Ronan
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Control is everything. And I'm losing it.
Amara's defiance is both infuriating and... maddeningly familiar. The way her chin lifts when she's cornered, the fire in her eyes when she challenges me—it's a mirror I don't want to face. I've spent years burying that part of myself, the one that questions and resists. She wears hers like armour.
When the call came through, the message was clear: they're escalating. Whoever's pulling the strings is getting bolder. My mind cycles through scenarios as I pocket the phone, my expression giving nothing away. But the storm inside is brewing, each potential threat adding another piece to the puzzle.
"What is it?" Amara's voice cuts through my thoughts, soft but laced with frustration.
I glance at her, the weight of her gaze pressing against my composure. Telling her the truth isn't an option. Not yet. The less she knows, the less they can use against her. I grab my jacket, the movements brisk, deliberate. "Stay here," I say, the command firm.
"Excuse me?" Her voice sharpens, her arms crossing as she steps forward. "You can't just walk out without telling me what's going on."
I stop mid-motion, turning toward her. She's furious, her anger bubbling just beneath the surface, but it's the flicker of fear in her eyes that catches me off guard. "I can, and I will."
Her frustration deepens, her fists clenching at her sides. "You're being ridiculous, Ronan. If this involves me, I have a right to know—"
"This isn't a debate, Amara." The sharpness in my voice silences her, but I can see the fire in her eyes burning brighter. "The less you know, the safer you are."
And with that, I left.
••
The air outside feels colder, sharper. The city stretches out below, indifferent to the chaos brewing in its shadows. My steps echo faintly in the hallway as I navigate toward the elevator. The phone in my pocket buzzes again, a second notification flashing across the screen.
We're closer than you think.
My grip tightens on the device, a silent vow forming in the back of my mind. Whoever they are, whatever they think they can accomplish by coming after her, they'll learn the hard way that some lines can't be crossed.
But this isn't just about Amara. The stakes are higher, the game more dangerous than even she realizes.
When I return, it's already late. The weight of the evening presses against me as I push open the penthouse door. The room is quiet—too quiet. Amara sits by the window, the soft glow of the city lights illuminating her figure. She looks fragile in this moment, her arms wrapped around herself, her gaze distant. But I know better. There's nothing fragile about Amara Kingsley.
She turns as I step inside, her movements stiff, her expression guarded. The phone in her hand catches my attention immediately, the tension in her grip telling me everything I need to know.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.
She hesitates, her eyes darting to the phone before meeting mine. "Another message," she says softly. "This time... it was a call."
I move closer, each step calculated, deliberate. "What did they say?"
Her throat works as she swallows, the memory clearly still fresh. "They said I'm in over my head. That I should run while I still can."
For a moment, everything else fades—the room, the city, the distant hum of life beyond these walls. The anger I've been holding back ignites, a low burn that simmers just beneath the surface. My hand reaches out, brushing against hers as I take the phone.
The contact is brief, but it leaves an impression—her skin warm against mine, her trembling barely noticeable but impossible to ignore.
"You don't answer calls unless they're from me," I say, my voice low, steady.
She bristles at the command, her fire sparking once more. "And what if I don't want to play by your rules?"
The challenge in her voice stirs something in me, something dark and protective. I step closer, invading her space, forcing her to meet my gaze. "Then you'll make it a lot easier for whoever's after you. Is that what you want?"
Her defiance falters, just for a moment, but it's enough. The air between us is electric, charged with unspoken tension. I can see the war raging in her eyes—fear battling with anger, trust warring with doubt.
I lean in slightly, my voice dropping lower. "I don't care if you hate me, Amara. I don't care if you fight me every step of the way. But as long as you're under my protection, no one touches you. Understand?"
Her breath hitches, her lips parting as if to respond, but no words come. The fire in her eyes dims slightly, replaced by something softer, something she doesn't want to admit.
"Fine," she says finally, the word heavy with reluctance. "But don't expect me to like it."
I straighten, a faint smirk tugging at my lips. "I don't care if you like it. I care if you survive."
Her expression twists with frustration, but she doesn't argue further. As I step away, the weight of the evening settles back over me. This isn't over. Not by a long shot.
Because for all the danger she faces, the biggest threat isn't what's out there.
It's what's already brewing between us.
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