Page 85 of Ruthless Savior
“Mr. O’Malley called earlier, by the way.” Mrs. O’Brien glances over at us. “He said he might be back in two days instead of three. He wanted to check on everything, be sure that the two of you were getting on alright here.”
"He doesn't need to keep checking on us," I say, though my pulse quickens at the thought of seeing him again. I reach for my tea, as if it’s some magic remedy that can make me stop wanting my husband. "We're fine."
My mother gives me a look that says she sees right through me. "Of course, we're fine, sweetheart. But it's nice to have someone who cares enough to check."
That's the problem,I think, but don’t say aloud. The caring feels real, but I know it isn’t. Every thoughtful gesture, everymoment of tenderness, is guilt and obligation, Ronan making up for the situation that I’ve found myself in and the fact that he can’t let me go home. He’s being polite, gentlemanly, and I have absolutely nothing to complain about. But it’s hard to remember, when he’s outwardly such a good man, that he’s also part of things thataren’tgood. Things that involve violence and blood, and killing.
It would be too easy to let myself think that he might feel something more. But what isn’t just guilt and obligation is simple animal desire—a desire that he refuses to indulge. And that’s all there is to it.
“Sure,” I say, and I drop the subject. I’m not ready to talk about this with my mom yet. I know I could go to her and spill it all—what Ronan really does and who he really is, the complications of my marriage, how he makes me feel, how he acts, and what it might mean—but it feels like too much. If I say it out loud, I’ll have to truly come to terms with what all of this is, and that’s overwhelming.
Especially when so much has happened in just a few days.
My mom goes for a second nap after lunch, and I explore the manor, ducking into unused bedrooms and wandering through hallways. Dinner is served in the informal dining room, a delicious roast with tender vegetables, a squash soup, and homemade bread, with toffee pudding for dessert. The food is incredible, and my mom eats more than I’ve seen in some time, which makes me happier.
After dinner, I go up and take a long, luxurious bath in the clawfoot tub, feeling like a lady in a historical romance. When I’m dried off and wrapped in a soft robe, I sit on the edge of the bed and look at my phone, wondering if I should text Ronan.
Is it rude if I don’t, after all he’s done? Or is it too much to expect him to also hold a conversation with me whilehe’s dealing with business in Boston? Would texting him be annoying, or is he going to be offended if I don’t?
I huff out a breath.You’re being silly,I tell myself. I’m acting like Ronan is a boyfriend that I’ve just started dating, and I’m worrying about texting him too much. But Ronan isn’t that, and our relationship isn’t normal.
He’s not going to care if I text him or not.
I flop back onto the ridiculously soft bed, staring up at the ceiling above the canopy.Did he bring his first wife here? Did she sleep in this bed?
The thought startles me, coming out of nowhere. I sit up, looking around the room, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, as if a ghost is going to come out of the woodwork. Ronan still hasn’t told me anything about this mysterious wife. He hasn’t so much as mentioned that he was married before. I don’t know what to make of that.
Most likely, the answer is the simplest one—he doesn’t want to open up to me when we’re going to part ways. The end of the marriage might have been painful for him—it might have involved something else he doesn’t want to talk about, and why would he confide in me? We’re not in a real relationship, and Ronan doesn’t seem like the type who confides in others often.
Or… is there a more sinister reason why he hasn’t said anything to me? Did he have something to do with why his wife is gone?
I bite my lip. Nothing about him has made me think that he’s that kind of man. But it’s not as if I’ve known him all that long.
We’re married, but we’re still not far from strangers. The thought makes my chest ache, and I flop back down into the bed again, fighting back waves of anxiety.
It feels strange to sleep alone in the huge room, especially with how quiet it is. I’m used to the noise from the city in Boston, and I’d only barely started to get used to the quiet at Ronan’smansion in the suburbs there. But here, the silence is even more absolute, except for the occasional sound of nighttime birds and the wind rustling the trees, the odd creak of the old house here and there. It’s almost spooky in a way that I’d find charming, if I weren’t so on edge about everything.
A mob boss. An old manor house. A mysterious former wife. A temporary marriage. It feels like the plot of a story that isn’t mine, and I lie awake for a long time, trying not to work myself up about all of it. Trying to tell myself that whatever the reality is, it’s probably less lurid than my mind wants to imagine this time of night.
Despite that, I sleep in until nearly ten the next morning, and wake up feeling as if I’ve had an incredibly refreshing night’s sleep. When I come downstairs, the morning has the feeling of starting to establish a routine. I meet my mom in the kitchen for breakfast, chatting idly while we enjoy the oatmeal and fruit and sausages and tea we’re served. Colin, the head of security for the estate, pops in to tell us that he’ll have everything ready to head into Dublin in two hours for my mom’s first appointment.
“This feels like a vacation, even though I’m sick,” my mom confides in me as we get ready to leave. “This place, the meals, having a staff, all of it… it’s so special. It feels like we’ve gotten a real blessing, Leila, despite all of it. I can’t believe Ronan has done all of this for us.” She pauses as she wraps a soft wool wrap around her shoulders, over the blouse she’s wearing. “I know you said you can’t tell me everything. But we are safe here, aren’t we?”
I can see from the look in her eyes that she’s thinking about the attack on the church. “As far as I know, yes,” I tell her calmly. “We’ll talk more about it… later. I’ll explain what I can.”
I know I can’t keep her in the dark forever, especially after everything that’s happened. And I don’t want to. I feel isolated,especially without Ronan, and I need to be able to talk to my mom.
Especially with how confusing it’s all become… I need my mom more than ever. And as we head to her doctor’s appointment, I’m reminded that having her isn’t guaranteed. I can’t keep secrets from her if I don’t have to.
Colin drives us into the city, along with four other men who stay close by as we head into Dr. Flannery’s office. It’s a private oncology office, where they’ll review my mother's case and coordinate with her doctors back in Boston. It’s nothing like the sterile, impersonal medical buildings back in Boston. Housed in a converted Georgian mansion, it feels more like an upscale hotel than a medical facility. The waiting room has actual comfortable furniture, artwork on the walls, and windows that look out onto a private garden.
It goes better than I could have hoped. "The treatment options here are actually quite progressive," Dr. Flannery explains, his kind eyes focused entirely on my mother as he went over her scans. "We have access to some experimental therapies that aren't yet approved in the States."
My mom looks nervous, but she nods. “I trust you know what you’re doing,” she says simply, squeezing my hand.
"Nothing dangerous," he assures her. "Just newer approaches to targeted treatment. I'd like to discuss them with your primary oncologist in Boston, if you're interested."
“I am,” she confirms. “I know my son-in-law has gotten me the best doctors here. Whatever you think will help, I’m on board to try it.”
