But Ronan doesn’t follow. Instead, he shuts the door behind me, and a lock clicks into place from the other side.
“What the hell, Ronan?” I walk to the door and slap my hand against the wood. “What are you doing?”
“Conor is bringing over the rest of your belongings from your apartment,” he says from the other side. As though this statement is totally reasonable and should explain everything.
“Excuse me?”
“And if ye need anything, you can call out for me.”
“Ronan.” I rub my temples in frustration. “You aren’t making any sense. Tell me what’s going on.”
There’s a long pause of silence, and I wait, hoping he hasn’t disappeared. But then his voice is soft and slightly nervous as he explains.
“Someone broke into your apartment,” he says.
“What? How… I mean how do you even know this?”
“Because they sent me a photo, to my phone,” he replies quietly. “With a picture of your bed and your… um… your knickers and such.”
A tremor moves through me, and suddenly I’m glad for the sanctuary of Ronan’s house.
“Why would they do that?” I ask.
I don’t understand. But the longer he remains silent, the more I start to piece it together.
“They know you,” I speak into the wooden door. “Are they threatening me?”
Another pause, and I can almost imagine him taking off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes the way he does when he’s stressed.
“I fucked up,” he says. “They’ve been watching me, and I came to your apartment. They must have had someone following me. I got the text tonight, and I went looking for you. And then I saw you at the club…”
His words die off, and I understand now why his reaction was so crazy. He probably thought I was dead. And then he saw me up on stage and snapped.
“Oh,” I reply. “Well it doesn’t matter. Because I’m leaving tomorrow, so they won’t know where I’m going.”
“Sasha,” Ronan cuts me off, his voice agonized. “I can’t allow ye to leave. They know your name. Your face. This isn’t just someone I’ve pissed off. It’s one of the blokes who worked for the Russians. Andrei, his name is. But he’s better known as the butcher. I botched up the job I was meant to do, and now he’s going to come after you to get back at me.”
“I don’t understand,” I clip out, even though I do. I understand perfectly well.
“Ye’re not leaving.” He says through the door. “Ye’re going to stay right here with me.”
His footsteps move down the hall, away from me, and I slam my hand against the wood.
“This is called kidnapping, you know!”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sasha
Accepting my fate, I slip out of my jeans and sweatshirt and raid Ronan’s drawers for a tee shirt to sleep in. He does have them, which surprises me for some reason. Track pants too. I open up his other drawers out of curiosity and find several stacks of the same pairs of black briefs.
Even though he just locked me in his room and I’m annoyed at his fucked up methods of trying to protect me, I can’t help imagining what he would look like in the briefs. I’ve never seen him naked. I’ve only ever been graced with a small glimpse of his powerful body. His chest and his arms, which were littered in scars and battle wounds that seemed worse than I expected.
I know what Ronan’s job in the mafia is. I know that they call him the Reaper. And the day that I snuck down in the basement, I knew he was down there with Donny. But I needed confirmation. I needed to know for certain that he was going to be the one to kill Donny. Because a sick and twisted part of me wanted that. Wanted Ronan to be the one to exact vengeance on the piece of shit who treated me like a dog. Like a worthless whore who was only good for opening her mouth and getting him off whenever it suited him.
I knew Ronan would make him suffer for what he did. And I got off on the idea of it. Of the man who threatened both of us being wiped from existence. But what about the other men Ronan kills? I think about them often. Who they are, and if they’re just as bad too.
I want to believe that they are. To justify what he does. I know Ronan has rage inside. I’ve seen it first hand when he killed Blaine. But even then, it was justified. And when I look at him, all I see is the calm. He’s my anchor in the stormy sea. The one that keeps me from being pulled away into the chaos.
But Ronan needs an anchor too. Whatever caused those scars on his body, whatever caused him to be the way he is… so guarded, so untrusting, so quiet… it makes me question my own humanity. Because if I was faced with the men who did that to him, I would want to kill them too.
With a sigh I shut his dresser drawers and crawl into his bed. The sheets are stiff and not very comfortable. Shocker, I know. But they smell like him, and that makes me feel safe. I wonder what he’s doing. Where he’s sleeping. But these are dangerous thoughts to have. Because I can’t get pulled back in.