Page 35 of Ruthless Savior
I should tell himthank you.I should be more outwardly grateful, I know. But right now, it feels like it’s all I can do not to burst into tears.
“I’m sorry that you’re dealing with so much,” he says, startling me. He sets his whiskey down, looking at me with those unreadable hazel eyes, and I’m once again all too aware that we’re alone in this room.
He’s not at all what I expected. He seems… genuine.Real. Kind, almost, even if he is arrogant and clearly used to getting his way.
I swallow hard.He’s also a criminal,I remind myself. A man who talks casually about killing his rivals. A man who was in that warehouse for a reason, even if it wasn’t to hurt women like Rocco. A man with connections who is unafraid to leverage violence to get what he wants.
“I’ll send someone to your house to get your things,” Ronan says after a moment. “Make a list of what you want.”
“I—” I bite my lip. “I don’t like the idea of one of your men going into my mother’s place.”
He chuckles softly. “It’ll be a woman. I promise the men will stay outside. My intent is not to frighten her… or you.”
Too late for that.I am frightened by him, at least a little—who wouldn’t be? But he’s not as scary, I think, as he seemed to be at first.
“I’ll give you a list in the morning, then.”
He nods. “Good night, Leila.”
I realize I’m being dismissed. I swallow hard and nod, heading for the door before things can become awkward. The truth is, I want to be alone anyway. I’m on the verge of tears, aching to be home, and missing my mother more than I ever thought I could.
I’ve never felt so lonely before.
—
The next day,Ronan is gone by the time I come down for breakfast. According to Ida, he had "business to attend to" and wouldn't be back until late.
I spend the morning exploring more of the house. It's massive—three floors of rooms that seem to stretch on forever. Most are beautifully furnished but feel unused, like a museum display. I find a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a music room with a grand piano that looks like it hasn't been touched in years, and what appears to be a study filled with dark wood and the lingering smell of expensive cigars.
Everything about this place speaks of old money, of generations of wealth and power. It's beautiful, but it's also cold somehow. Despite all the luxury, it doesn't feel like a home. It feels like a historic set piece, like something you could charge a tour fee for.
By evening, I'm back in my room, restless and anxious. Ida brings dinner up to me at my request—a pumpkin bisque and grilled fish heavily seasoned with spices and a salty crust, along with roasted vegetables. "Mr. O'Malley won't be joining you tonight," she says in her faint German accent. "He's been delayed."
I nod, trying not to think too hard about what kind of "business" keeps a man like Ronan out this late. "Thank you, Ida."
“If you need anything, just call,” she tells me before leaving, nodding to the phone by my bed. It was brought up yesterday—not a phone that calls out, I learned, but one that goes to the staff, like a hotel concierge line. Having that in one’s house seems insane to me, but it’s just another normal part of Ronan’s life.
After she leaves, I pick at my food, my mind wandering to my mother. Is she eating dinner alone, too? Is the nurse there yet, or is she still by herself, worried and scared? Has Alicia been by at all? Has my mother told her that I called?
When I'm done eating, I stare at the tray for a long moment. Having someone wait on me feels wrong. My mom taught me tobe self-sufficient, not to depend on others to do things for me. The idea of leaving dishes for someone else to collect makes me feel strange and uncomfortable.
I pick up the tray and head for the door.
The house is quiet as I make my way downstairs. I remember the general direction of the kitchen from my explorations, though I've never actually been inside it. I'm almost to the landing of the first floor when I hear the front door open.
Ronan steps inside, and I freeze on the stairs. He’s wearing a suit without the jacket or tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and sleeves rolled up. He looks tired, as if he’s been doing something strenuous.
He sees me standing there with the tray and stops. "What are you doing?"
"Taking this to the kitchen," I say, lifting the tray slightly. "I don't like having people clean up after me."
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe. "Ida can handle that."
"I know she can. But I don't want her to."
We stare at each other for a moment, and I can see him processing this. In his world, I'm sure people don't carry their own dishes. They probably don't even think about who cleans up after them.
"Your loan," he says suddenly, and his voice is different somehow. Harsher. "The original debt to Neil. It's handled."
