His fingers flexed against my arm, something raw and desperate fracturing his expression. The assassin’s mask slipped, revealing a vulnerability that caught me off-guard.
“Ronan,” he corrected, voice rough with emotion. “My name is Ronan.”
I stared at him, inches from my face, his gaze intense and unrelenting. His grip on my arms neither tightened nor loosened—just held me in place, as if he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
“You said yourself you don’t remember half the things that Ronan did,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like shattered glass on my lips. “I thought I was doing you a favor by not using it. My mistake. I’ll remember to use it until we part ways.”
I tried to pull away, but his hands remained firm, keeping me against the wall. The fluorescent light above us flickered, momentarily plunging his face into darkness before revealing it again.
For a heartbeat, raw vulnerability crossed his features.
“I don’t hate it when you say it,” he admitted, his voice dropping to something that contradicted his grip. “When you say my name… I don’t see the monster in my memories.”
His confession threw me off-balance, surprise cracking through my carefully constructed defenses. The professional façade I’d perfected through years of investigative journalism suddenly felt paper thin.
He shifted closer, the pressure of his body changing from confrontational to seeking connection. His chest pressed against mine, pinning me to the wall not with intimidation but with desperate need. His mouth hovered near my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“When I’m with you, I feel something like peace.” The admission sounded torn from him, reluctant yet unstoppable. “For the first time since I can remember, my head is quiet.”
I remained still, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer. My breathing grew shallow as his words worked beneath my defenses, touching something I’d tried to protect.Hewas the one who pushed me away.Hewas the one who wanted to stay away. So, why was he doing all of this? Why was he dragging me back in, only to push me away further?
“Ronan…”
“You dragged me out of that darkness. Like… like finding light.” His voice fractured on the word. “A light I don’t deserve to see, let alone touch.”
His forehead dropped against mine, the gesture so unexpectedly gentle, it stole my breath. “So yes, I wanted to send you away. Far from Oblivion, from Brock, from Specter.” A shuddering breath warmed my lips. “From me. But it’s not because I don’t want you next to me. It’s because I want youaliveandwellmore than I selfishly want you by my side. For the first time in a long time… I’m scared of losing something. Do you have any idea what that’s like? To be a man who hasn’t known fear for years, and now finally has something to lose?”
His hands released my arms, moving to frame my face with the same precision he used to handle weapons—except now it carried something like reverence. His thumbs traced my cheekbones with barely there pressure.
“Everyone Oblivion touches ends up broken or dead. We’re pulled from the gutter and that’s where we return. But you, Maeve… you’re not like us. You deserve a chance. A future. A life.”
I reached up, gripping his wrists, anchoring him to this moment, to this truth between us.
“And what about what I want?” My voice emerged quietly but unwaveringly.
I searched his eyes, refusing to look away from the pain and yearning I found there. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the only monster here is the one you’ve created in your head—this idea that you’re beyond redemption, beyond… love?”
The word “love” hit him visibly. He flinched back, eyes widening with something like fear.
“Don’t.” he started, then stopped. “You can’t.” Another failed attempt.
His breathing became ragged, his hands trembling in the space between us.
I held his gaze, watching emotions battle across his face. The word I’d spoken hung between us like something volatile, dangerous. His hands shook visibly, and I realized I’d never seen his iron control fracture this completely before.
“I don’t know how to do this,” Ronan finally whispered, all pretense abandoned. “How to be wanted. To be… chosen.” The last word emerged reverent, terrified. “I don’t remember ever being chosen for something other than violence.”
The raw honesty in his voice dismantled my remaining anger. The wall I’d built after he tried to send me away crumbled, leaving only the truth between us. Deliberately, I stepped toward him, moving slowly enough that he could retreat if he needed to.
My hand reached for his face, my movements measured and deliberate. When he remained still, I traced the scar at his temple with feather-light pressure, feeling the raised tissue like a physical record of his suffering.
“Then let me be the one who will show you what it’s like. Letmechooseyou.”
For a long moment, he stood frozen, muscles rigid beneath my touch, breathing shallow and controlled. I watched the pulse hammer in his throat, noting the almost imperceptible tremor in his jaw.
Then something broke. With a sound caught between surrender and desperation, he pulled me against him—not with violence or possession, but with the raw need of a drowning man finding shore.
We stayed locked together, neither speaking. His face pressed against my neck, my arms encircling him. The basement fell silent except for our breathing gradually synchronizing. His chest rose and fell against mine, the rhythm eventually steadying.
