Time suspended as we remained connected. My hand moved slowly up his back, feeling the tension melting beneath my touch. His breathing deepened, shoulders dropping from their combat-ready position. The assassin yielded, making space for the man.
“When I started looking for Xavier,” I whispered against his shoulder, “I knew what I was risking. I had my eyes wide open.” My fingers traced small circles at the base of his neck, feeling muscles unknot beneath my touch. “I suspected I might fail. But I knew with absolute certaintythat this investigation would destroy something—my career, my friendships, my reputation.” I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, needing him to understand this fundamental truth. “And I accepted that I might die. One way or another, my life would never be the same again. I made that choice before I ever met you.”
Something shifted in Ronan’s expression—the vulnerability didn’t vanish, but beside it emerged something fierce and determined. The man and the weapon, existing simultaneously.
“You may lose many things,” he said, voice low and fierce, “but not your life. Not while I’m breathing.”
Before I could respond, he claimed my mouth in a kiss that left no room for argument. Unlike our previous encounters, this wasn’t about desire or comfort—it was a declaration, a vow sealed with bruising intensity. His hands held me as if challenging fate to try separating us.
When we finally broke apart, I was light-headed and unsteady. My hands rested against his chest, feeling the thundering rhythm of his heart. We remained connected, foreheads touching, sharing breath.
His hands slid lower, gripping my hips with unmistakable intent. The kiss deepened, turned hungrier as he walked me backward until I hit the desk. With one swift movement, he lifted me onto it, stepping between my legs as his mouth traveled down my neck.
“Ronan,” I whispered, my body responding instantly even as my brain tried to form a coherent thought. “We can’t.”
“Wecan,” he murmured against my skin, teeth grazing my collarbone. “We absolutely can.”
His hands found their way under my shirt, warm against my ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts. I arched into his touch involuntarily, my body betraying my better judgment.
“The mission,” I managed weakly, “Tomorrow…”
“Is exactly why we should,” he countered, the heat of his mouth making it impossible to think clearly. “Right now. On this desk.”
My resolve weakened as his hands continued their skilled exploration. For a moment, I was ready to surrender, to hell with everything else…
“Specter,” I gasped, pushing against Ronan’s chest. “He’ll be back any minute.”
Ronan growled, low and frustrated, but didn’t stop his assault on my neck.
I pushed harder against him. “Unless you want him to see my bare ass on this desk, we need to stop.”
That did it. Ronan froze, then pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. Something possessive and darkly territorial flashed across his face.
“He doesn’t get to see that,” he stated flatly, the assassin’s coldness returning, though directed elsewhere now. “No one gets to see that but me.”
Despite everything, I found myself laughing. “Seriously? That’s what got through to you?”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, transforming his face. It was small but genuine—a rarity Itreasured. He stepped back, allowing me space, though his eyes still burned with promise.
“When this is over,” he said, voice low and deliberate, each word a vow, “when Brock is dealt with, your brother is safe and we’re free of Oblivion’s shadow… I’m going to take my time with you. Properly. Thoroughly.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear with surprising gentleness. “Consider that a promise, Maeve Durham.”
The way he said my name—like something precious and rare—sent heat rushing through me all over again. Before I could respond, the basement door creaked open.
Ronan stepped away smoothly, his expression shifting back to mission-ready neutrality with practiced ease. But as he turned toward his weapons, he shot me one final look over his shoulder—a look that carried… everything.
Together. After tomorrow. If we survived.
Chapter 24
Maeve
I stared at the mansion’s silhouette, a dark scar against the fading night sky. The humid air clung to my skin, making my shirt a second unwanted layer. Every breath tasted of bougainvillea and something metallic—fear, maybe. Or resolve.
“Remember,” Ronan whispered, his voice barely audible above the hum of distant security patrols, “you have exactly ninety seconds between camera sweeps.”
I nodded, swallowing hard. The Ronan beside me bore little resemblance to the man who had held me hours ago. His eyes had gone flat, calculating, his movements deliberate and economical. Nothing wasted. Nothing human left exposed. Even the way he crouched behind the stone perimeter wall spoke of years of training—muscles coiled, ready to spring with lethal force.
He pointed toward a small opening halfway up the eastern wall. “That’s your entry point.”