Page 70 of At Your Mercy
He froze for half a second before straightening, mask already pulling into place. “Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” I stepped closer, and he didn’t retreat, but he didn’t meet my eyes either. “Don’t do that with me. You’ve been pulling back from me, and I need to know why. We’re supposed to be in this together. Did something happen?”
His jaw worked. For a moment, I thought he’d keep stonewalling me. Then his voice came out low, clipped. “Elias wants you dead by the end of the week.”
The words hit like a gut punch. “What?”
Ro finally looked up at me. “He called me after a job. Said it’s taking too long. He thinks I should’ve finished you already.”
I stared at him, the frustration rising sharp and hot. “And you’re just telling me now?”
“I—” He faltered, then shoved his hands into his pockets like he could hide himself there. “I didn’t want to.”
“Didn’t want to what?” My voice cracked. “Didn’t want to tell me he’d set a damn deadline on my life?”
Ro flinched. That was worse than anger, seeing him curl in like he was bracing for a blow.
I dragged a hand down my face, tried to steady my breath. “Ro, we can’t afford secrets like this. Not if you want me to walk out of this alive. Not if you want you to walk out of this alive.”
His silence stretched, heavy between us.
“Please, doll. I thought we were in a good place after the other night.”
Ro’s silence stretched so long I almost snapped at him again. But then he spoke, his voice rough, like it was being dragged out of him.
“You don’t understand…”
“Then make me,” I growled, stepping closer to him, backing him up against the door.
His eyes flicked up, oozing vulnerability. “If Elias even suspects I’m not loyal—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together. “I’m scared, Wes. I think he’s caught on thatsomething’s going on between us. That’s why I didn’t tell you right away,” he said, quieter now, almost strangled. “Every time I talk to him, I feel like he knows…”
“You’re not in this alone. I can handle him. But I need the truth from you, Ro. All of it. No matter how ugly. If I don’t have that, I can’t protect you, and I sure as hell can’t protect myself. I need to trust that you’re telling me everything.”
His lips trembled, though he stilled them fast. “You don’t get it,” he whispered. “I-I can’t care about you as much as I do. I need to protect myself.”
I took a breath, then cupped his face in my hand. “Ronan. Are you scared of being hurt if something happens to me?”
He nodded, his breath hitching. “It won’t hurt as bad if I don’t love you.”
The words were a punch to my gut.
“It won’t hurt as bad if I don’t love you.”
For a second, the world narrowed down to the sound of his breath and the stupid drum of my heart in my ears.
“You—” I started, then stopped, because what do you say to something like that? You don’t rehearse for being loved in the moment after someone tells you they think detachment will protect them from the pain of losing you.
His eyes were bright and raw in a way that made me want to crawl inside him and make it right. He’d said it like an apology, like a self-preservation tactic, but there was a trembling there that felt like confession.
I swallowed. My thumb found the ridge of his cheek, and I stayed there, breathing slowly to keep the tremor out of my voice. “You love me,” I said it to make sure I heard it right. It wasn’t a question. It felt both like a challenge and a miracle.
He nodded, small and ashamed, like it was the worst thing he could admit and the most terrible relief at the same time. “Ido. I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—” He cut himself off, words spilling out and then withdrawing.
I had this ridiculous, uncontrollable urge to laugh, then to uncork something feral and protective and dangerous. Instead, I kept my tone steady because steady was what he needed. “Why would you be sorry?” I asked softly. “You shouldn’t be. If anything—God, Ro—”
If anything, it should have been me apologizing. For being the one who’d sent him into Elias’s house. For letting my quest for evidence become his nightmare. For not seeing the whole of what had been done to him until those photos.
My chest tightened around something fierce and feral. It was ugly and honest—possessiveness, affection, and obligation braided so closely together I couldn’t tell them apart. He was mine in the way that terrified me and made the rest of my life make sense all at once.
