Page 22 of Ruthless Savior
Protection.The word should be reassuring, but after everything that’s just happened to me, it sounds more like ownership. Like I've simply traded one captor for another, even if this one comes with better food and nicer accommodations.
"And what if I don't want your protection?"
"Then you're free to walk out that door anytime you want." His voice is calm, reasonable—which somehow makes it more frightening. "Of course, you probably won't make it six blocks before Rocco's men find you. But that's your choice."
The statement feels casually, painfully cruel—offering me freedom while making it clear that freedom equals death. It snaps something inside me. I stand up so quickly that my chair scrapes against the floor, the sound harsh in the elegant dining room.
"I can't do this," I say, backing away from the table. "I can't sit here making polite conversation while my mother is sitting at home, wondering if she's ever going to see me again. I can't pretend that any of this is normal or okay or?—"
"Sit down." His voice is flat. “You need to eat. I’ll tell them to bring in the next course.”
"No." The word comes out sharper than I intended, but I don't care. "I'm going upstairs. I need to be alone."
"Leila—"
But I'm already moving toward the door, desperate to get out of this room with its expensive furniture and crystal glasses and the man who behaves as if he owns me, just as surely as if Rocco had sold me to him. As if his rescue meanshepossesses me now.
A flicker of heat warms my blood at the thought of being possessed by him. I ignore it, and keep going.
I make it maybe three steps before his hand closes around my wrist.
"Let go of me." I try to pull away, but his grip is firm, unrelenting.
"I said sit down. There’s no need to throw a tantrum. We haven’t finished talking, or eating, and it’s rude to?—"
"And I said let go of me!"
I spin around to face him, and suddenly we're standing close enough that I can smell his cologne. It’s woodsy and smoky, like tobacco and honey, and I can see the gold flecks in his hazel eyes, can feel the heat radiating from his body. He's still holding my wrist, but his grip has gentled, become less restraint—more... something else.
Something that makes my heart race for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.
“You can’t run from this,” he says quietly. “I can keep you safe.”
"I'm not running from anything." My voice sounds too breathless. "I'm just going upstairs to my room."
"Your room?" His mouth twitches slightly, and I feel my cheeks heat, although I hate myself for responding to him.
"The room you're letting me use," I correct.
We’re too close. His hand is still on my wrist. I can see a faint scar along his jawline, make out all the finer details of his face.
I swallow hard and jerk away from him, my wrist sliding free of his grip. "I'm going upstairs."
Ronan doesn't try to stop me this time, but I can feel his eyes on me as I walk toward the door. When I reach it, I pause and look back at him.
"For what it's worth," I say quietly, "thank you. For saving me. I know I haven't been very grateful."
He doesn’t say anything. He only watches me as I turn, and I can feel his eyes on me as I walk away, fighting the urge to run as I try to navigate my way back through the expansive house.
The house feels different as I make my way back upstairs—less like a prison and more like a maze, full of possibilities I don't want to explore. Every room I pass seems to contain secrets, and I find myself wondering what kind of man Ronan O'Malley really is, underneath the expensive clothes and careful politeness.
What kind of man has a house like this, with guards and locked doors and the casual ability to make people disappear? What kind of man risks his own safety to rescue women from trafficking warehouses? What kind of man says so easily that he’s going to kill someone—and what did Rocco do?
When I reach the bedroom, I close the door and lean against it, trying to catch my breath. I shouldn’t feel safer in here, but I do at the moment. I’m alone at least, and I can try to gather my thoughts.
I need to get back to my mother. Ronan says I need to stay here, but for how long? Until he kills Rocco? The thought is soforeign that it doesn’t feel trustworthy. I’m trapped in a world I don’t understand, and I desperately want to get back to mine.
I don’t know if I can rely on him. If I can trust him. I’m terrified to find out what happens if I don’t.
