Page 67 of Beneath His Robes

I squeezed her hand, feeling the warmth of her touch even through the coldness of the hospital room. She was still with me. Still fighting.

“Miranda, you didn’t fail. We need to tell them,” I urged gently, “We need you to tell the police. You’re the only one who can clear Ronan. You have to help him. Jack lied, and your son is in prison for what was done to you.”

Her breath hitched, and she seemed to struggle with the weight of the words she was trying to say. Her eyelids fluttered again, and for a moment, I thought she might fall back into unconsciousness. But then, with a final, fragile effort, she gathered what little strength she had left.

“Jack…” she rasped, her voice shaky. “Jack…he was…the one who hurt me…the one who—” She gasped for air, her face twisting in pain. “Always the one…he…hurt…Ronan. My son…my boy…he always stepped in the way…foolish kid. I love him…I’m sorry I couldn’t be brave…I love…my son. I love my…Ronan…I’m…sorry.”

Tears welled in my eyes, but I fought them back. This was it. This was the moment that could change everything. Miranda had identified Jack and confirmed that he was the one responsible for the attack that led to her being in this bed, the attack that had sent Ronan to prison for a crime he didn’t commit.

“Thank you, Miranda,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You are so brave. I am so proud of you.”

She gave a small, strained smile, her eyes fluttering again. She seemed to be fading, but I could see it in her face—the relief, the peace, knowing she had done what she could for her son. Her grip on my hand tightened just slightly, and then she exhaled one last, shuddering breath.

I watched as her eyes closed slowly, her body going limp once more.

“Miranda?” I whispered, panic rising in my chest. “No, stay with me…stay awake…please. For Ronan.”

But there was no answer, only the soft sound of the heart monitor, now flat and steady. Her breathing had stopped, and though her hand was still clutched in mine, I knew it was over.

How can I face Ronan now? The one person he loved so much is gone.

I had to hold onto what she said. I knew that her final confession was enough. Jack would be caught. The truth would come out. Ronan would be free. Miranda’s last gift was her son’s freedom.

I stood there for a long while, holding Miranda’s hand, the weight of what she had just done sinking in. She had given everything to make sure her son was protected. And now, it was up to me to make sure she had not died in vain. I sighed heavily, pressing the button to stop the recording on my phone.

I left the hospital room, my heart heavy with the loss but also with the fire of determination. I would see this through, no matter what.

ChapterTwenty-Two

Ronan

The cafeteria was buzzing with the usual noise—voices rising and falling like an angry tide, trays clattering, and the distant hum of guards trying to keep everything under control. But today, the air felt thicker. The teasing, the jeering—it all felt heavier, sharper.

I could already feel their eyes on me before I even stepped through the door. The same group that had been picking at me all week, whispering behind their hands, grinning like wolves waiting for a stray animal to wander too close. I hated it. Hated how they made me feel so small, how their words cut deeper than I ever wanted to admit.

I tried to ignore them, to walk past their tables with my head down, but I could already hear the snickers. I could feel their gazes like a heat against my skin.

“Hey, look who’s here. The pretty Coin Slot,” one of them said, his voice loud enough for everyone at the table to hear.

I kept walking, pretending I hadn’t heard. Pretending that it didn’t make my skin crawl. But it was no use.

“That’s right, Lap Leach. You gonna give us a show today?” another voice, deeper this time, sneered from across the room.

I didn’t even look up. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction.

But it didn’t stop. They were all leaning in now, their eyes hungry, their grins widening as I passed by their table. I could feel the heat of their stares, feel the weight of their words pulling at me like a magnet.

“How much to strip off all that orange, baby, huh? Bet you’d make a killing in here,” one of them shouted.

The others laughed, a sound that scraped against my nerves.

I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood, my hands clenched at my sides, but I kept walking.

Just get to the table, just get through this.

Then, one of them, a tall guy with tattoos snaking down his arms, stood up and stepped into my path. I halted, the tension in my chest growing tight like a coil. His eyes were dark and cold, and an unmistakable smirk played at the corners of his mouth.

“What’s the matter, pretty boy? You gonna leave us hanging?” He reached out, his fingers brushing against my arm, tracing my tattoo there, but the way his hand lingered sent a wave of disgust through me.

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