ground, but even their beauty couldn't calm the storm raging inside me. I turned away, my gaze falling on the rest of the penthouse—the sleek furniture, the spotless surfaces, the cold perfection of it all. It was so carefully curated, so devoid of anything personal, that it felt more like a showroom than a home.
Except for one thing.
A small table near the bookshelf caught my attention. On it sat a framed photograph. It was the only item in the entire space that felt remotely human. I approached slowly, my curiosity outweighing my hesitation. The photo was simple—a young boy, no more than ten, standing next to a woman with dark hair and kind eyes. The boy's expression was serious, almost too much so for someone his age.
Ronan.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The woman beside him had to be his mother, though I'd never heard him speak of her. I traced the edge of the frame with my fingers, wondering what kind of life he'd lived before becoming the man he was now.
The sound of my phone buzzing snapped me out of my thoughts. I hesitated for a moment before picking it up, my heart sinking as I read the screen: Unknown Number.
Against my better judgment, I answered. "Hello?"
Silence. For a moment, I thought the call had disconnected. But then a voice spoke, low and distorted, sending a chill down my spine.
"You think he can protect you?"
My throat tightened, the words sticking in my chest. "Who is this?" I managed, my voice trembling despite my best efforts.
A dark chuckle echoed on the line, chilling and deliberate. "You're in over your head, Amara. Run while you still can."
The call ended abruptly, leaving me clutching the phone with shaking hands. My mind raced, every nerve in my body screaming at me to do something, but what? I turned toward the door, half-expecting Ronan to burst back in, his presence somehow making the chaos more bearable. But the door remained closed, and I was alone.
••
I didn't know how much time had passed—minutes, hours, an eternity of silence punctuated only by the hum of the city far below. The weight of the answered call and its chilling message lingered in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. I paced the length of the room, my thoughts spiralling in a loop of fear and questions I had no answers to.
When the door finally opened, the soft click of the latch sent a jolt through me. I froze, turning sharply as Ronan stepped inside. His presence filled the room instantly, as if he'd dragged the storm outside in with him. His expression was unreadable, carved in stone, but there was a tension in the set of his shoulders, in the deliberate way he moved, like a predator scanning for danger.
He stopped in the middle of the room, his sharp gaze sweeping over me like he was assessing every detail—the stiffness in my posture, the phone clutched in my trembling hand, the way I couldn't quite meet his eyes.
"What happened?" he asked, his voice sharp and direct, slicing through the heavy silence.
The question held no softness, no pretence of comfort. It wasn't meant to soothe; it was meant to demand. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as I struggled to steady my voice. "Another message," I said finally, my words barely above a whisper. "This time… it was a call."
His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—an undercurrent of anger, tightly controlled but unmistakable. He crossed the room in two long strides, his movements as precise as they were purposeful, and stopped just a breath away from me.
"What did they say?" he asked, his voice lower now, but no less commanding.
The weight of his presence pressed against me, the intensity in his gaze leaving no room for evasion. My fingers tightened around the phone, the memory of the distorted voice and its chilling words replaying in my mind. I forced myself to meet his eyes, even as my stomach twisted.
"They said I'm in over my head," I murmured, the words scraping against my throat. "That I should run while I still can."
For a moment, the room seemed to still, the air around us thickening. Ronan's jaw clenched, the hard line of his mouth tightening further as his hand reached out. His fingers brushed mine as he took the phone, the contact brief but enough to send a spark racing up my arm.
His gaze remained fixed on mine, his voice low and edged with steel. "From now on, you don't answer calls unless they're from me. Understand?"
"And what if I don't want to play by your rules?" I challenged, my anger bubbling to the surface.
He stepped closer, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that stole the breath from my lungs. "Then you'll be making it a lot easier for whoever's after you. Is that what you want?"
The air between us was electric, charged with an intensity that felt almost alive. It wrapped around us, suffocating and intoxicating all at once, like the calm before a storm that you knew would tear everything apart. The tension was so thick it pressed against my skin, a heavy, unrelenting weight that refused to be ignored.
I hated the way his words made sense, the way they carved through my defiance and left me feeling raw and exposed. He spoke with such conviction, such certainty, as if the entire world bent to his will and I was simply another piece on his chessboard.
And yet, it wasn't his words alone that unravelled me. It was him. The way his presence consumed the room, filling every shadow, leaving no corner untouched. The way he stood so close, his dark gaze pinning me in place, like he could see every secret I wanted to hide. He infuriated me, unsettled me, left me grasping for control that always seemed just out of reach when he was near.
But worst of all—the thing I hated most—was the flicker of something deeper. A small, traitorous part of me that whispered dangerous thoughts. That wanted to trust him, even when I knew I shouldn't. That wanted to believe in the promise his words carried, no matter how reckless or naive it might be.
Because for all his sharp edges, for all his cold certainty and calculated moves, there was something about the way he said no one touches you that struck a chord I didn't want to acknowledge. It wasn't just a threat. It was a vow. And as much as I wanted to fight it, as much as I wanted to resist, a part of me—the part I couldn't control—wanted to believe that vow was meant to keep me safe.
"Fine," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper. "But don't expect me to like it."
Ronan's lips curved into a faint smirk, though it didn't reach his eyes. "I don't care if you like it, Amara. I care if you survive."
The weight of his words settled over me, heavy and inescapable. For all my bravado, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning—and that whatever game we were playing, the stakes were higher than I'd ever imagined.
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