Page 66 of Beneath His Robes

“I don’t want to leave you,” I whispered, the truth spilling out before I could stop it. “You mean everything to me, Ronan. I don’t care what they say, what they do…I just want to be with you. In the ways I can, I want to be yours.”

He closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face.

“You can’t…” he whispered. “You have to walk away. For both of us.”

And in that moment, I knew he was right. I knew the choice was already made. This was the fate of our love. The ending that was always meant to be here that neither of us could accept. Because he loved me too much to let me risk everything for him, it was a sacrifice I wasn’t ready to make, but in the end, it was the only choice I had left.

I couldn’t force him to see me.

I couldn’t free him with his mother still hanging onto the fragile threads of her slow recovery. I was useless. I gripped my rosary beads in my grip, trying to get strength from the smooth wood.

“I’ll go,” I said quietly, my voice hoarse. “But this isn’t over. I will get you out of this hell. You have to know that. I won’t accept this life for you. You aren’t a monster. You don’t deserve this.”

Ronan nodded, his eyes dark and distant, as if he were trying to lock away all the emotions he was feeling. “Goodbye, Mon Pur.”

I stood up, my legs shaking as I tried to force myself to leave. But before I walked away, I turned back for one last look, meeting his gray-eyed gaze one more time.

And for a fleeting second, I saw a flicker of hope in his eyes, a quiet plea for me to stay. But the moment passed, and the guard was ushering me away from him.

I walked out of the doors. But I knew, deep in my heart, that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart we were, I’d always be with him. I was going to find a way to free him. I would not let him rot away here.

* * *

The hospital room was quiet, save for the rhythmic beeping of the machines monitoring her every breath. The sterile, white walls felt suffocating as if they were closing in on me with each passing second. I stood at the foot of the bed, my hands clasped in front of me, trying to steady my racing thoughts.

Ronan’s mother, Miranda, lay motionless, her face pale and bruised from the attack, her body wrapped in bandages as if they were trying to hold her together after what Jack had done to her. The doctors had said she might not wake up, that her condition was too grave. But I hadn’t given up hope. Not yet. Every night I came here. Every night, I prayed. She was Ronan’s only hope.

I had to do something. I couldn’t stand by and watch as Ronan rotted in that prison, knowing that Jack had hurt the one person he loved most. That bastard needed to pay.

I’d tried everything to get through to Miranda—tried to speak with her when she was unconscious, read her scriptures every night when she was barely hanging on to life. But today, something was different. I felt a shift in the air, a quiet moment of stillness that seemed to pulse through the room.

I moved closer to her bedside, my heart hammering in my chest.

“Miranda,” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath. “You have to fight for Ronan. He needs you. You need to tell them what happened.”

Her breathing remained shallow. “Please. He has spent his entire life keeping you safe. It’s your turn, Missis Saint Clare.”

Almost imperceptibly, her eyelids fluttered. I leaned in closer, hoping that it wasn’t just a trick of the light, that maybe, just maybe, she could hear me.

A soft gasp escaped her lips, and her eyes opened, hazy and unfocused at first. It was like she was emerging from some deep, painful sleep. When her gaze finally met mine, there was a flicker of recognition, though it was clouded by confusion and pain.

“Ronan…?” she croaked, her voice barely a whisper.

She blinked, her hand twitching slightly, trying to reach for mine. I grasped her fingers gently, urging her to hold on.

“Miranda, you’re awake,” I said, relief flooding through me, though I knew it wouldn’t last. “It’s Elias. We’re going to get you through this. I’m here, and I’m not leaving you.”

She seemed to struggle, her eyes moving slowly as if searching for something—or someone.

“Jack…Jack did this… Her voice came again, weaker but clearer. “He also knocks…down. But damn him…I don’t think I can…get back up this time…”

My heart nearly stopped.

“Jack?” I repeated, leaning in closer, my voice trembling, as I reached to press record on my phone. “Miranda, please…tell me you remember. Tell me you can tell the police what happened. We need your statement.”

Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, but there was a moment of clarity in her eyes. She turned her head toward me, her lips barely moving as she spoke again, this time with more conviction.

“Jack…” she repeated, her voice more firm now. “Jack…he hurt me…he hurt me and…stuck those damn drugs in me…I…I tried to stop him…I failed.”

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