Chapter Eight
Sasha
When I walk back out into the parlor, Conor is passed out in the recliner, so I sit down on the sofa beside Ronan. He’s sleeping, and at peace right now, even with his bruised and beaten face.
His glasses are missing, and he’s wearing a tee shirt. I didn’t notice it before, but I am now. I’ve never seen him in a tee shirt. It makes him look younger. More like his age. At twenty-nine, he’s only six years older than me. But he doesn’t carry himself that way.
He’s an old soul trapped in a young man’s body. But then there are moments when I glance at him, like right now, when he seems so young too.
I quietly squeeze my body into the gap between him and the back of the sofa and use the opportunity to soak in his handsome features. We’re so close right now I could touch him if I wanted to. Conor’s words still linger on my mind and I wonder why Ronan told him not to let anyone touch him.
In the three years I’ve been hanging around the club, I’ve never seen him touch any woman. Or vice versa. Which is a good thing because I don’t think I’d like that at all. He’s so quiet and guarded that I doubt he lets anyone touch him.
But he did let me once. I was high on him, but I still managed to notice how unsure of himself he was. He never even kissed me. I have so many questions about him. Almost everything about this man is a mystery. And against my better judgment, I want to know him.
I reach down and drape his arm over my hip. And then I touch his face. I can’t help it. It’s been so long since I’ve felt him. I want to feel him right now. My fingertips ghost over his cheeks and his jaw line. He shaved this morning, so his skin is smooth. I want to kiss every inch of it. My thumb drags across his lips, and they part a little for me. And then he moans. Afraid that I’m hurting him, I let my hand fall away and lean closer to give him a gentle kiss on the forehead.
I don’t know when it is exactly that he woke during my exploration, but I can feel it now. His eyes are still closed, but his breathing has changed, and his hand has tightened reflexively on my waist. He doesn’t move, or say a word. So I nuzzle closer and drape my own arm across his stomach, falling asleep enveloped in his warmth.
It’s the best sleep I’ve had in three years.
***
With the arrival of dawn, so comes something else.
It takes me a moment to understand what it is. The words are muffled, but Ronan is thrashing beside me as he repeats them over and over again.
“Will not speak,” he murmurs. “Will not question. Protect your brethren… free the chains. The chains. The chains.”
His voice grows more strained with every word. More agonized. And I don’t know what to do. I’ve always heard that you aren’t supposed to wake someone during a night terror, but it seems cruel to let him suffer through it.
“Ronan.” I give him a gentle shake, and he still doesn’t wake. So I clasp his face in my hands and try to soothe him with a calm voice.
Before I can even make sense of what’s happening, he’s got me flipped onto my back with his hands wrapped around my throat. I can’t breathe. I can’t even fight him. The man is a goddamn machine. He’s crushing every part of me with his body, and the only defense I have is to claw at his hands with my own. But it doesn’t even faze him. I’ve never felt strength like this before.
He just keeps repeating the same garbled words under his breath.
Free the chains.
I try to choke out his name. But it’s too quiet. He isn’t hearing me. Blackness is seeping in around my eyes again, and the irony is too painful to consider. This is how I was dying when he saved me. And now he’s going to kill me the same way.
I shove at his chest, but he’s like a brick wall, and I’m too weak.
“Ronan!”
Someone else is shouting now. Through my hazy vision I can barely make out Conor, trying to pry Ronan off of me.
“Ronan!” he screams again.
He manages to loosen Ronan’s grip enough that I can take a breath, and in the next instant, Lachlan is charging down the hall with Mack trailing behind him. He tackles Ronan to the floor, and I gasp for air as Lachlan holds him down and repeats a bunch of stuff I don’t understand.
“Ye’re not there,” Lachlan says. “Ronan. Ye’re okay. You are in Boston now. With me, Lachlan. It’s okay.”
Ronan’s breathing hard and fast, his eyes fully dilated as they dart around the room. He’s a cornered animal right now. Unrecognizable. But those eyes. They remind me of a small boy. One who has no idea what he’s just done. And when they land on me curled up on the couch with Mack trying to calm me, they fill with horror.
“I told you not to touch him,” Conor whispers.
“I didn’t know,” I croak.
My voice is hoarse. I can barely speak. And I have no doubt I’ll have bruises around my neck when I look in the mirror. But Conor is right. I should have listened. But I couldn’t have known. My eyes find Ronan’s again, and he looks away.
Lachlan takes over, shouting out directions.
“Conor, take Sasha home.”
I try to argue, but I can’t even speak. Mack gives me a worried look and then pulls Lachlan across the room where they start to argue. But it doesn’t matter. One look at Ronan, and I know he doesn’t want me here. I never should have come here.
I stand up on shaky legs and nod at Conor. He helps me across the room, and Mack runs over to meet us at the door.
“I’m so sorry, Sash,” she says. “They gave him something to knock him out. It must have done something. I don’t know. But it’ll be okay, I promise.”
I give her a nod because I can do nothing else.
It’s the lie we all want to believe. That it will be okay.
The problem is that it never really is.