Page 52 of Blood Weaver
“Aren’t you angry?” he asked with furrowed brows. Confusion laced his expression.
“Yeah … I am,” I answered honestly. “But being angry and seeking revenge won’t make me feel better. It won’t change what’s already happened.”
His gaze was penetrating, and he seethed with an anger that boiled not from a place of personal vendetta, but from a deeply rooted protective instinct. Every word that escaped his lips echoed the furious storm that brewed within him.
“Inaction is not an option, Leila,” Ronan responded, his tone resonating the finality of a judgement pronounced, along with his uncompromising resolve. “Not while the enemy still draws breath.”
Veins pulsed along his temples as a silent testament to the rage of his inward battle. Amid the night’s stillness, punctuated by the tranquil hum of the woods, every uttered word was a clash of swords and every silence was a field of unmarked graves.
“I’m not seeking revenge for the sake of revenge, Leila,” he continued, his voice laced with painful restraint. “But every scar on your skin, every mark—is a testament to an unspeakable violation, an unforgiving reminder of a man unbridled by honor or humanity.”
I felt the welling up of my own storm, a tumultuous tide of emotions that sought a release from the ones who wronged me. But where Ronan's storm was fiery, mine was icy, a chilling tempest born of painful betrayals and haunting truths.
“I refuse to be defined by scars, Ronan.” My voice, though steady, barely masked the icy fury that raged beneath the calm exterior. “Every mark is a battle won, not lost. A testament to survival, not defeat.”
His gaze held mine, a silent battlefield where storms raged and tempests clashed.
“I won’t stand idle, Leila.” Ronan’s voice, though restrained, echoed the unyielding resolve of a warrior marked by countless battles.
“And I won’t be a prisoner of my scars, Ronan,” my retort, though whispered, bore the chilling echo of icy storms, unyielding and untethered.
He stared me down, his crimson gaze never leaving mine. “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.”
Ronan had leftmy tent hours earlier. It seemed he and I couldn’t agree on a single thing. We were both frustrated, but we had different ways of dealing with our annoyance. Where he wanted to skin Caelan alive, I wanted to let things go. Caelan would get what he deserved once he realized who I was. To me, that was punishment enough.
My stomach grumbled. Fully intending to get up and seek food, I sat up on the cot and prepared to swing my legs over the edge. But it seemed Ronan and I were thinking the same thing.
The tent flaps opened and Ronan stepped inside carrying a tray of food. Even though we argued the last time we saw each other, he smiled at the sight of me. “I figured you’d be hungry,” he muttered as he approached. The tantalizing aroma of spiced meats filtered into the tent and my stomach grumbled again. “Oh, yeah, I came just in time.”
He walked to my cot and set the tray down beside me, then pulled up a chair alongside. There was more than enough food for two people. I raised a brow as I looked between the tray and him.
He laughed. “I figured I’d eat dinner with you …ifyou don’t mind.”
My brows shot up to my hairline. “Aren’t you upset with me?”
He blew out a breath. “Honestly? Yes, I am. But I also understand your point of view. So I can’t hold a grudge, now can I?”
“I guess not.” I picked at the meat and licked my finger, savoring the taste.
I was struck by the contradiction of the man before me. Ronan—a warrior, forged in the fires of conflict, who extended grace amidst the unyielding stances we each held. A complexity of emotion and thought was woven through every fiber of his being, marking him as both an enigma and an open book.
As I indulged in the food’s rich flavors, the silence that descended was reflective and calm. It was neither charged with the vibrant clash of our conflicting stances nor haunted by the shadow of unspoken grievances.
“I haven’t thanked you yet,” I said between bites, the rich tapestry of flavors melting in my mouth.
“For?” Ronan’s eyebrow arched, the inquiry shadowed with a depth of meaning.
“For saving my life, yet again.” The weight of gratitude coursed through every word.
Silence fell, charged yet contemplative. Ronan’s gaze lingered, a silent dance of reflections and revelations. “We’re allies, Leila. Perhaps more.” His assertion was neither a confirmation nor a denial, but a space where possibilities thrived.
“Allies …” I repeated. “I’m not too sure about that.”
“Oh?”
I chuckled awkwardly. “Just because you’ve saved my life twice doesn’t mean I’m suddenly allied with my enemy.”
He leaned in, placing his elbows on his knees. “What if I told you a secret of our people that could possibly change your mind?”
