Page 107 of Ruthless Savior
He looks at me, and I can’t finish the sentence. I need to hear him say thathewants me, that he would want me to stay, even without the baby. That he wishes this marriage was real, thatwewere something real. I don’t want to say it aloud and have him push me away again. I need to know that he wants it, too. Then maybe I could overcome my fears of what that life would look like.
The problem is that I think both of us are too afraid. Neither of us can be the first one to say it. And I have a feeling that in the end, that will be the death of what this is between us.
Not Rocco. Not any outside force. Just the fact that Ronan is so afraid of loss, and I’m so afraid of the unknown, that neither of us can step forward first and take the risk.
In the afternoon, we end up back in bed without meaning to. I walk in on Ronan taking a midday shower, and before I know it, I’m pushed up against the dresser, his mouth on mine as hungrily as if he never tried to fight the chemistry between us. And I don’t want to fight it, either. If this is going to end, I want as much of him as I can have. I want to always remember this, us, when it’s no longer even a pretense, much less a reality.
That evening, after dinner, we go for a walk outside despite the cold. Ronan wants to check the guard rotations, and I want some fresh air—and I also want to spend a little more time with him before he leaves again later tonight. I have a growing sense of dread that every time he leaves is one time closer to when he’ll come back and tell me that Rocco is dead. It’s something I should look forward to, and Idolook forward to the day when I no longer will have to fear him kidnapping me again. But that also means the end of my marriage, and I’m not sure I’m ready for that.
I’m not ready to tell Ronan goodbye. To have the only contact between us be business over our child, and their safety and care. To see the look on his face the first time he sees his son or daughter, and not be able to let myself feel the intimacy I want to in that moment. To raise a child alongside him but not with him.
But I also don’t know if I’m ready to really be a mafia wife.
Ronan talks to Colin and some of the other men as I breathe in the crisp, cool air and try not to listen too closely to their conversation. When Ronan is satisfied, we head back toward the house the long way, taking the path that leads along the side of the estate.
We’re halfway back when we see one of the men who usually patrols the house—Johnny, I think—running toward us.
I instantly feel Ronan going on alert, tensing next to me. “What is it?” he barks, and the man skids to a stop in front of us, out of breath.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says, still panting. “It’s your mother, ma’am. She said she wasn’t feeling well to Mrs. O’Brien a little while ago, and went upstairs to lie down. Mrs. O’Brien went to take her some tea, and she found her unconscious…”
As soon as he says the last word, I’m already running toward the house. I hear Ronan on my heels, but I don’t stop to look. The world feels as if it’s tilting sideways, my heart racing with panic as I run for the manor, desperate to see her.
“—called an ambulance already—” I hear Johnny say behind me, but I don’t look back. I burst in through the side doors and head for the stairs, where I find paramedics already surrounding her. Mrs. O’Brien is standing just outside the door, her face creased with worry.
“I called her doctors straightaway, ma’am, sir,” she says, looking at Ronan and me. “They’re airlifting her to the hospital in Dublin. They seem to think it’s quite serious?—”
Her eyes well up, and I swallow hard, feeling as if I can’t breathe. The paramedics start to move toward the door with her, and I back up out of their way, staring at my mom’s still form as they wheel her out and toward the stairs to take her to the helicopter.
"No." The word tears out of me. "No, she was fine this morning. She was getting better, the treatments were working?—"
"Leila." Ronan's hands frame my face, forcing me to look at him. "Breathe. We'll figure this out."
“I need to go with her. I need?—”
“There’s nothing you can do there. Listen to me.” Ronan holds my gaze, and I can see the pleading in his face. “It’s not safe for you to sit and wait at a hospital. You’re safer here. I can send security with your mother, and make sure we’re protected here as well. Anything that happens, they’ll call. And if it gets to the point that—” He takes a breath. “If something happens that youneedto be there, I’ll make sure we get you there immediately. By air, if need be.”
“I should have realized she was getting worse,” I sob. “She’s been so tired. I thought she was just giving us space because she likes you so much and thinks we should make this work, but?—”
There’s a flicker of something on Ronan’s face at that, but it vanishes as he wraps his arms around me. "Stop." He pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like a shield. "This isn't your fault. This isn't anyone's fault."
In the back of my head, I want to tell him that the way he feels about me right now is the way I feel about him and what happened to Siobhan. That if he thinks this isn’t my fault, that I shouldn’t have paid more attention to how my mom was feeling and gotten her back to the doctor sooner, then what happened to his first wife isn’t his fault, either. But there’s not enough space in my mind to formulate that right now, and I don’t think I couldspeak anyway. I feel as if I’m on the verge of breaking down completely, and as Ronan’s arms tighten around me, I feel the floodgates crash open.
I bury my face against his chest, sobbing as all the fear and confusion and anxiety of the past days tear through me, pouring out of me in wracking sobs that soak the front of his shirt. He holds me through it, murmuring reassurances I can't quite make out over the sound of my own grief.
Without saying a word, he steers me down the hall and to our bedroom. He gets me to the bed, sitting me down, and then steps back, reaching for his phone as he keeps one eye on me. I reach for a box of tissues next to the bed, unable to stop crying long enough for them to even really matter.
A moment later, Ronan is on the phone with someone, his voice sharp and commanding.
"I don't care what it costs," he's saying. "I want the best oncologist in Dublin on her case, and I want her in a private room at St. Vincent’s tonight. Yes, tonight. Make it happen."
I drop my hands to my lap, staring at him. “What’s going on?”
He covers the phone with his hand. "I’m getting your mother the best care possible. She'll be moved to a private wing with round-the-clock nursing. The best doctors, the best treatments."
"Ronan, you don't have to?—"
"Yes, I do." His eyes are fierce, determined. "I can't let you go to her, but I can make sure she has the best care. Better than she has been, if that’s possible. Just let me handle it, Leila. Please.”
